Work Text:
A knock at the door, which Drift had left half open. "You busy?"
He looked up from his book to see Rodimus hovering at the entrance to his hab. Not an unusual sight these days. He vented out slowly and turned off the datapad. "No. Just doing a bit of reading."
Rodimus stepped in, letting the door shut behind him. "Cool." He wandered over to Drift's shelves and inspected the hard-coded datapads there like he didn't already know what Drift enjoyed reading. "History? Mythology?"
Drift squinted at him. Rodimus wasn't usually this cagey when he came by; if he had something on his mind, he tended to get right to it. Unless he got distracted, but books didn't usually have that effect. "Philosophy," Drift said, answering Rodimus' question. "Xylitus' Meditations." It was one of the few titles he'd saved from New Crystal City, and one of his favourites. Xylitus had some odd ideas—Drift highly doubted the universe was some kind of metaphysical creature egg—but his writing style was unlike anything else he'd seen.
"Right," said Rodimus, nodding. "Fun stuff. Real page-turner."
Drift eyed him doubtfully. Rodimus wasn't the best liar, but some things beggared belief. Had he come here to hide from someone? "Am I going to get a comm from Magnus about something you did? Or something you didn't do?"
"Hurtful," said Rodimus, raising a hand to his chestplate in apparent affront—but his eyes were bright. "Relax, Drift. I just want to chill for a bit." He tugged a datapad out from Drift's collection; probably one of the whodunnits he'd left there on a previous visit. "Book club hours? I can do that."
Drift rested his chin in one hand and watched Rodimus hover around his hab like an insect in a room it had no plans to leave, tapping at his datapad and humming a theme tune off-key. Why was he here? It was his off-shift; surely Rodimus had any number of things he'd rather be doing. And it was hardly as though he didn't get to see Drift these days—he'd popped by his hab less than a cycle ago. Spent a joor telling Drift about Skids' mission to grapple-hook the bar drone so he could program it to juggle. (Swerve had gathered a rescue party, and in the resulting slapfight the poor drone had lost a leg.) It seemed like a strange way for Rodimus to spend the little free time he had as captain.
He could guess why, though. It had only been a couple cycles since Ratchet had cleared Drift for part-time duty after their disastrous trip to Delphi. He knew Rodimus had been present when First Aid and Ambulon had wheeled his leaking frame onto the ship. It explained Rodimus being a little clingy—Drift couldn't say he wouldn't have been just as hard to pry off if he'd seen Rodimus like that, falling apart in a puddle of his own insides.
And he really had been clingy, even by Rodimus' standards. He'd been sending Drift comms at all times of the day and asking him to spot his sword forms. First Aid had had to shoo him from the medbay more than once because he kept showing up with inane questions he just had to get answered right away. In person.
It was—touching, really. A little bit suffocating, maybe, but Drift didn't mind it as much as he probably should have.
He glanced down at his book and then up at Rodimus again, and caught him looking away. His expression was… huh. It wasn't often that Rodimus looked unsure about something.
"What is it?" he asked, and Rodimus' spoiler twitched violently. Drift stood and walked around the table. "It's clearly not an emergency. But it must be bad if you're having second thoughts about bringing it up."
"It's not bad," insisted Rodimus, defensive.
"So there is something." Drift tilted his head and waited, leaning back against the table. "You know you can talk to me about anything, Rodimus. Anything at all."
Rodimus nodded and sat down on the berth. He fiddled with his datapad for a bit, almost visibly casting around for something to say. "You really should try this. I know you don't like the Tankrunner books, but the one set in Nyon really isn't so bad. The roads are all the same. Wonder if the author ever lived there."
He was talking about his book. It was one of the many books Drift had bought at the Lost Light market. There had been a secondhand stall there with boxes full of titles that were popular among the Neutrals, hard-coded datapads that had been read and then discarded for resale. Drift had selected an entire box at random; the bemused Neutral running the stall had been happy to let him have it for a discount. Most of it was a mixed bag: drink making guides and panel-popper romances and translations of alien memoirs, but Rodimus had found some murder mysteries he'd liked. That made the box worth it, even if it wasn't quite what Drift preferred. But their tastes had never overlapped much.
"Perhaps some other time," he said, smiling slightly. Both of them knew Rodimus was stalling.
"Sure. I think you'll like it." Another spoiler twitch. Rodimus tossed the book onto the berth and leaned back on his hands, seeming completely at ease—to those who didn't know him as well as Drift did, anyway. The tension in his shoulders and biolight frequency was… not obvious, perhaps, but Drift knew what to look for. "I dropped by the medbay earlier. Y'know, just to see how everyone's doing; thought you'd like an update." Rodimus was looking everywhere but at Drift. "Pipes is doing alright, but he's still a bit, er, drippy. Ratchet's great, though, firing on all cylinders. He was fighting with First Aid about going back to work." He shook his head. "Classic Ratchet."
