playing catch-up (driftrod)

06 August 2019

It would sound much more serious if Drift wasn’t currently laying on Ratchet’s bed with him, his back to Ratchet’s chest, head on Ratchet’s shoulder. If he looks up and over he can meet Ratchet’s eyes, but too far back and he gets a swat for the points of his helm digging into Ratchet’s plating. It’s really one of his favorite places to be, all in all, tucked right where Ratchet was warmest, his spark whirling soothingly under all his metal. It couldn’t be anything urgent , then, that Ratchet would tell him now of all times without so much as shifting himself under Drift’s weight.

So Drift peers up at Ratchet, puts on his saddest face, and says, “Oh, it’s happened, hasn’t it? You’ve finally gotten tired of me. I knew it would happen some day, but I prayed to Primus every night that it wouldn’t happen so soon . Oh, Primus, and all his Guiding Hand, let me pray to you again now --”

He moves to get up off Ratchet, to kneel by the bedside or to throw himself to the floor in reverent prostration, but Ratchet grabs him around the shoulders and hauls him back in, like he’s reeling in a stubborn fish. He holds Drift pinned against his own chest and grumbles, “You are so annoying.”

Of course, there’s that little glimpse of a smile on his mouth when Drift looks, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Why do you want to push me off on Rodimus, then?” Drift says after he’s done kissing Ratchet, mouth still warm from it. “He hasn’t been sending you messages about it again, has he? I told him last time that claiming somebody needed surgery was a bit too far.”

“None of that,” Ratchet says. “I just know him, and I know that when you leave him alone for long enough he starts getting crazy ideas and actually going through with them. He needs somebody to keep him from sticking his arm into a black hole or something.”

“So you thought you’d volunteer me to babysit him? You really do care, Ratch.” Ratchet snorts and rolls his eyes.

“No, I know you , too. And you need someone to lead you off on a wild adventure so you can have fun while you pretend to just be their bodyguard.” Ratchet gives him that knowing look, down the bridge of his nose, daring Drift to tell him he’s wrong. Which he isn’t, which is why he can look so knowing in the first place; he’s come to know all the parts and facets of Drift better than the back of his hand, or better than the inside of the average mech, all things considered. Ratchet is that certain variety of person who never seems to be watching you but is always paying this sharp, distant attention, and it comes up best when you’re at your lowest and Ratchet has the exact solution. He still has his arm around Drift’s chest and he squeezes him a little in a one-armed hug. Drift allows himself a full minute to wallow in it.

“All right,” he says after those sixty seconds have passed. “I guess I can be convinced to go see him. Since you’re very concerned.”

“Yeah, such a hardship for you,” Ratchet says dryly. “But not until morning. I just got comfortable and you’re not moving me until my shift starts or so help me, Drift.”

In the morning he has Rodimus braced against the wall, and he’s leaned close enough to hear Rodimus’ engine growling, and he says, “So a little birdie told me you were planning something fun.”

Rodimus ducks under Drift’s arm and twists, lithely, to hop back away from him, grinning as he goes, sword held out in front of him the whole while. Drift certainly didn’t teach him that. But then, Rodimus learned a lot during the time that Drift was gone, had changed a lot before Drift came back, and Drift has learned to take a lot of it in stride. At least he’s kept this, the eager grin and the amateur grip on his sword that Drift itches to adjust. Rodimus may burn through his moods and his whims and his paint (literally), but he stays true to more than people would give him credit for: the fate of his crew, ship or not; spectralism, which surprised even Drift but it’s a little shock of delight every time Drift sees Rodimus’ eyes flicker different colors; this, amongst all the other things Drift has taught him. Rodimus laughs, glances down at his own hands, changes his grip.

“Ok, how little is this bird exactly?” he asks, waiting tensely for Drift to react. “Like, actually little, or kind of enormous, or regular sized? Just curious.”

Drift decides to let the anticipation settle in, to test Rodimus’ impatience. “I’ve been sworn to protect the birdie’s identity, actually.”

