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Drift tapped the bar with a sigh, and Swerve waved off Skids before trotting over, washing out a glass with a rag.
“Another pint, if you please,” he sighed, pushing his empty mug across the bar. Swerve cocked an optic ridge at him.
“You never drink this much, y'know. You alright?”
Drift frowned, and looked down at his empty glass, “Uh… Actually, no, now that you mention it, I do feel kinda slagged up.”
“As much as I hate to turn down your patronage, I figure I shouldn’t be servin’ you if you’re ill and all. Why don'tcha run down to medbay and get yourself checked out? Don’t be tellin’ anyone you caught any slag here, though,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Drift, who made an exaggerated gagging motion and slipped off the barstool, stretching, before sidestepping the other bar patrons and making his way down to the medbay.
He rapped on the door frame with two knuckles, peeking inside. Ratchet had some kind of diagnostic equipment opened and appeared to be rewiring it, intently focused. He looked up when Drift leaned in, though, and grunted.
“Hey, I’m still on shift for another two hours. Whadya need?”
Drift shuffled inside and offered Ratchet a hand when he moved to stand up, “Oh, I don't know, it's most likely nothing. I just feel- strange, I suppose? My systems are working overtime on energon consumption, for one.”
Ratchet frowned, “Ah. Medical business then. I can run a diagnostic if you want- unless you want to wait for Velocity’s shift.”
“Why would I want to wait?”
“I just mean- do you really want me in charge of your health?”
It was Drift’s turn to frown, “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Just-” Ratchet sighed, “Conflict of interest. Beggars can’t be choosers, though, I guess, come on, up on the berth with you.” He slapped the back of the machine he had been working on shut and tapped a few buttons on the front. It lit up energon pink and booped enthusiastically. Ratchet shifted it out of the way and stood in front of Drift on the medical berth, unspooling the diagnostic wires from his wrist.
Drift followed suit, folding back the plating just below his palm and clearing away the tertiary covers from his medical output jacks. Ratchet pressed the catheads of the cables in with care, before sifting through Drift’s data with a look of concentration that quickly turned to bemusement to concern.
“What’s wrong?” Drift said, as Ratchet retrieved his medical cables and Drift let his wrist panelling shutter closed, “I assume I’m not dying.”
Ratchet shook his head, “Your body’s getting ready to go into heat.”
Drift tensed, left arm clenching the table hard enough to leave dents, “…Ah.”
Ratchet eyed him with concern, “Are you okay?”
Drift paused, then let go off the table, shaking his hand off and averting his optics, “…Yeah. Can I get a suppressant?”
Ratchet sighed, “Did you take one last time?”
Drift made a vaguely noncommittal noise that earned himself a sharp glare and sighed, “Yes, okay, and the time before that. I let it run the time before, though.”
“Well… I mean, yes, I could give you a suppressant, but next time it hits you could- it’ll come on even faster than this one did, and we may not be in position to handle it then. Things are safe now, calm, kid, if you ever had to hit it you hit the jackpot timing wise. You could have gotten it while you were out gallivanting across the galaxy.”
Drift groaned, “So you won’t give me one?”
“If you still want one, I’ll give it to you. That's just my suggestion. You can't put it off forever.”
Drift mulled it over, leaning back on the medical berth. Ratchet kicked a wheelie chair out from under a desk and leaned back in it with a sigh.
“No,” he said finally, “You’re right. For all I know I could be floating alone in space next time or trapped in some new mess. Better to just knock it out now.”
Relieved, Ratchet grunted his approval gruffly, “Good. It’ll probably start tomorrow morning or so, so I’ll have Velocity cover my shift and move mine to the-”
“Not with you, I’m sorry.”
Ratchet paused mid word before letting his mouth shut and his forehead crinkle, “Are you breaking up with me?”
Drift's faceplate lit up energon pink, “Wha-? No!”
“So… What, then? I don’t understand.”
Drift leaned forward, making a frustrated noise that crackled his vocalizer, “It’s- it’s hard to explain. I don’t… Like interfacing.”