Drift was pleased to hear that, pleased and a bit concerned—he'd have to visit the medbay and bother Ratchet about it. Later. Right now he was rather more occupied with whatever it was Rodimus was still tiptoeing around. He was uncharacteristically nervous about this. How bad could it be?
Perhaps that was an unwise question to ask, given what they were carrying aboard the ship… but Drift thought that was unlikely. Rodimus would've been prompt—well, more prompt—with critical information. This was something smaller. More personal, perhaps.
He waited, knowing it wouldn't take long for Rodimus to break.
Rodimus squirmed in the silence. "This… ugh. I really thought I'd get more time to—I don't know. Butter you up? Warm you to the idea?" His hands were moving restlessly, and at butter he made a gesture like he was scrubbing something. Hm. "I mean. I don't think that would've made a difference, in the end, but it's been a while, and—"
He stopped. Rubbed at his optics. Vented out audibly. And then he sat up and looked straight at Drift, determined and pleading at the same time.
"I want you to drink from me."
Drift froze. To say he hadn't been expecting that would be an understatement. "What?"
Rodimus stood and began to pace. The words came out of him in a forced flood. "Look. I remember what you said the last time. This is the last time, Rodimus, I remember. But I miss it. I miss the feeling. I'm asking because I think I'll explode if I don't."
"I don't sound like that," said Drift, a little distantly. Those were his words, though. They'd been exploring the then newly bought Lost Light, still unlit and unheated; opening the doors through manual pressure overrides and using a camp torch to investigate interesting-looking rooms. Rodimus had been all but bouncing off the walls, talking about the Knights and their quest and all the big plans he had, and Drift had followed like a leaf carried in his wake, completely caught up in Rodimus' excitement. He'd been so warm and so bright in the cold dark ship that Drift had reached out first. Had he wanted a hug? Something more? He couldn't remember.
But he recalled how Rodimus' eyes had lit up like festival lanterns. Rodimus had pressed Drift's face against his neck, Drift's mouth a fingerbreadth from the energon line he always drank from… and he'd given in. He knew he'd wanted to stop, that he'd told Rodimus he wanted to stop.
The sense-memory of warm neck cabling against his mouth, of his teeth sinking through thin protometal—it was enough to make charge tingle in his jaw.
Rodimus was watching him very carefully, trying to gauge his response. "You do remember."
Drift raised a hand to one cheek-vent and kneaded at the plating, working the charge down to the conduit below his finials (so it didn't snap between his teeth when he tried to speak). "I remember every single time, Rodimus." Always hiding in a supply closet or a cargo container or somewhere nobody would find them. It wasn't something befitting a Knight, Drift knew, and he'd known back then, too. Not the way he indulged in it.
The first time had been an accident. They'd been 'facing, and Drift had gotten a little too enthusiastic with his teeth. He'd been so sure he'd fucked up. These were Autobots, they didn't do this sort of thing… but Rodimus—still Hot Rod then—had only howled in pain and delight and begged him to keep going. To "clean him up." And he'd been a menace ever since.
Though Drift couldn't argue he'd been much better behaved. There was something freeing about being able to indulge without worrying he was taking advantage of his status or reputation. (It helped that Rodimus enjoyed it as much as he did, and frequently sought him out to be syphoned from.)
"You hardly ever drank from me, even before the last time," said Rodimus, halfway between pleading and pouting. "Remember when you used to chase me down after missions? I'd have one cube down and you'd take half of it." A mournful little laugh. "And then we stopped. What happened? I thought you'd gotten over—whatever it was, with the file and everything."
"It was the Matrix, Rodimus," said Drift, hoarsely. All the energon in a mech's lines was activated by their spark—and Rodimus' Matrix (or half of one) interfered with that. Drift didn't know what it meant to drink from a Matrixholder, but it had edged a little too close to sacrilege for him. Once he'd learnt what happened to Rodimus, he'd distanced himself appropriately, even considered blunting his teeth—but Rodimus had picked up that something had changed, and he hadn't pushed. Not until that night aboard the Lost Light.
"The Matrix?" Rodimus looked skeptical. "I didn't think—does the Matrix make it taste weird? You liked it." He squinted at Drift's expression, took a few steps closer. "Oh. Ohhh. I see what the problem is." There was a dangerous little smile in the corner of his mouth. "You liked it."
Drift looked away and reset his vocaliser. "I did." He'd almost taken too much that night. Not so much he'd hurt Rodimus, but definitely past what he considered acceptable. Stopping had been so difficult it had unnerved him. For a moment there he'd felt the Matrix itself, half a core of burning light in Rodimus' chest, an insentient force he couldn't comprehend.
For a moment he'd been sipping at something immortal, and he hadn't wanted to stop.
He ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth and glanced up at Rodimus, now close enough he could smell the polish he wore. There wasn't a trace of his previous nervousness in Rodimus' expression or posture, and his eyes were a hungry saturated blue. His plating was even flared slightly along the seams, as if inviting fingers underneath. Drift would be irritated at the presumption, except… he had no illusions of being able to refuse him. Did he want to refuse him?
