[Bay] War Without End - Drift Part Two
Nov. 3rd, 2014 08:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: War Without End – Drift Part II
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Drift, Ratchet, Thundercracker, Prowl, Dreadwing, Tracks, Wheeljack, Skywarp
Pairings: DriftxRatchet
Rating: M
Warnings: character death, angst/mourning, tactile interfacing, canon-typical violence, Drift's past
Desc: Drift is neither Decepticon nor Autobot. He is a survivor.
Drift spends several days circling Ratchet, wondering how he should approach the medic without invoking Ratchet's wrath. If he were Skywarp, he'd just barge in and not care. If he were Prowl, he'd walk inside like he owned the place, and Ratchet would barely sneer at him.
Dreadwing and Thundercracker respect the sanctity of Ratchet's domain and wait for permission. Tracks avoids it; though whether out of fear of its owner or the dozen occupants, Drift doesn't know. Wheeljack, of course, strides in without a care in the world, pokes at Ratchet like a mech with a death wish, and waltzes back out. Usually leaving Drift to deal with the irritated aftermath.
As for Drift himself, there's an unspoken open invitation. He wonders if it’s been rescinded. And then he thinks himself an idiot for even thinking that.
He takes one of Tracks' shifts at the monitor because he doesn't have anything better to do, and the former Towers mech has been whining about the lack of quality time he gets with Dreadwing. Platonic, quality time apparently, but who’s arguing semantics?
Certainly not Drift. He kind of gets it.
He'd been close to Perceptor. Not like with Blurr but close enough. Then again, Drift had been close to his whole crew. Springer was like the elder sibling he never had. Smokescreen was the errant youngling of the group who was always getting into trouble. Blurr, ever energetic and optimistic, picked them up when the weight of the war dragged them down, and Perceptor carried their hopes in his research.
He's still out there somewhere, Drift hopes. One orn, he might even dare to pray.
Cycling a ventilation, Drift shifts on his seat and tries to focus on the televisions. It's nothing but talk and more talk. Upcoming elections. Strife between nations. Natural disasters. Commercials on top of commercials. Sports statistics.
Boring.
There's nothing on this planet that Drift finds interesting. It's too organic, too unpredictable. Too foreign.
“Drift.”
His entire frame goes rigid, and only his self-control keeps him from showing his surprise. He senses more than sees Ratchet standing behind him, looming without trying.
“Ratchet.”
He inclines his helm but doesn't stop watching the screens.
There's a shuffle of pedes behind him, a shift of weight and displacement of air.
“I may have discovered something.”
Drift whips around before he can regain control of his composure. “What?”
Ratchet cycles his optics in surprise before a scowl replaces it all. “I didn't say I found the answer,” the medic all but snaps. “But I was able to fill in a lot of the gaps from your active memory.”
“Then we can try it?” Drift asks and wonders if this tightness in his chassis is something like hope.
“I didn't say that either!” Ratchet actually shakes a finger at him.
Drift flinches and then hates himself for doing it.
Ratchet backtracks, cycles a ventilation. His energy field reeks of stress and anxiety and something else. Guilt?
“I'm still on shift,” Drift replies, careful to keep his tone neutral. “You could tell me what you think, and maybe we can decide together.” He turns slowly, sinks back in his makeshift chair as it creaks and groans beneath him.
Yeah, he feels its pain. Sometimes, talking to Ratchet is like tiptoeing through a field of landmines. Ones put down without any sort of rhyme or reason, so a mech can't even find a pattern to help him avoid the danger.
The silence is filled with the weight of Ratchet's contemplation. Drift half-expects him to come up with some excuse and head back into the medbay, but no, the medic cycles another ventilation.
“Perceptor seems to think that we are capable of splitting our sparks and merging them,” Ratchet allows, which is more or less a summary of what Drift had already suspected. “I gather that he's tried the former on himself with favorable results. The sparked portion was unviable, but he survived the encounter, and his spark eventually returned to normal.”
Drift inclines his helm. “So we can split our sparks. I imagine it's not without risk.”
“No, it isn't.” Ratchet drags his hand down his faceplate. “Some mech's sparks are naturally unstable. Some don't have the spark energy to spare. Perceptor theorized that theta-sparks are the least likely to succeed while alpha-sparks have an almost one-hundred percent chance of success.”
Oh, of course. Alpha-sparks are only the single rarest spark in all existence. They’re sparks reserved for Primes and only the most ancient of their kind.
“And merging them?” Drift questions, but he already has an idea.
“No data,” Ratchet replies a bit too hastily. “His hypotheses suggest that it’s possible. Sadly, they match proposals that Skywarp presented a month ago.”
Drift felt his ocular ridges crawl upward. He knows Skywarp is some kind of engineering genius but to theorize about spark mechanics, too?
“Then we can try it,” Drift offers before he can even think of the implications.
Ratchet draws back. “I didn't say that.”
He turns in his chair, keeping one sensor on the televisions, even if only commercials are on. He watches Ratchet carefully. Taking in the tense backstruts and hands that are curled into fists.
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand the risks. I don't really understand the risks,” Ratchet shoots back and he shakes his helm. “There are still too many gaps. It could be dangerous. We could lose more than we gain.”
Drift just looks at him. “Or we could save our entire species.”
Aggravation bursts in Ratchet's energy field. It’s frazzled around the edges but also razor sharp like a weapon.
Drift's gaze flicks past Ratchet and to the medbay. Usually, it's silent save for the bubbling of the makeshift tanks but not now. He can hear Red scampering around, doing whatever task it is that Ratchet assigned to him.
“What's the worst that could happen?” Drift asks softly.
He thinks of the unsparked drone who has a semblance of life but only in the barest sense. Red's programmed to respond to certain parameters, but he has no free will. He can't think for himself. It's only a mercy that he doesn't truly understand what he’s missing.
“Death,” Ratchet says flatly. “Our sparks are only the single-most important driving force behind our existence. Oh, our frames will function without it, given enough energy, but as a mech, we'll be dead.”
“And you think that's the most likely outcome?” Drift watches at his hands tighten.
“I think that death isn’t an option,” Ratchet snaps, his armor clamping tightly to his frame. Something ripples through his field, an emotion that would’ve been the last for Drift to expect. “I've had enough of it, thank you very much, so now we can drop this whole insane endeavor and start focusing on reality?”
Ratchet whirls, stomping toward the medbay. Drift watches him go, feeling as though he should say something, but all words lift themselves from his processor. It’s a statistical impossibility to convince Ratchet to do something he doesn't want to do. Regardless of what everyone else thinks, Drift doesn't have some special connection that makes Ratchet docile.