“I mean- I know. That’s why we haven’t. I’m fine with that. But you want to interface with somebody else…?”
Drift pinched the space between his optics, “I don’t wanna ‘face anybody, Ratch, I just wanna get this over with.”
“Why not me, then? I mean- I know I don’t say it enough, but I love you. You know that, right?” He reached up one servo as if to touch him, but stopped halfway there, uncertainly, and Drift, trying to make it seem casual and failing miserably, intertwined their fingers and set both their servos back down on the table together.
“That’s just it, I- I love you too, I just- that’s why it can’t be you.”
Ratchet shook his head, “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s not like I don’t know it doesn’t make sense, it just- slag. I should’ve waited for Velocity.”
Ratchet looked genuinely offended at this and Drift ran a servo over his finials, exventing slowly, “Look, I- I know. I know it’s stupid, and it sounds really bad, but I’m- I care about you to much to lie to you, and-”
“I don’t want you to lie to m-”
“Shht. Let me finish. I just… Look, even I don’t really understand, I just- I don’t… Want to 'face you, because I like you. No, it doesn’t make sense, but that’s just how it is.”
Ratchet leaned back, “…If you say so.”
Drift gave him a dubious look, before leaning forward against his knees and rubbing his optical shutters with his thumbs, sighing. “I’m sorry. I’ll- we’ll talk about it later, alright? I just-” he sat up sharply and slid off the table, “I need to go meditate on this for a bit. Comm me if someone shoots at us.”
Drift woke up gasping, vents flared, plating steaming in the cool morning air. He rolled over, choking on dust, and immediately purged his tanks on the side of the half-berth, elbows trembling with the exertion of holding up his own weight.
Immediately, servos were on him, changing his position so he wouldn’t choke on his own energon, supporting his shaking arms.
“Shh, shh, its okay, ventilate, okay- okay, you’re okay-” someone was whispering harshly in his audial, but he couldn’t respond until he’d finished fully purging his tanks and rolled onto his back again, panting. Gasket’s face was full of concern, wiping the side of Drift's mouth with an old scrap of a cleaning rag.
“It’s, uh- slag. Did I take something I shouldn’t’ve?” He slurred, dizzy, and Gasket shook his head, “Wha- was it, um. Did they spike it with somethin’? 'Cuz I, uh, I’ll kill 'em if they- the syk- spiked- spike-” Gasket, appearing even more alarmed than before shushed him and leaned in to check his optics. He shook his head.
“It wasn’t the drugs, Drift, you’re in heat.”
“Frag,” he swore, crumpling his fists over his optics, “I shouldn’t uh, I shouldn’t be this bad yet, though, yeah? This is, uh- Primus, it’s so hot in here.”
“It’s really not,” Gasket sighed, “I think you’ve been in heat for a couple of days, actually- you’ve just been on syk the whole time and didn’t notice.”
“Slag. Do I smell?”
“Yeah. It’s very distracting.”
“Frag. Frag! D'you got any idea what uh- what I could charge for a mech in heat? Like, at least, uh- uh-”
“Triple, probably more if you actually spent time looking for an appropriate buyer. It’s a little late now, you probably can’t even stand.”
Drift sat up quickly, far too quickly, and tried to stumble to his pedes, but his motions were shaky and graceless and he fell back down before Gasket could catch him.
“Right- uh- slag. Okay, yeah, no, I got you. What do we do then? I can wait if you wanna go canvas for a john. I’ll split it with you, seventy thirty.”
“I dunno, Drift, you look like you’re about to melt a hole in the floor…”
Drift rolled his optics and shuttered them, exasperated, “Do we have any coolant left?”
“Yeah, but you’ll burn through it inside of a few hours.”
Drift paused, then peaked up at Gasket out from under one hand, “Will it take you that long to snag a buyer?”
Gasket grinned and patted his knee, “You know me better than that."
Drift shifted his position anxiously, adjusting the folds of his knees and tracing the Earth word “lotus” along the headlines of his thighs distractedly, before finally giving up and leaning back on his berth, staring up at the ceiling.