“Oh, so regular sized.” That’s when Drift strikes, lunging swiftly toward Rodimus. If nothing else Rodimus has a quick reaction time, though it usually manifests as sheer panic. For instance, here he yelps and drops himself to the ground, totally forgetting he has a sword. Drift taps him with the flat of his sword. Rodimus, in turn, rolls onto his back and spreads his arms wide.

“It’s nothing dangerous this time, promise.” Rodimus’ idea of dangerous, of course, is a little bit skewed, but Drift trusts him here. “Just a joyride, you know? A pit stop. Of course, they’re sort of all pit stops now that the Quest is over, but I swear this won’t even be risky.”

Drift tucks his sword into one of the sheaths on his hips and reaches down to pull Rodimus back up to his feet. Rodimus holds onto his hand with both of his own for a kind moment, his smile just gentle and real, and then he ducks down to pull his sword off the ground and swat Drift on his side with it. “Gotcha. Gotta keep sharp, babe!” He even winks. Which is so, just, it’s so rude, awful, Drift can’t believe that he finds himself laughing at it.

“Hey, did you wanna come with?” Rodimus goes on. “Totally room enough for two. It’d be way better with two, actually. I think you should absolutely come with me.”

He gets this glint in his eye like a speck of glitter whenever he’s set on something. Rodimus’ eyes shine bright bright blue.

“I think I’d like that very much,” Drift says, and Rodimus whoops and throws his fist in the air and smacks a kiss on Drift’s cheek before he realizes he’s dropped his borrowed sword on the ground and dives to pick it up. Laughter in his eyes, anticipation on his lips and his tongue, it’s one of those moments Drift could live in. “Lead the way, Captain.”

To Earth, as it turns out. They set the Lost Light in orbit close enough that Brainstorm’s latest fine-tuned holomatter avatars can reach the surface and blend in seamlessly with the natives. It’s been a long time since Drift was last on this planet, but the warm nitrogen-rich air and the silicon-rich dirt is familiar. This place doesn’t have too many bad memories tied to it, either. A lot of time spent spinning his wheels on the asphalt. They’re playing human today, though, so instead of wheels it’s feet, with five toes each and everything. Brainstorm’s really outdone himself (again) with this upgrade. All the details are in place. Drift can’t fathom where he got the materials to research human anatomy, but then, he absolutely doesn’t want to fathom it.

Rodimus has changed his avatar since the last design that Drift saw. Now his human form has a waist to match his Cybertronian body, tan skin and red hair; Drift is fairly sure it’s one of the girl humans. Rodimus has one of those tops on that ends just above the belly button and denim shorts and, for some inexplicable reason, another plaid shirt tied at his hips. Other human women keep glancing his way and looking him up and down. Well, not completely out of the ordinary.

They’re 150 feet in the air.

“This kinda sucks. No offense,” Rodimus says, tapping fingers on his knees. He keeps looking out the windows as they round toward the top of the ferris wheel, out over the rest of the park, all the humans having fun with their families and their friends, eating popcorn and weird frozen treats and drinking sticky brown stuff. He’d insisted that Drift pick the first ride, and Drift had seen this great big wheel and veered toward it. Ok, it had ended up the second ride, because right in the entranceway of the park there was this big carousel and Rodimus had grabbed Drift by the arm and insisted they go on it because he thought it was so funny how humans rode around on goofy looking four-legged animals when they had perfectly good cars. He had a very good point, and it’d been fun seeing Rodimus clamber up onto these smooth, fake animals (“oh, babe, this one’s a tiger!”) and cackle as they were pulled around in slow circles. So this was the second ride, the climb up to the top of the ferris wheel, and it was … sedate.

“This isn’t even all that high up,” Rodimus sighs, dropping his chin into his hand. “Like, where’s the thrill? I thought they’d drop us or something.”

“It’s high up for humans,” Drift reminds him. “And I don’t think it’s about the thrill. Remember how in some of those movies Swerve put on, the humans would go up in the ferris wheel and have a big romantic moment…”

“I have big romantic moments with you all the time! You don’t have to be in the air for that.” Rodimus keeps looking longingly at the rollercoaster that goes screaming by every once in a while, carrying dozens of shrieking humans. Drift laughs a little, leaning to the side to nudge Rodimus with a shoulder.