He needs back up. There are few mechs whose opinions Ratchet will take into consideration. Fortunately, one of them happens to be in the next barn over.
Waiting for the end of his shift is its own kind of irritation. Everything the humans have to say or do on the television makes him want to destroy the monitors. Nothing of importance makes the waste of time worthwhile, and he all but leaps out of his seat when Wheeljack arrives. The engineer already looks tired for his brief shift.
It's rare that Wheeljack gets planted in front of the monitors. His experience is better suited for fixing the Ark, and Drift cycles his optics in confusion.
“Dreadwing asked,” Wheeljack comments with a wan smile. “It's only until they finish their meeting.”
Well, that explains it. And helps Drift out, since he won't have to hunt anyone down as they are all together.
“You need some energon?” he half-asks, half-offers.
Wheeljack waves him off. “I'll be fine.”
“If you say so.” Drift tosses him a doubting look, but the engineer is already focusing on the televisions, his shoulder slumping further.
Primus. Once he delivers his message, Drift thinks he'll come back and send Wheeljack off to berth. The engineer looks like he's going to collapse any moment now.
Checking the satellites, Drift edges out of the barn and heads towards a nearby building that has been converted to a pseudo-command center as well as sleeping quarters for Prowl, too. Or whoever needs a berth when the Jackhammer's up on the moon.
Prowl, Dreadwing and Thundercracker – their command trine as Skywarp occasionally cackles – are still crowded around the main console. They look to be discussing something in low tones when Drift raps his fingers over the wooden doorway.
“Yes?” Prowl questions without taking his optics from the datapad.
Drift shifts in the doorway, feeling the weight of other optics on his frame. If he hadn't been Deadlock once upon a time, it might’ve been uncomfortable. But Prowl, he knew, wouldn't try to tear his helm off. Thundercracker had no interest in practicing torture techniques, and Dreadwing wouldn't ask for things Drift would never do.
“You've seen Red, haven't you?” Drift begins. He supposes it might seem a random thing to say but all the better to lead them into it.
Prowl inclines his helm. “Of course. I've already told Ratchet to online two more, including at least one Seeker. Even if we can't spark them, they can at least provide extra hands in the event of an attack.”
Good. Then, they are at least amenable to the idea.
Drift nods to himself. “What if I told you we could?”
“Could what?” Dreadwing asks, leaning forward, optics glinting with interest. Even Thundercracker has abandoned his datapad.
“Spark them,” Drift clarifies.
Three intense energy fields swell. They fall over Drift with a mingled sense of hope and anticipation, some of it tentative.
“Explain,” Prowl all but orders, but his voice is surprisingly soft.
Drift cycles a ventilation. “I had Ratchet look into my memories to see if he could find out anything more about Perceptor's research. He did.” He shifts his weight, thinking of the resolve in the medic’s tone. “I can't convince him that the risks are acceptable.”
“What risks?” Dreadwing asks as the others trade a glance. The buzz of rapid-fire internal comms. lights the air.
“We'd be splitting our sparks,” Drift explains and spread his hands. “There are always inherent risks in that. The strain to our frames from the energy buildup. Some sparks are more prone to destabilize, but he should be able to tell that with a couple of tests. Perceptor split his spark and was fine.”
Drift isn’t a scientist. His explanation leaves much to be desired. They really should be going over this with Ratchet, but since he refuses to go to them, Drift has to be the bridge. There is too much at stake to let this go because of a little fear.
Thundercracker drums his fingers on the desk top, a sharp rap of metal on thinner metal. “We must try,” he says with optics dim in thought. “The future of our kind depends it.”
“I need more data in order to calculate success rates,” Prowl adds, rising to his pedes as though intending to demand answers from Ratchet at this very breem.
“I assume Ratchet never intended to inform us of this,” Dreadwing puts in, and it isn’t a question.
Drift shakes his helm.
“It shouldn't come as a surprise. He values our lives over anything else,” Thundercracker offers, but he rises to his pedes as well.
Poor Ratchet won't see any of them coming. Drift ought to feel guilty, but it's for a good cause.
Red deserves better. All of them do.
The computer beeps. Prowl pauses. Dreadwing, as the closest, checks the monitor.
“It's Sunstreaker again.”
Drift cycles his optics. “Sunstreaker?”
“He's recently been in contact,” Dreadwing replies, hunching over the keyboard and plucking carefully at each English letter. That he's using tiny manipulators from his fingertips to do it is almost comical.
Drift swivels his attention to Prowl. “How long?”
“Several weeks. He is our source for information on the Autobots. I suspect that we may have new allies sooner rather than later,” Prowl answers, and there’s something to his tone. A lilt to his voice that is so seemingly out of character that Drift can only look at him.
This is certainly good news. Especially for Prowl. He hides it well, but Drift knows the signs. The gleam of excitement and longing for a friend who isn’t nearly as lost as previously believed. If Drift could have his own team back again… well, there's nothing he wouldn't give. Unless it required he surrender his new team.
“What's he have to say?” Thundercracker asks.
Dreadwing shakes his helm, punctuating his response with a tap to the ENTER key. “Optimus is running out of Decepticons. They killed another pair today.”
Prowl frowns. “That leaves less than a dozen. Perhaps fewer than ten, though I am working with outdated estimates.” He tips his helm and stares hard at nothing, thinking, considering. “Without the scattered remnants of Sentinel's army to serve as distraction, I fear we will be promoted in threat level. Straight to the top, I should think.”
“Then we haven't time to waste. The Ark needs to be finished as of last week,” Thundercracker decides, and he's the first to leave the command center in a swish of the curtained doorway.
Dreadwing squeezes Drift’s shoulder before he edges out as well. That effectively leaves Prowl and Drift alone.
“We will handle Ratchet. Thank you for informing us.”
“Yeah, about that.” Drift shuffles his pedes and feels all the more guilty. “It’d be in all of our best interest if you don't mention that I'm the one who told you.”
He feels foolish even as he says it. Since really, it won’t be hard for Ratchet to figure it out.
A moment of stunned silence passes. Then, Prowl laughs. Outright laughs like Drift has never seen him do before.
Prowl turns his helm away, hand on his chin. “I'll keep that in mind.”
At least, Drift reasons as he follows them out, someone is having a good time of this.
o0o0o
“Prowl--”
“I’ve noted all of your objections,” Prowl interjects without looking at Ratchet, his outward demeanor betraying nothing of his anxiety or the strain his frame must be under. “Should something happen, you are more than welcome to say 'I told you so.'”
A frustrated sound bursts from the medic. Drift resists the urge to lay a comforting hand on Ratchet's arm.
“It's not valid when I'm shouting it at a corpse, you glitch!” Ratchet growls.