His fans had clicked on to regulate his already increasing temperature. They were still quiet, and if he needed to turn them off, he could without damaging himself or anything, but he didn’t see any reason to and let them run, opting to focus his attentions on the cool gray of the chrome overhead, looming over him like unwanted company. He activated his comm.
“Rodimus?”
“Huh? Drift, what’s up?”
“I need to ask a weird favour.”
“Anything, buddy. Shoot.”
“I’m going into heat and I kinda wanna ask if you’ll help me knock it out.”
“…Aren’t you dating Ratchet or something, though?”
Drift rolled his optics, “Yes... This is complicated, just, trust me, okay, he’s not an option."
”…Oooooh. Oh, oh, I get it. Is it cuz he’s… Ya know. Old?“
"What?!” Drift shot straight up, “No!”
“Wait, uh, so what’s the problem, then?”
Drift leaned back, “It’s… It’s complicated.”
“Dude, you know I’d do anything for you but I dunno if you really, you know, want me to do that, you know? Are you okay?”
Drift paused, “No. Not really.”
“Hang on, let me tell Mags I’m taking my offshift, brb.”
“Did you just say brb out loud, Rodimus?” Drift sighed. Rodimus laughed, and the line clicked off. He collapsed back in his berth and returned to watching the ceiling, motionless.
Drift snapped his hips forward with a sharp gasp and bit his swollen lipplates, drawing a thin glimmer of pink energon, before squeezing his thighs and going rigid, electricity crackling down his spinal struts and gusts of scalding air pouring from his vents, mouth stretched open in a soundless scream- because his vocalizer had shorted out. He fell forward on trembling servos, elbows shuddering from the effort, and Gasket caught him by the torso, wrestling them both back onto their sides, panting.
Drift recovered first and moved his mouth to speak, but no sounds came, so, servo still quivering and moist with condensation, he grabbed Gasket’s servo in his, braiding their fingers together and signing [blew fuse in vocalizer. Fix please?]
Gasket swallowed heavily and nodded, sitting up and leaning over Drift, pulling back the manual tabs on his fuse access ports and resetting his friend’s vocalizer manually.
“Ahhhh- ah, ah, frag, scrap, scrap scrap scrap.”
“You okay?” Gasket said thickly, dropping back down, and Drift shook his head.
“I’m not done.”
“What?!” Gasket blurted, shuttering his optics and groaning, “Are you kidding me?! We’ve gone six fragging ROUNDS Drift! I’m running out of transfluid here!”
“I’m sorry,” Drift whined, “It’s not exactly like I can help it, can I?!”
“Ugh, whatever happened to finding some chump to pay you to do this, huh? That’s what I do. That’s what we’ve always done.” Gasket panted, sitting up. Drift shook his head.
“No, I hate that. Not when I’m in heat, I got no fraggin' control over myself. I hate it.”
Gasket stood up, shaky at first, before finding his sea legs and stumbling to the tarp covered rolling pallet that housed their worldly possessions and pulling out a cube of crude energon, tipping back the entire thing in a single long swallow.
“It’s not a walk in the park for me, either… We don’t have enough crude to stretch a whole week and if you’re not pulling in anything I gotta, but I’m here dealing with you.” Gasket looked tired, more tired than usual, and Drift crushed his fists into his optics.
“Frag it. Maybe I’ll just go wander around outside until somebody decides to finish me off.”
Gasket frowned, “You go outside pouring off pheromones the way you are you’ll either end up dead or wishin’ you were.”
“I already do,” he grumbled under his breath and Gasket cleared the distance between them immediately.
“'Scuse you?”
“I didn’t say nothin’,” Drift grunted, sitting up, “This is killin’ me though, this is the longest heat I've ever had.”
“Look, okay, one of my regulars must have caught your scent last week because he’s been dropping hints that he really likes heat stuff. He’s alright- not too weird or whatever, and he pays. I’m seriously running out of steam, Drift, I can’t keep this up and you really are gonna burn a hole in the floor this time.”