“Ok, so it’s a little boring,” he admits. Rodimus’ mouth quirks up in a smirk. “But I still think it’s nice, and besides, you’re looking the wrong direction.” Drift reaches over, takes Rodimus by the chin, and turns his head, toward the opposite window.

It’s just trees. It’s not even ocean, or magnificent swaths of mountains, or winding rivers: just trees, the sweep of green that shivers in tiny movements when the wind passes by. From this distance, through these eyes, they can’t see any animals on the ground or individual leaves or the sun that peeks between the branches, just the green and the uneven edges like the first brushstrokes of paint on a canvas. Drift glances back to see Rodimus’ brow furrow and mouth open a little with confusion.

“We don’t have any of that on Cybertron,” Drift explains. “The nature, or -- the quiet, the peace. Even now, after everything’s done, it’s … messy, and it’s busy, and everyone’s either angry or worn-out or fighting for space. Even -- don’t get me wrong, I love it there, I’d never leave, but even on the Lost Light. Right? So just seeing this big, untouched space is like finally seeing the spirit of calm. It’s beautiful.”

A lot of people say he gets carried away sometimes, talking about things, getting emotional about silly nonsense. Drift looks back over at the unpaved area outside of the park property, the trees and the clearings. He doesn’t mind, much. It took a long time to recarve himself from the rough shape that was left behind after the first stage of his life, and now that he’s found this side of himself, he’s happy living in it. There are worse things to be mocked for.

When he checks to see if Rodimus gets it, Rodimus isn’t looking at the trees. He’s looking at Drift.

Rodimus’ attention divides itself into pieces and subpieces so naturally that to get the whole of it all at once is an almost uncomfortable miracle. Even without it being Rodimus’ true face -- Rodimus looks at him for this long, breathless, space-between-spark-pulses moment, like he’s looking all the way into Drift, and Drift nearly wants to break the spell except for the bloom of adoration that’s there. It spreads across Rodimus’ face in this sideways, gentle smile.

“Yeah,” Rodimus finally says. “Ok, yeah. Hey, do you wanna ditch after this? I know this place around here that the humans have kept totally natural, it’s a big deal for them, I think you’d like it.”

Rodimus’ hand creeps toward Drift’s, then slides their fingers together, palm to palm. Back on the Lost Light, in their real forms, their hands there do the same.

“Well, if you’re sure,” Drift says, and he’s got the sense of tumbling head over heels. To be wholly honest, he’s had that sense since the minute Rodimus took him up on the idea of their quest, years and years and years ago.

“Definitely sure.” Rodimus bumps shoulders with Drift then, squeezing his hand. “But we’re gonna do the roller coaster first, right?”

Drift laughs. “Well, naturally.”

“I think Rodimus figured out you tattled on him,” Drift tells Ratchet after, leaning over one of the wheeled carts in the medibay as Ratchet searches for something in a low cabinet. A scoffing noise comes from down below, and then a thud as Ratchet smacks the back of his head against the top of the cupboard. Drift stifles a laugh.

“Oh, shut up,” Ratchet says when he emerges, pointing at Drift with the tool he’d been hunting. Some sort of meter to report the strength of natural electrical pulses or whatever. Drift wasn’t particularly well-read in the medical sciences. “And so what? If you think I’m going to be afraid of Rodimus , you don’t know me half as well as I thought you did.”

Drift nudges the cabinet door closed with one foot and straightens up off the cart when Ratchet gives it a tug. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I might keep an eye out if I were you.”

“And why is that,” Ratchet asks, already distracted with the tool he’d fetched, calibrating it or -- hell, Drift wasn’t sure, maybe just setting the time and date.

“It’s just that, well, he said he was planning to tell everyone you were a bad doctor --”

Ratchet laughed, sharp and loud, and it was a real laugh, leaving a grin on Ratchet’s face, and as far as Drift was concerned, that was his job done, and done well.