“Noted,” Prowl repeats, and his gaze flicks to Dreadwing. “Do you have objections you wish to make as well?”
The Seeker shakes his head, his wings visibly vibrating. “I wouldn't have volunteered if I had.” He pauses, amusement rippling through his energy field. “It’s nice, I must admit, to choose the manner of my offlining.”
Ratchet throws his hands into the air, stomping around the circumference of the small space as though marking his territory. He's grumbling to himself in a dialect that Drift doesn't know. It does, however, cause Prowl to snort in amusement at their medic.
In the next room, he hears Wheeljack snicker. It helps ease the tension, if only by a fraction. Admittedly though, Dreadwing and Prowl look as if they are going to vibrate out of their plating at any moment.
Ratchet is checking and rechecking his equipment now, looking for flaws or errors. Despite the fact he's already done so three times.
The air is heavy with anticipation.
Drift cycles a ventilation, swinging his gaze to the left, where a low-slung table contains the focus of their agitation. Red is offline, chestplates parted, the gaping emptiness of his spark chamber in full view of everyone.
It makes Drift uneasy.
Just an hour before, Red had been following Ratchet around like a lost turbofox, chirping in happy tones, obeying every order Ratchet gave. To see him offline – a state different than recharge – it’s as if he has died.
But if this works...
“Ratchet, enough.” Wheeljack appears in the partition, wiping a cloth over his hands. “There's nothing left to check. Now, you're just stalling.”
The medic bristles. “I am not.”
“You are.” Fearless, Wheeljack latches onto Ratchet's arm and pulls him away, closer to the doorway. “So stand right here like a good medic and let these two brave sparks try to save our race, all right?”
There is no one in the universe braver than Wheeljack, Drift concludes. Especially as he watches Ratchet grumble but obey. He can't even find it in him to be jealous, more amazed than anything. Prowl and Dreadwing simply look amused.
“Yes,” Dreadwing says. “If you are through, I'd like to begin. I’m reaching the point of extreme discomfort.”
“As am I,” Prowl adds.
“Great.” Wheeljack claps his hands together as Drift backs closer to the door. He's here as an observer only. “Who wants to go first?”
Dreadwing's optics flare as a visible curl of static energy dances over his frame. He jerks.
“Prowl, if you don't object--”
“By your leave.”
Prowl slips past Dreadwing, standing closer to Drift, out of the line of fire. They are feet apart, but Drift still twitches at the frenetic nature of Prowl's field. It has to hurt, he reasons, to bear that much energy build up. His spark must be ready to leap out of his chamber.
Wheeljack pats Ratchet on the arm and slips out of the room entirely. He's going to watch from afar and take readings just in case. The more data the better.
The sound of metal shifting against metal drags their attention back to Dreadwing. He's hunched forward a bit, armor sliding aside, his chestplates spiraling open as most Seekers do. There's another layer of metal beneath, further protection for his spark.
“Sorry,” he gasps, hands clenched into fists. “Can't wait anymore.”
“Focus,” Ratchet orders, a scanner already out and aimed at the Seeker with one hand. “You have to concentrate, Dreadwing.”
A huffed ventilation escapes the Seeker. “At this point, Ratchet, it's going to happen whether I choose to or not.”
“Note to self,” Prowl says, his optics focused with laser-like intensity on Dreadwing, “Seekers build up energy far faster than ground frames.”
Drift is only half paying attention because Dreadwing's spark is now bared, and it's a beautiful shade of pale purple, lighter than the typical Decepticon sigil. It's flaring brightly, pulsing in rapid bursts that betray the strain his frame his under.
His wings snap up and out, metal trembling, his energy field a broad pulse in the room. Dreadwing groans, a sound pulled from the depths of his chassis. His cooling fans are a loud whirr in the room.
“Almost there,” Ratchet says, his tone streaked with strain and worry.
Dreadwing's spark pulses faster and faster. Drift feels almost hypnotized by it. His own spark throbs in sympathy.
“Dread--”
The Seeker's groan cuts off Ratchet's words as his entire frame goes rigid. He clamps his hands down on his thighs, the sound of crumpling metal buried in the flash as his spark surges brighter than before. There's a crackle of energy, dancing over Dreadwing's plating, and then, Ratchet bursts into motion as Dreadwing's frame sags.
“Drift!” he shouts.
He rushes forward without thinking, grabbing Dreadwing to keep him from crashing to the floor. The Seeker is all but dead weight, spark chamber cycling closed on instinct as he sags to his knees. Drift grunts, struggling under the mech's weight as the room erupts in chaos.
“He's fine!” Ratchet snarls. “But this bitlet won't be if you don't get your aft moving, Prowl. Wheeljack, I need you in here!”
More shouting. More chaos.
Drift can't see anything, not with most of Dreadwing's frame in the way. He can feel the rise in latent energy, however. The pulse of Prowl's field, far stronger than Ratchet and Wheeljack's own.
“Is it...?”
“I don't know,” Drift answers, feeling the heat of Dreadwing's frame like a furnace against his own. Lingering static charge keeps snapping against his own armor, making Drift twitch.
There's another groan, the scent of discharge, the sound of crumpling metal...
“Primus, that hurts,” Dreadwing murmurs, awkwardly crouching, tipping forward until his hands can brace himself. “I need to recharge.”
“Maybe you should wait until Ratchet looks you over?”
Anxiously, Drift initiates a basic scan of his own. He can't see anything wrong. Diminished energy levels are a given, after all. But that doesn't mean there's something Ratchet would catch that he can't.
“I apologize, but my frame has… other ideas.”
Dreadwing collapses entirely, leaving Drift hopeless on as the Seeker sprawls on the floor. Now, he’s lying awkwardly on his front. By all accounts, he's out. Or ventilating at least. His systems are powering down, but he's not turning cold. Maybe he really is just in recharge.
Drift looks into the chaos.
Prowl's on his knees, door panels shivering, his optics the dimmest Drift's ever seen them. It looks like he's clinging to consciousness by the barest edges.
Ratchet and Wheeljack are crowded around Red's frame, and Drift can't see anything around them. They are talking to each other, too rapid-fire for Drift to make any sense of it.
Until Wheeljack shouts.
“No! Ratchet, you have to--”
Silence.
Drift climbs to his pedes.
“It's too late,” he hears Ratchet say, and it sounds like it's coming from a distance.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Ratchet.”
The medic doesn't turn. He only leans forward, bracing his weight on the edge of Red's berth.
“No, Prowl. It didn't work.”
It didn't work.
Drift backpedals, hitting a wall that provides him support, which is a good thing since his knees don't feel like cooperating anymore.