Drift groaned, “Ugh, fine, whatever, but if he fraggin’ kills me it’s your fraggin’ fault.”
Gasket squatted down at eye level, face very serious and Drift sobered up immediately, “Drift. I wouldn’t let that happen, okay? Look, if you really want me to keep going, I’ll run down to fourth where those speedsters live and get overclocked.”
Drift nearly doubled back, “Primus, Gask, you could die. We’ll melt eachother.”
“I’d still do it, if you asked. Okay? The only reason I’m sayin’ we should change tactics is because we’re broke, we’ve taken too much time for this and we’re almost out of energon. And I’m literally running out of transfluid.”
Drift softened, then grit his dentae, “Yeah, okay. Whatever, call the guy.”
“You’re not gonna be able to get the going rate though, not without any notice.”
“Honestly, I’d do it for fragging free at this point. It’s too damn hot, I’m over this slag.”
Drift’s habsuite door pinged and he stood up, pressing the button to open it on the side panel.
Rodimus stood in his doorway awkwardly, looking an ever-shifting mix of deeply concerned and deeply uncomfortable. He stepped inside and let the door shutter shut behind him.
“So uh,” Rodimus started, looking upward, “do you wanna like, explain the situation?”
“It justttt-” he sat down on the side of his berth again with a thump, and Rodimus followed suit, immediately crossing his legs expectantly, “Look, okay, I don’t like interface. Like, at all. It’s just- I mean. Ugh.”
Rodimus looked startled, “What, seriously? Why not?? It’s fragging awesome!”
“I dunno,” Drift said sharply, “Maybe it loses its novelty when it’s do or die.”
Rodimus grimaced, “Shit, right, I forgot. I'm sorry.”
“I know, it’s whatever, I don’t care.”
“Well, slag, yeah, but I do. Okay, so, take a suppressant, huh?”
“It’s just gonna come back if I don’t deal with it.”
Rodimus frowned, “True, but still…”
“Basically,” Drift sighed, “I like Ratchet. I really, really really REALLY like Ratchet. I just- I don’t want to. Interface. With him.”
Rodimus frowned somewhat harder.
“Look, it’s like this, okay-” Drift said, gesturing with Rodimus to bear with him, “Like- you know how like, let’s say you got a… A turbofox, okay?”
“A turbofox?”
“Yes, a turbofox, shut up. Okay, you’ve got a turbofox, and you feed it and it loves you because you’re super nice to it or whatever.”
“Right.”
“And then one day you accidentally give it, like, I dunno, poisoned food or something and it gets super sick. Like you didn’t do it on purpose and even though you never hurt it again it’s always kinda, I guess, uh, uncomfortable around you.”
“…Are you the turbofox in this metaphor? Are you trying to tell me you think Ratchet owns you or something?”
Drift groaned, long and loud, “No, okay, forget it, nevermind. The short story is I don’t 'face people I date and I don’t date people I 'face. It's a thing I hate doing and I want absolutely zero fragging involved in my romantic pursuits. Okay?”
Rodimus paused, then nodded, “Okay.”
Drift sagged, feeling a little overwhelmed at least by his friend's willingness to trust him, even though he clearly still didn't understand. “Okay. Okay! Great. So you’ll help me?”
“Only if Ratchet says it’s okay. I can’t piss off my CMO, Drift.”
“It- fine, whatever, I’ll call him,” Drift sighed and activated his comm.
Deadlock was reading a datapad of Lord Megatron’s most recent war updates, walking down the corridor to find Turmoil when he felt fingers on his aft and whipped about, snarling.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” He growled at the nameless subordinate staring at him. He swallowed heavily and looked like he might piss himself on the spot, shrinking back.
“Uh- no offense, sir, it’s just, you’re uh, you’re runnin’ 'round shipside reekin’ of heatscent and it’s- I figured you were advertisin’ or something, and ah-”
He stopped when Deadlock dropped the datapad and grabbed him by the throat, tearing his gun from his waist holster and jamming it under his chin, “What’s your name, scrub?”