Prowl's helm dips. “We tried,” he says as Wheeljack turns around, scanner in hand, lucky to have the faceplate to hide behind.
“We failed,” Ratchet corrects in a flat tone.
“We'll try again,” Prowl shoots back. “Now, we know one way that will not work.” He ex-vents noisily and then drops, face-planting in much the same way Dreadwing had.
“He's fine,” Wheeljack offers, quick to reassure as Ratchet startles. “It's just recharge. Both of them. They're absolutely fine.”
Ratchet's shoulders sag, burying his face in his hands.
“What went wrong?” Drift asks, static highlighting his words until he resets his vocalizer. “And can we fix it?”
“We can try again. Of course, Prowl and Dreadwing can't until they regenerate, but there are six more of us. I have some idea what we need to do,” Wheeljack replies, and the confidence in his tone is reassuring.
Ratchet shakes his helm. “You are all glitched.” He pauses and cycles a ventilation, lowering his hand. “But we'll try again. Now, help me get these two brave idiots to a berth.”
o0o0o
It’s much later before anyone can relax.
Prowl and Dreadwing are still in recharge, albeit stable. Their energy levels are returning to normal, though spark readings indicate they are only at seventy percent capacity. Wheeljack gives a long-winded explanation about the hows and whys their sparks will regenerate, but it goes in one audial and out the other for Drift.
Skywarp, Wheeljack, and Thundercracker have gone back to the Ark before Astrotrain can question their extended absence.
Tracks is back in front of the monitors, the poor spark.
And Drift is in the medbay, watching Ratchet watch Red. Wondering if he should speak and then wondering what he could possibly say.
Ratchet has opted not to reactivate Red. He wouldn't explain why, and Drift doesn't dare press. That Ratchet has buried himself in a pad packed with data is perhaps a good thing. It means he's still willing to try.
Words lacking, Drift perches on a crate, draws his sword and begins his maintenance. He grows bored often, so his weapons are in their best shape already. Still, it's something to keep him occupied when meditating is not an option.
He's careful to keep his optics on the Great Sword, lest he anger Ratchet by checking on him. If he thinks of anything to say, perhaps he'll breach the silence. But for now, quiet is safer.
“I'm sorry.”
Drift stills. Then, he reboots his audials because surely he must be mistaken.
He lifts his head slowly, looking at Ratchet, but the medic has his back to him. He's no longer working. His hands are instead braced on the edge of the table. Tension is visible in every rigid piece of armor plating.
Drift straightens, stowing away his sharpening kit and sword. “Ratchet?”
“I'm an old mech,” the medic replies and pushes himself off the desk, slowly turning. “But I still haven't learned my lesson yet. So I'm sorry.”
Drift stares. “For what?”
“For my behavior.”
He feels his face go through a series of emotions. Does Ratchet mean his behavior in general, which isn't really different from the usual? Or is he talking about his melancholic state as of this moment?
Ratchet must sense his confusion because frustration simmers in his field for a moment before he shakes his helm. He crosses the floor, approaching Drift on the crate. His hands land to either side and brace against the creaking wood.
“I forget sometimes the chasm between us,” Ratchet continues, their faces in intimate proximity. “And the reality is that I’m sometimes ashamed of the life I had. Especially in comparison to what you suffered.”
Drift looks at him blankly.
“Blurr was high caste,” he says, careful to keep his tone soft. “High as Tracks even. I never held that against him.”
Ratchet's head lowers, optics cycling off, field radiating guilt and shame. “Blurr wasn’t in a position of influence. He wasn’t a senator who’d been entrusted with the hope of millions, only to fail them all.”
Dreadwing was right, Drift realizes. It's not about him at all. He wonders how long Ratchet has been carrying so much guilt, so much self-blame.
Longer than they've been on Earth. Otherwise, Ratchet would’ve never reached out to Thundercracker and Skywarp in the first place.
The path to abandoning the Autobots might’ve been laid long before Optimus had betrayed them. Optimus had only provided the final impetus.
Drift tucks his polishing supplies into a thigh compartment. He tugs Ratchet closer, the taller mech's abdominal armor brushing against his knees.
“You tried,” he says, and his fingers glide over seams. “Which is more than the rest of the senate could claim. The attempt is worth a lot. Trust me.”
Ratchet settles against him, but the crate creaks under his grip. His field pushes against Drift, not insistent but questioning, asking for permission. Drift is all too willing to open by degrees.
“Your capacity for forgiveness is beyond reason, Drift. I'd dare call it stupid,” Ratchet mutters, but there's not true chastisement in his tone.
Drift's mouth quirks wryly. “Yes… well, it's not entirely my own. Hatred led me to joining the Decepticons. Hatred and a thirst for revenge. I have Star Saber to thank for helping me see beyond that.”
Helping, however, might be a pale word in comparison to what Star Saber had done, Drift thinks. He hadn't much choice in that matter either. Ultimately, he's glad to not be the bitter, murderous, and demonic mech he’d once been. His spark is lighter without all those dark things twisting up inside of him.
A part of him wishes though, that he'd been allowed to come to that conclusion on his own. Even if realistically he knows it would’ve never happened.
“Whatever he did, if your spark hadn’t desired change, he’d have failed,” Ratchet retorts, and he loosens his hold on the crate, letting the back of his hand brush down the side of Drift's face. “He’d have killed you instead. He took a great risk, and he shouldn’t have done so without your permission.”
Drift rolls his shoulders. He's grateful to Star Saber at the same time that he hates the mech. He knows the bot he had become and is glad for the one he is now. The process between then and now though hadn’t been pleasant.
“The end justifies the means,” Drift says and tilts his helm into Ratchet's touch, proving that he is not at all offended or bothered by their history. “I'm better now than what I was before.”
“If you say so.” Ratchet's thumb strokes a cheek ridge, optics onlining to a soft glow.
“I do.” Drift turns his head, nipping at Ratchet's fingers. “And I also say that we're going to figure this out.”
Ratchet's ventilations hitch, and his field hesitates. “In regards to...?”
“Sparking the hatchlings.” Drift catches his gaze, determination in his tone. “We're going to figure this out, and we're going to succeed.”
Ratchet's mouth quirks with wry amusement. “Your optimism can be insufferable at times. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“You did. Just last week.”
Ratchet chuckles, and Drift grins. The edge of tension eases from the air, and Drift definitely approves of that. He much prefers a snarky Ratchet as opposed to one mired in guilt and anger.
“Glad to see I'm consistent then,” the medic replies. With one last nuzzle, draws away.
Drift stops himself from grabbing Ratchet and keeping the medic close.
They have work to do after all. Hatchlings to spark. An Ark to rebuild. And an escape to make.
There will be plenty of time for celebration later.
***
a/n: On to part three...
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Drift, Ratchet, Thundercracker, Prowl, Dreadwing, Tracks, Wheeljack, Skywarp
Pairings: DriftxRatchet
Rating: M
Warnings: character death, angst/mourning, tactile interfacing, canon-typical violence, Drift's past
Desc: Drift is neither Decepticon nor Autobot. He is a survivor.
Drift spends several days circling Ratchet, wondering how he should approach the medic without invoking Ratchet's wrath. If he were Skywarp, he'd just barge in and not care. If he were Prowl, he'd walk inside like he owned the place, and Ratchet would barely sneer at him.
Dreadwing and Thundercracker respect the sanctity of Ratchet's domain and wait for permission. Tracks avoids it; though whether out of fear of its owner or the dozen occupants, Drift doesn't know. Wheeljack, of course, strides in without a care in the world, pokes at Ratchet like a mech with a death wish, and waltzes back out. Usually leaving Drift to deal with the irritated aftermath.
As for Drift himself, there's an unspoken open invitation. He wonders if it’s been rescinded. And then he thinks himself an idiot for even thinking that.
He takes one of Tracks' shifts at the monitor because he doesn't have anything better to do, and the former Towers mech has been whining about the lack of quality time he gets with Dreadwing. Platonic, quality time apparently, but who’s arguing semantics?
Certainly not Drift. He kind of gets it.
He'd been close to Perceptor. Not like with Blurr but close enough. Then again, Drift had been close to his whole crew. Springer was like the elder sibling he never had. Smokescreen was the errant youngling of the group who was always getting into trouble. Blurr, ever energetic and optimistic, picked them up when the weight of the war dragged them down, and Perceptor carried their hopes in his research.
He's still out there somewhere, Drift hopes. One orn, he might even dare to pray.
Cycling a ventilation, Drift shifts on his seat and tries to focus on the televisions. It's nothing but talk and more talk. Upcoming elections. Strife between nations. Natural disasters. Commercials on top of commercials. Sports statistics.
Boring.
There's nothing on this planet that Drift finds interesting. It's too organic, too unpredictable. Too foreign.
“Drift.”
His entire frame goes rigid, and only his self-control keeps him from showing his surprise. He senses more than sees Ratchet standing behind him, looming without trying.
“Ratchet.”
He inclines his helm but doesn't stop watching the screens.
There's a shuffle of pedes behind him, a shift of weight and displacement of air.
“I may have discovered something.”
Drift whips around before he can regain control of his composure. “What?”
Ratchet cycles his optics in surprise before a scowl replaces it all. “I didn't say I found the answer,” the medic all but snaps. “But I was able to fill in a lot of the gaps from your active memory.”
“Then we can try it?” Drift asks and wonders if this tightness in his chassis is something like hope.
“I didn't say that either!” Ratchet actually shakes a finger at him.
Drift flinches and then hates himself for doing it.
Ratchet backtracks, cycles a ventilation. His energy field reeks of stress and anxiety and something else. Guilt?
“I'm still on shift,” Drift replies, careful to keep his tone neutral. “You could tell me what you think, and maybe we can decide together.” He turns slowly, sinks back in his makeshift chair as it creaks and groans beneath him.
Yeah, he feels its pain. Sometimes, talking to Ratchet is like tiptoeing through a field of landmines. Ones put down without any sort of rhyme or reason, so a mech can't even find a pattern to help him avoid the danger.
The silence is filled with the weight of Ratchet's contemplation. Drift half-expects him to come up with some excuse and head back into the medbay, but no, the medic cycles another ventilation.
“Perceptor seems to think that we are capable of splitting our sparks and merging them,” Ratchet allows, which is more or less a summary of what Drift had already suspected. “I gather that he's tried the former on himself with favorable results. The sparked portion was unviable, but he survived the encounter, and his spark eventually returned to normal.”
Drift inclines his helm. “So we can split our sparks. I imagine it's not without risk.”
“No, it isn't.” Ratchet drags his hand down his faceplate. “Some mech's sparks are naturally unstable. Some don't have the spark energy to spare. Perceptor theorized that theta-sparks are the least likely to succeed while alpha-sparks have an almost one-hundred percent chance of success.”
Oh, of course. Alpha-sparks are only the single rarest spark in all existence. They’re sparks reserved for Primes and only the most ancient of their kind.
“And merging them?” Drift questions, but he already has an idea.
“No data,” Ratchet replies a bit too hastily. “His hypotheses suggest that it’s possible. Sadly, they match proposals that Skywarp presented a month ago.”
Drift felt his ocular ridges crawl upward. He knows Skywarp is some kind of engineering genius but to theorize about spark mechanics, too?
“Then we can try it,” Drift offers before he can even think of the implications.
Ratchet draws back. “I didn't say that.”
He turns in his chair, keeping one sensor on the televisions, even if only commercials are on. He watches Ratchet carefully. Taking in the tense backstruts and hands that are curled into fists.
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand the risks. I don't really understand the risks,” Ratchet shoots back and he shakes his helm. “There are still too many gaps. It could be dangerous. We could lose more than we gain.”
Drift just looks at him. “Or we could save our entire species.”
Aggravation bursts in Ratchet's energy field. It’s frazzled around the edges but also razor sharp like a weapon.
Drift's gaze flicks past Ratchet and to the medbay. Usually, it's silent save for the bubbling of the makeshift tanks but not now. He can hear Red scampering around, doing whatever task it is that Ratchet assigned to him.
“What's the worst that could happen?” Drift asks softly.
He thinks of the unsparked drone who has a semblance of life but only in the barest sense. Red's programmed to respond to certain parameters, but he has no free will. He can't think for himself. It's only a mercy that he doesn't truly understand what he’s missing.
“Death,” Ratchet says flatly. “Our sparks are only the single-most important driving force behind our existence. Oh, our frames will function without it, given enough energy, but as a mech, we'll be dead.”
“And you think that's the most likely outcome?” Drift watches at his hands tighten.
“I think that death isn’t an option,” Ratchet snaps, his armor clamping tightly to his frame. Something ripples through his field, an emotion that would’ve been the last for Drift to expect. “I've had enough of it, thank you very much, so now we can drop this whole insane endeavor and start focusing on reality?”
Ratchet whirls, stomping toward the medbay. Drift watches him go, feeling as though he should say something, but all words lift themselves from his processor. It’s a statistical impossibility to convince Ratchet to do something he doesn't want to do. Regardless of what everyone else thinks, Drift doesn't have some special connection that makes Ratchet docile.
He needs back up. There are few mechs whose opinions Ratchet will take into consideration. Fortunately, one of them happens to be in the next barn over.