“I- uh- gak! Uh, i- it’s Gearstorm, s-sir, gh- f- I-” Gearstorm stammered, gasping for air.
Deadlock narrowed his optics and sneered before reholstering his gun at his waist and grabbed Gearstorm by the arm he’d touched him with, just above the elbow, and tore it off, crumpling the metal beneath his fingers and ripping free clean at the shoulder.
Gearstorm shrieked and slid down the wall when Deadlock released his throat, clutching at his rended open arm socket, sparking and dripping energon. Deadlock dropped the arm with a look of disgust.
“Tell your friends precisely what I am 'advertising,’ Gearstorm.”
With that, Deadlock spun on one pede and stomped down the hallway the opposite way he had come, towards his quarters, pounded the door key code and slammed it shut behind him, before realizing he’d left his datapad in the hall and snarled, kicking over his desk chair and stomping the headboard with one pede until it snapped in half.
Deadlock stood panting for a moment, vents flared, fans whirring, before slamming his aft back down onto his berth and sliding his legs open, yanking the platelets apart without ceremony and shoving past his weeping spike, into the already moist and swollen folds of his valve, pouring off heat. He winced at the unpleasant contact, but grit his dentae and crushed his fingers against his outer node, grunting when it started to feel less painful and more pleasant. He let his thighs fall wider apart, rubbing his node like he was on a mission, until finally he spasmed and went rigid, disabling his voicebox on instinct before he could yell, then sagged, panting.
His valve was still burning, pouring out heat and begging to be filled.
“Frag you!” He shrieked down at it, rebooting his voicebox, “Frag you frag you frag you frag you!”
‘Exactly!’ he almost imagined it saying and sneered, shuttering his optics and crushing his fists against them, leaning forward and growling with undirected loathing and resentment.
He looked up, broke a leg off the broken chair and measured against his spike before throwing it against the wall where it burst into metal splinters that tinkled into the grating. Deadlock activated his comm, “Turmoil. I need a fragging favour.”
“Do whatever,” Ratchet said gruffly into Drift’s comm, “It’s not like you need my permission.”
“Not- permission, I just- I don’t- I don’t want to do anything that would hurt you.”
“You missed the bus on that one, kid.”
“Ratch- come on. Please just come talk to me?”
“Honestly, I don’t understand why this is so important to you.”
“It- I can’t make you understand if you don’t even want to.”
“Whatever. Do Rodimus, do the whole crew if you feel like it.”
“Ratchet, that is not fair and you absolutely know it-”
The line clicked off.
Drift gave Rodimus a pathetic look, tanks churning, and Rodimus gave him an uncharacteristically sober look in return and squeezed his shoulder pauldron reassuringly.
“You want me to go?”
Drift paused, choked on static, disabled his voicebox and shuttered his optics, nodding sharply.
Rodimus stood up and stretched his folded legs, “Comm me tomorrow, okay? Forget Ratchet. I'll do whatever you need me to. There might even still be a little time to take a suppressant if you want to.”
Drift shook his head.
Rodimus nodded, solemnly, and left. Drift locked the door.
For what felt like the millionth time in his life (a potentially accurate number), Drift was glad for his bad habit of hoarding. Too many times was he relieved to find cubes of medical grade energon stored in his armour for a rainy day when he was hungry, too many times was he glad for rags and extra swords and datapackets he didn’t need but picked up and found some place to ferret away anyway.
Today, in this moment, he was glad he had hoarded an old packet of heat suppressors a few hundred years ago because today, in this moment, on this planet, he seriously needed them. War was a bad time for heat. Any time was a bad time for heat, but war, with Autobots who were all so touchy and emotional about interface stuff and very few options? A terrible time.
He only had two tiny gelatin tablets that he vaguely remembered were supposed to be taken with fuel, so he stored the newer of the two back in his armour (beside the medical grade and the vial of self-repair nanites for emergencies) and dropped the older into his cube, watching it fizzle and dissolve, the colours mingling like ink until it disappeared.