Waiting for the end of his shift is its own kind of irritation. Everything the humans have to say or do on the television makes him want to destroy the monitors. Nothing of importance makes the waste of time worthwhile, and he all but leaps out of his seat when Wheeljack arrives. The engineer already looks tired for his brief shift.
It's rare that Wheeljack gets planted in front of the monitors. His experience is better suited for fixing the Ark, and Drift cycles his optics in confusion.
“Dreadwing asked,” Wheeljack comments with a wan smile. “It's only until they finish their meeting.”
Well, that explains it. And helps Drift out, since he won't have to hunt anyone down as they are all together.
“You need some energon?” he half-asks, half-offers.
Wheeljack waves him off. “I'll be fine.”
“If you say so.” Drift tosses him a doubting look, but the engineer is already focusing on the televisions, his shoulder slumping further.
Primus. Once he delivers his message, Drift thinks he'll come back and send Wheeljack off to berth. The engineer looks like he's going to collapse any moment now.
Checking the satellites, Drift edges out of the barn and heads towards a nearby building that has been converted to a pseudo-command center as well as sleeping quarters for Prowl, too. Or whoever needs a berth when the Jackhammer's up on the moon.
Prowl, Dreadwing and Thundercracker – their command trine as Skywarp occasionally cackles – are still crowded around the main console. They look to be discussing something in low tones when Drift raps his fingers over the wooden doorway.
“Yes?” Prowl questions without taking his optics from the datapad.
Drift shifts in the doorway, feeling the weight of other optics on his frame. If he hadn't been Deadlock once upon a time, it might’ve been uncomfortable. But Prowl, he knew, wouldn't try to tear his helm off. Thundercracker had no interest in practicing torture techniques, and Dreadwing wouldn't ask for things Drift would never do.
“You've seen Red, haven't you?” Drift begins. He supposes it might seem a random thing to say but all the better to lead them into it.
Prowl inclines his helm. “Of course. I've already told Ratchet to online two more, including at least one Seeker. Even if we can't spark them, they can at least provide extra hands in the event of an attack.”
Good. Then, they are at least amenable to the idea.
Drift nods to himself. “What if I told you we could?”
“Could what?” Dreadwing asks, leaning forward, optics glinting with interest. Even Thundercracker has abandoned his datapad.
“Spark them,” Drift clarifies.
Three intense energy fields swell. They fall over Drift with a mingled sense of hope and anticipation, some of it tentative.
“Explain,” Prowl all but orders, but his voice is surprisingly soft.
Drift cycles a ventilation. “I had Ratchet look into my memories to see if he could find out anything more about Perceptor's research. He did.” He shifts his weight, thinking of the resolve in the medic’s tone. “I can't convince him that the risks are acceptable.”
“What risks?” Dreadwing asks as the others trade a glance. The buzz of rapid-fire internal comms. lights the air.
“We'd be splitting our sparks,” Drift explains and spread his hands. “There are always inherent risks in that. The strain to our frames from the energy buildup. Some sparks are more prone to destabilize, but he should be able to tell that with a couple of tests. Perceptor split his spark and was fine.”
Drift isn’t a scientist. His explanation leaves much to be desired. They really should be going over this with Ratchet, but since he refuses to go to them, Drift has to be the bridge. There is too much at stake to let this go because of a little fear.
Thundercracker drums his fingers on the desk top, a sharp rap of metal on thinner metal. “We must try,” he says with optics dim in thought. “The future of our kind depends it.”
“I need more data in order to calculate success rates,” Prowl adds, rising to his pedes as though intending to demand answers from Ratchet at this very breem.
“I assume Ratchet never intended to inform us of this,” Dreadwing puts in, and it isn’t a question.
Drift shakes his helm.
“It shouldn't come as a surprise. He values our lives over anything else,” Thundercracker offers, but he rises to his pedes as well.
Poor Ratchet won't see any of them coming. Drift ought to feel guilty, but it's for a good cause.
Red deserves better. All of them do.
The computer beeps. Prowl pauses. Dreadwing, as the closest, checks the monitor.
“It's Sunstreaker again.”
Drift cycles his optics. “Sunstreaker?”
“He's recently been in contact,” Dreadwing replies, hunching over the keyboard and plucking carefully at each English letter. That he's using tiny manipulators from his fingertips to do it is almost comical.
Drift swivels his attention to Prowl. “How long?”
“Several weeks. He is our source for information on the Autobots. I suspect that we may have new allies sooner rather than later,” Prowl answers, and there’s something to his tone. A lilt to his voice that is so seemingly out of character that Drift can only look at him.
This is certainly good news. Especially for Prowl. He hides it well, but Drift knows the signs. The gleam of excitement and longing for a friend who isn’t nearly as lost as previously believed. If Drift could have his own team back again… well, there's nothing he wouldn't give. Unless it required he surrender his new team.
“What's he have to say?” Thundercracker asks.
Dreadwing shakes his helm, punctuating his response with a tap to the ENTER key. “Optimus is running out of Decepticons. They killed another pair today.”
Prowl frowns. “That leaves less than a dozen. Perhaps fewer than ten, though I am working with outdated estimates.” He tips his helm and stares hard at nothing, thinking, considering. “Without the scattered remnants of Sentinel's army to serve as distraction, I fear we will be promoted in threat level. Straight to the top, I should think.”
“Then we haven't time to waste. The Ark needs to be finished as of last week,” Thundercracker decides, and he's the first to leave the command center in a swish of the curtained doorway.
Dreadwing squeezes Drift’s shoulder before he edges out as well. That effectively leaves Prowl and Drift alone.
“We will handle Ratchet. Thank you for informing us.”
“Yeah, about that.” Drift shuffles his pedes and feels all the more guilty. “It’d be in all of our best interest if you don't mention that I'm the one who told you.”
He feels foolish even as he says it. Since really, it won’t be hard for Ratchet to figure it out.
A moment of stunned silence passes. Then, Prowl laughs. Outright laughs like Drift has never seen him do before.
Prowl turns his helm away, hand on his chin. “I'll keep that in mind.”
At least, Drift reasons as he follows them out, someone is having a good time of this.
“Prowl--”
“I’ve noted all of your objections,” Prowl interjects without looking at Ratchet, his outward demeanor betraying nothing of his anxiety or the strain his frame must be under. “Should something happen, you are more than welcome to say 'I told you so.'”
A frustrated sound bursts from the medic. Drift resists the urge to lay a comforting hand on Ratchet's arm.
“It's not valid when I'm shouting it at a corpse, you glitch!” Ratchet growls.
“Noted,” Prowl repeats, and his gaze flicks to Dreadwing. “Do you have objections you wish to make as well?”
The Seeker shakes his head, his wings visibly vibrating. “I wouldn't have volunteered if I had.” He pauses, amusement rippling through his energy field. “It’s nice, I must admit, to choose the manner of my offlining.”
Ratchet throws his hands into the air, stomping around the circumference of the small space as though marking his territory. He's grumbling to himself in a dialect that Drift doesn't know. It does, however, cause Prowl to snort in amusement at their medic.
In the next room, he hears Wheeljack snicker. It helps ease the tension, if only by a fraction. Admittedly though, Dreadwing and Prowl look as if they are going to vibrate out of their plating at any moment.
Ratchet is checking and rechecking his equipment now, looking for flaws or errors. Despite the fact he's already done so three times.
The air is heavy with anticipation.
Drift cycles a ventilation, swinging his gaze to the left, where a low-slung table contains the focus of their agitation. Red is offline, chestplates parted, the gaping emptiness of his spark chamber in full view of everyone.
It makes Drift uneasy.
Just an hour before, Red had been following Ratchet around like a lost turbofox, chirping in happy tones, obeying every order Ratchet gave. To see him offline – a state different than recharge – it’s as if he has died.
But if this works...
“Ratchet, enough.” Wheeljack appears in the partition, wiping a cloth over his hands. “There's nothing left to check. Now, you're just stalling.”
The medic bristles. “I am not.”
“You are.” Fearless, Wheeljack latches onto Ratchet's arm and pulls him away, closer to the doorway. “So stand right here like a good medic and let these two brave sparks try to save our race, all right?”
There is no one in the universe braver than Wheeljack, Drift concludes. Especially as he watches Ratchet grumble but obey. He can't even find it in him to be jealous, more amazed than anything. Prowl and Dreadwing simply look amused.
“Yes,” Dreadwing says. “If you are through, I'd like to begin. I’m reaching the point of extreme discomfort.”
“As am I,” Prowl adds.
“Great.” Wheeljack claps his hands together as Drift backs closer to the door. He's here as an observer only. “Who wants to go first?”
Dreadwing's optics flare as a visible curl of static energy dances over his frame. He jerks.
“Prowl, if you don't object--”
“By your leave.”
Prowl slips past Dreadwing, standing closer to Drift, out of the line of fire. They are feet apart, but Drift still twitches at the frenetic nature of Prowl's field. It has to hurt, he reasons, to bear that much energy build up. His spark must be ready to leap out of his chamber.
Wheeljack pats Ratchet on the arm and slips out of the room entirely. He's going to watch from afar and take readings just in case. The more data the better.
The sound of metal shifting against metal drags their attention back to Dreadwing. He's hunched forward a bit, armor sliding aside, his chestplates spiraling open as most Seekers do. There's another layer of metal beneath, further protection for his spark.
“Sorry,” he gasps, hands clenched into fists. “Can't wait anymore.”
“Focus,” Ratchet orders, a scanner already out and aimed at the Seeker with one hand. “You have to concentrate, Dreadwing.”
A huffed ventilation escapes the Seeker. “At this point, Ratchet, it's going to happen whether I choose to or not.”
“Note to self,” Prowl says, his optics focused with laser-like intensity on Dreadwing, “Seekers build up energy far faster than ground frames.”
Drift is only half paying attention because Dreadwing's spark is now bared, and it's a beautiful shade of pale purple, lighter than the typical Decepticon sigil. It's flaring brightly, pulsing in rapid bursts that betray the strain his frame his under.
His wings snap up and out, metal trembling, his energy field a broad pulse in the room. Dreadwing groans, a sound pulled from the depths of his chassis. His cooling fans are a loud whirr in the room.
“Almost there,” Ratchet says, his tone streaked with strain and worry.
Dreadwing's spark pulses faster and faster. Drift feels almost hypnotized by it. His own spark throbs in sympathy.
“Dread--”
The Seeker's groan cuts off Ratchet's words as his entire frame goes rigid. He clamps his hands down on his thighs, the sound of crumpling metal buried in the flash as his spark surges brighter than before. There's a crackle of energy, dancing over Dreadwing's plating, and then, Ratchet bursts into motion as Dreadwing's frame sags.
“Drift!” he shouts.
He rushes forward without thinking, grabbing Dreadwing to keep him from crashing to the floor. The Seeker is all but dead weight, spark chamber cycling closed on instinct as he sags to his knees. Drift grunts, struggling under the mech's weight as the room erupts in chaos.
“He's fine!” Ratchet snarls. “But this bitlet won't be if you don't get your aft moving, Prowl. Wheeljack, I need you in here!”
More shouting. More chaos.
Drift can't see anything, not with most of Dreadwing's frame in the way. He can feel the rise in latent energy, however. The pulse of Prowl's field, far stronger than Ratchet and Wheeljack's own.
“Is it...?”
“I don't know,” Drift answers, feeling the heat of Dreadwing's frame like a furnace against his own. Lingering static charge keeps snapping against his own armor, making Drift twitch.
There's another groan, the scent of discharge, the sound of crumpling metal...
“Primus, that hurts,” Dreadwing murmurs, awkwardly crouching, tipping forward until his hands can brace himself. “I need to recharge.”
“Maybe you should wait until Ratchet looks you over?”
Anxiously, Drift initiates a basic scan of his own. He can't see anything wrong. Diminished energy levels are a given, after all. But that doesn't mean there's something Ratchet would catch that he can't.
“I apologize, but my frame has… other ideas.”
Dreadwing collapses entirely, leaving Drift hopeless on as the Seeker sprawls on the floor. Now, he’s lying awkwardly on his front. By all accounts, he's out. Or ventilating at least. His systems are powering down, but he's not turning cold. Maybe he really is just in recharge.
Drift looks into the chaos.
Prowl's on his knees, door panels shivering, his optics the dimmest Drift's ever seen them. It looks like he's clinging to consciousness by the barest edges.
Ratchet and Wheeljack are crowded around Red's frame, and Drift can't see anything around them. They are talking to each other, too rapid-fire for Drift to make any sense of it.
Until Wheeljack shouts.
“No! Ratchet, you have to--”
Silence.
Drift climbs to his pedes.
“It's too late,” he hears Ratchet say, and it sounds like it's coming from a distance.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Ratchet.”
The medic doesn't turn. He only leans forward, bracing his weight on the edge of Red's berth.
“No, Prowl. It didn't work.”
It didn't work.
Drift backpedals, hitting a wall that provides him support, which is a good thing since his knees don't feel like cooperating anymore.
Prowl's helm dips. “We tried,” he says as Wheeljack turns around, scanner in hand, lucky to have the faceplate to hide behind.