It gave it a nasty, palsticy taste, but his temperature was regulated again before nightfall.
Drift growled and tossed against his berth, distracted and unable to recharge properly. He was overly warm and outlandishly uncomfortable, his systems in overdrive and his tanks turning, curling against himself and shuddering, his overheated systems making everything around him feel uncomfortably cold. He was painfully aware that he was leaking between his legs but despite his best efforts to keep himself clean, it wasn’t happening and he’d long since been forced to give up, focusing his efforts on emptying out the stash of medical grade energon he kept under his berth.
He was in the thick of it now, too late for turning back, mind cloudy and distracted, body absolutely freaking out. He contemplated calling Rodimus but his tanks churned at the thought of how upset Ratchet would be- already was, and he swore and stood up, wiping off his nether regions as best he could and locking his valve cover closed with the manual tabs, even though it burned and ached to do so.
Drift fumbled in one of his desk drawers for a painkiller for the headache he was starting to get, thought better of it, and pulled a bottle of engex from a different drawer instead. Even warm, it was better than nothing, and after draining that, dug around for some of the incense he’d kept from earth, and set a decent chunk on fire, already sick of the thick, frustrating scent of his own heat.
He activated his comm and called Ratchet.
“Hey,” he said, mouth cottony, optics swimming, head throbbing, “changed m’ mind. You don’t need to, um, feel, obligated. Or anything, but if you want-”
“I’ll be there in a klik, alright? Try not to fry your systems, you’re really pushing yourself.”
He cut his comm and flopped back down in his berth, trying to angle himself so his vents could breathe, gulping in anything close to cool air to try and cool down his mutinous systems with little success.
The door pinged and opened and he rolled over to look at the doorway and the medic in it, lazily, before his tanks flipped and his valve panel snapped back open, breaking at least one manual seal and he squeezed his thighs together, hissing and cursing at the sting, however minor it may have been.
He didn’t notice Ratchet batting his servos away until he was holding them, inspecting the broken lock and shrugging it off.
“Very minor, I can fix it later,” he said, and Drift leaned over to look at the door and reassure himself it was shut, then let his head fall back with a thunk.
“Not like it’s the worst thing I've ever broken down there,” Drift seethed, his chassis wracked with sick resignation. He pushed himself back up onto his elbows, “Alright, whatever, come on, let’s get this over with before I burn a hole in the floor.”
Ratchet looked somewhat less than enthusiastic, but reached forward anyway to ease his way between Drift’s thighs and Drift let them fall open, miserable tired and ready to be done with all this stupid stressful scrap and the empty begging in his burning valve. It was one more heat in a lineup of dozens, and they'd never once been anything less than miserable. One more was not going to break him, and if there was anything he was good at, it was compartmentalizing sexual trauma out of the way. If he could grit his dentae and bear it through johns, through Turmoil, through every miserable experience that preceded this, he could close his optics and get this one over with, too.
And after a few uneventful seconds he unshuttered his optics in confusion. Ratchet was pinching the bridge of his nose and saying something under his breath that Drift couldn't hear under the sound of rushing energon in his audials.
“What? What’s um- what are you?” He stammered, trying to focus on the words and feeling them slip from his grasp like smoke. Ratchet swung his legs over the side of the berth and pushed Drift’s knees back together with a sharp clack and a resolute expression.
“I called Rodimus.”
Drift’s tanks flipped, “Wh-! No, no, slag, slag, it’s fine, I’m fine, I don’t care, I swear, it doesn’t even matter, I'm sorry- slag, it doesn’t, at all.”
“You look like you’re going to purge.”
“I’m not though!”
“Drift, it’s- it’s the principle of the thing. Calm down.”
“I am calm!”
“No, now you look like you’re going to purge AND cry.”
“I’m, uh…” Drift paused and sat up, wiping at his optics, which were, in fact, moist, “Slag. I’m fine.”