“We failed,” Ratchet corrects in a flat tone.
“We'll try again,” Prowl shoots back. “Now, we know one way that will not work.” He ex-vents noisily and then drops, face-planting in much the same way Dreadwing had.
“He's fine,” Wheeljack offers, quick to reassure as Ratchet startles. “It's just recharge. Both of them. They're absolutely fine.”
Ratchet's shoulders sag, burying his face in his hands.
“What went wrong?” Drift asks, static highlighting his words until he resets his vocalizer. “And can we fix it?”
“We can try again. Of course, Prowl and Dreadwing can't until they regenerate, but there are six more of us. I have some idea what we need to do,” Wheeljack replies, and the confidence in his tone is reassuring.
Ratchet shakes his helm. “You are all glitched.” He pauses and cycles a ventilation, lowering his hand. “But we'll try again. Now, help me get these two brave idiots to a berth.”
It’s much later before anyone can relax.
Prowl and Dreadwing are still in recharge, albeit stable. Their energy levels are returning to normal, though spark readings indicate they are only at seventy percent capacity. Wheeljack gives a long-winded explanation about the hows and whys their sparks will regenerate, but it goes in one audial and out the other for Drift.
Skywarp, Wheeljack, and Thundercracker have gone back to the Ark before Astrotrain can question their extended absence.
Tracks is back in front of the monitors, the poor spark.
And Drift is in the medbay, watching Ratchet watch Red. Wondering if he should speak and then wondering what he could possibly say.
Ratchet has opted not to reactivate Red. He wouldn't explain why, and Drift doesn't dare press. That Ratchet has buried himself in a pad packed with data is perhaps a good thing. It means he's still willing to try.
Words lacking, Drift perches on a crate, draws his sword and begins his maintenance. He grows bored often, so his weapons are in their best shape already. Still, it's something to keep him occupied when meditating is not an option.
He's careful to keep his optics on the Great Sword, lest he anger Ratchet by checking on him. If he thinks of anything to say, perhaps he'll breach the silence. But for now, quiet is safer.
“I'm sorry.”
Drift stills. Then, he reboots his audials because surely he must be mistaken.
He lifts his head slowly, looking at Ratchet, but the medic has his back to him. He's no longer working. His hands are instead braced on the edge of the table. Tension is visible in every rigid piece of armor plating.
Drift straightens, stowing away his sharpening kit and sword. “Ratchet?”
“I'm an old mech,” the medic replies and pushes himself off the desk, slowly turning. “But I still haven't learned my lesson yet. So I'm sorry.”
Drift stares. “For what?”
“For my behavior.”
He feels his face go through a series of emotions. Does Ratchet mean his behavior in general, which isn't really different from the usual? Or is he talking about his melancholic state as of this moment?
Ratchet must sense his confusion because frustration simmers in his field for a moment before he shakes his helm. He crosses the floor, approaching Drift on the crate. His hands land to either side and brace against the creaking wood.
“I forget sometimes the chasm between us,” Ratchet continues, their faces in intimate proximity. “And the reality is that I’m sometimes ashamed of the life I had. Especially in comparison to what you suffered.”
Drift looks at him blankly.
“Blurr was high caste,” he says, careful to keep his tone soft. “High as Tracks even. I never held that against him.”
Ratchet's head lowers, optics cycling off, field radiating guilt and shame. “Blurr wasn’t in a position of influence. He wasn’t a senator who’d been entrusted with the hope of millions, only to fail them all.”
Dreadwing was right, Drift realizes. It's not about him at all. He wonders how long Ratchet has been carrying so much guilt, so much self-blame.
Longer than they've been on Earth. Otherwise, Ratchet would’ve never reached out to Thundercracker and Skywarp in the first place.
The path to abandoning the Autobots might’ve been laid long before Optimus had betrayed them. Optimus had only provided the final impetus.
Drift tucks his polishing supplies into a thigh compartment. He tugs Ratchet closer, the taller mech's abdominal armor brushing against his knees.
“You tried,” he says, and his fingers glide over seams. “Which is more than the rest of the senate could claim. The attempt is worth a lot. Trust me.”
Ratchet settles against him, but the crate creaks under his grip. His field pushes against Drift, not insistent but questioning, asking for permission. Drift is all too willing to open by degrees.
“Your capacity for forgiveness is beyond reason, Drift. I'd dare call it stupid,” Ratchet mutters, but there's not true chastisement in his tone.
Drift's mouth quirks wryly. “Yes… well, it's not entirely my own. Hatred led me to joining the Decepticons. Hatred and a thirst for revenge. I have Star Saber to thank for helping me see beyond that.”
Helping, however, might be a pale word in comparison to what Star Saber had done, Drift thinks. He hadn't much choice in that matter either. Ultimately, he's glad to not be the bitter, murderous, and demonic mech he’d once been. His spark is lighter without all those dark things twisting up inside of him.
A part of him wishes though, that he'd been allowed to come to that conclusion on his own. Even if realistically he knows it would’ve never happened.
“Whatever he did, if your spark hadn’t desired change, he’d have failed,” Ratchet retorts, and he loosens his hold on the crate, letting the back of his hand brush down the side of Drift's face. “He’d have killed you instead. He took a great risk, and he shouldn’t have done so without your permission.”
Drift rolls his shoulders. He's grateful to Star Saber at the same time that he hates the mech. He knows the bot he had become and is glad for the one he is now. The process between then and now though hadn’t been pleasant.
“The end justifies the means,” Drift says and tilts his helm into Ratchet's touch, proving that he is not at all offended or bothered by their history. “I'm better now than what I was before.”
“If you say so.” Ratchet's thumb strokes a cheek ridge, optics onlining to a soft glow.
“I do.” Drift turns his head, nipping at Ratchet's fingers. “And I also say that we're going to figure this out.”
Ratchet's ventilations hitch, and his field hesitates. “In regards to...?”
“Sparking the hatchlings.” Drift catches his gaze, determination in his tone. “We're going to figure this out, and we're going to succeed.”
Ratchet's mouth quirks with wry amusement. “Your optimism can be insufferable at times. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“You did. Just last week.”
Ratchet chuckles, and Drift grins. The edge of tension eases from the air, and Drift definitely approves of that. He much prefers a snarky Ratchet as opposed to one mired in guilt and anger.
“Glad to see I'm consistent then,” the medic replies. With one last nuzzle, draws away.
Drift stops himself from grabbing Ratchet and keeping the medic close.
They have work to do after all. Hatchlings to spark. An Ark to rebuild. And an escape to make.
There will be plenty of time for celebration later.
a/n: On to part three...