Ratchet frowned and shifted in closer, taking Drift’s face in his servos, gently cupping his cheeks and locking their optics together. Drift leaned into the comforting touch with a sigh, and Ratchet gave him a stern look, “I am not going to rape you.”
Drift immediately stiffened and jerked right out of Ratchet’s grip, squirming in horror as if he could recoil away from the word itself, “Frag, okay, no, I know, that’s not- that’s not what I meant.”
“You obviously don’t want to do this.”
“Literally how clear can I make it that I don’t want to do this?!” Drift snarled, emotional and upset and frustrated and sore and empty, “It’s not like I’ve got any other options though! My body has decided it’s going to get fragged no matter what I want and you’ve made it clear that if it’s not by you then we’re through, and believe it or not, letting someone I care about win the 'face argument is not the worst thing I’ve ever done!”
“Drift-” Ratchet groaned, “You are not a buymech anymore, you don’t have to-”
“That’s it! That’s exactly what you don’t get!” Drift cried, and realized he was standing now, practically delirious and way overemotional, overstimulated and underfragged, “Yes. I. Am! That doesn’t go away just because I got out of Rodion! I’m not a thing for fixing! And I’m not ashamed of anything I did! I did it, and I was fucking good at it, and I knew exactly what I was committing to to survive, and I did survive! So, no, I do not think interfacing is fun or romantic or enjoyable, I think it is work. It is hot, and moist, and unpleasant, and meaningless, and I don’t like it. I did it because it got me what I wanted, which was food, and coolant, and bad folk off my back and now, it’s going to get me two things I want right now: I am going to not overheat and die, and I am going to not lose the only mech who really cares about me about over a stupid fragging heat cycle!”
Drift’s chest was heaving, panting hot air and fists clenched and trembling. He really, really hated heat cycles.
“I-” Ratchet looked lost, as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say.
The door pinged.
“I don’t care,” Drift said softly, unclenching his servos, before sitting back down and looking at his lap, “It’s not worth it.”
“Just a klik, Rodimus,” Ratchet said into his comm and paused, sizing him up, “I am definitely not the only mech who cares about you.”
“No, I- yeah, I know.”
“He was waiting around, just in case,” he said, gesturing to the door.
Drift shrugged and averted his optics, exhausted by his own outburst.
“Okay. I get it now. It’s not a me thing. It’s a you thing. i mean- no, I don't get it. I don't think I can.” Drift didn’t respond other than to flinch, “I… Might have overreacted. And I’m sorry for that.”
“You don’t have to b-”
“Shhshshshshsht, no. I am sorry. I wasn’t… Trying to empathize. I let my own feelings take priority over yours and that wasn't fair. Look, I’m gonna- I’m gonna go, okay, and let you deal with this the way that you want to, alright? Is it okay if I drop by later and check your vitals, though? Bring some coolant?”
Drift perked up immediately, “Oh, Primus, please do. That would be more than fine.”
And then, a little bit more overcome with emotional stress from his cycle than he realized he leaned very quickly forward and mashed their lips together in a messy, romantic way, and when he pulled back, grinning audial to audial Ratchet was flustered and flushed, stammering unintelligibly.
“Oh!” Drift laughed, when Ratchet shoved his servos into his lap self consciously, “Sorry about that! Forgot.”
“You live to torture me, don’t you?” Ratchet groaned, smoothing out his plating and glaring at him good naturedly, “Right. Well, then, uh, kid, I’m gone, I’ll see you when you’re feeling better.” He stood carefully, adjusting his plating, then stepped briskly to the door and opened it. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Drift said, optics softening, as he disappeared around the corner. Rodimus stepped inside, one optic ridge cocked in confusion.
“You sort all that out, then?” he asked, folding his arms.
“More or less,” Drift sighed, “We’ll talk about later, anyway. I think it’ll be okay, though.”
“Good. Alright then, you look mighty uncomfortable and this room is, like, a zillion degrees and counting. You ready to knock this heat cycle into next cycle?”
“Primus, please, before I burn a hole right through the floor!”