It was probably the wise thing to do. It was difficult to be wise with Rodimus smoothing his hands over his chestplate. "I know that expression," he said, voice low and gently teasing. "You're working yourself up about doing the right thing again."
What a way to put it. Drift huffed, the tension falling from him, his armour loosening from the unconscious clamp he'd had on it. "That's something you want to get worked up about, Rodimus," he said, unable to help his smile.
"True. Generally." Rodimus' hands had moved Drift's waist now, and he was drawing little circles along the red stripes. "I get wanting to keep this a secret. Autobots can get weird about it sometimes." He sounded earnest. "What I don't get is why the Matrix is a problem. You want it. I want it. And I'm carrying the thing. I promise it doesn't mind."
Drift vented out, long and slow. At least Rodimus had discussed this with him beforehand, and they were somewhere with fuel and a berth. He sent a lock command to the door, and Rodimus' head whipped around at the click.
This dance was familiar enough. Drift walked Rodimus back into a bare wall, cushioning him with a hand hooked into his spoiler housing. Held like this, he couldn't move unless Drift let him. He tended to wriggle a bit, and it was just easier—and less messy—to pin him first. "Lower this, now," murmured Drift, stroking the metal of Rodimus' collar. He transformed it down behind his chestplate immediately, tipping his head up to expose the cabling of his intake and the energon lines that ran alongside it. Drift was just the right height to fit perfectly into the hollow between chin and chest.
He angled his head and ran his lips along the minor lines in Rodimus' neck, the sensors in his teeth and tongue picking up the flow of spark-activated fluid beneath. "Percentage?" he asked, raising his head slightly, the word brushing Rodimus' chin.
"Ninety," said Rodimus, grinning, unrepentant. He'd come prepared.
Drift set a volume limit on himself all the same—old, old habit. He pressed his open mouth against Rodimus' throat, waiting a moment there as the heat from Rodimus' frame warmed him, and then his jaw closed, slowly, carefully. Rodimus let out a low keen. Heated line energon filled Drift's mouth, the same taste and potency as last time. He could feel the oscillation of Rodimus' sparkpulse as he swallowed.
It always stung a little, as his spark was the opposite polarity from Drift's own, but this time it was followed by something unique to the Matrix. A secondary burst of energy riding piggyback, brushing ghost fingers down the insides of his plating on the way down to his tank. He shut off his optics and focused on the fields around him. He could sense the Matrix burning in his periphery, and the energon in his mouth felt like an extension of it: like light, like fire, like the best engex he'd ever tasted. Being prepared for the sensation made it easier to handle this time.
The suction from each draw pulled at the punctures he'd made, keeping them from closing. He could feel the plating on his upper back shift in and out as he drew and swallowed. Rodimus shivered in his grip, scruffed too well to move, and his spoiler twitched to the rhythm of Drift's pulls on his throat. He was venting hard, each exhale capped with a soft cry from his open mouth. Drift moved his free hand to Rodimus' side and gently stroked his plating along the lines of his biolights, and Rodimus let out a loud half-sob, one leg kicking out convulsively and brushing Drift's calf.
His drinking grew slower and more shallow as he approached the limit he'd set, more sips and lazy sucks than the hungry deep draws he'd started with, waiting for the energon to fill his mouth before swallowing. It always ended so fast, but he couldn't complain—not with a tank full of warm fuel and the Matrix' heady energy coursing through him. He made a small, satiated sound in his chest, and Rodimus laughed, his voice thick with static. His arms had been slung around Drift's waist, and they tightened now, pulling Drift tight against him, pressing the lengths of their bodies together.
The volume limit warning went off. Drift sipped deep, not particularly wanting to disengage. Perhaps just a little more? One of Rodimus' hands slid up his spine and came to rest on the back of his head. Not pressing down, but not exactly encouraging him to stop, either. "Keep going," said Rodimus, still staticky, a little breathless. "You've gotta—ah—make up for lost time, yeah?"
Drift tightened his grip on Rodimus, pressing him into his hold. They were chest to chest, and he could almost feel the Matrix scalding him, caught between their sparks. The fuel in his lines hummed to its frequency—he'd never taken this much before. What was he doing? He had to stop. He needed to stop. He kept drinking, a few forceful and desperate last draws—
—before he forced his mouth away. He reactivated his optics and felt them burn from the surfeit of already-processed energy. Self-repair had kicked in with no pressure keeping the punctures open, and Drift watched energon leak sluggishly down Rodimus' throat until he felt a little more in control of himself. That had been—withdrawing had been hard. And his volume limit had barely helped.
"That's enough," he said, his voice rough from drinking. He let go of Rodimus' spoiler housing and wrapped his arms protectively around him. Syphoning always made him touchy and affectionate, and Rodimus was no exception. The warmth of his frame was always comforting, and knowing Rodimus was okay—it helped. He hadn't hurt him.
"Aw," said Rodimus, leaning heavily against Drift. Had he even noticed? He looked unsteady on his feet, but that wasn't new. Rodimus ran a high line pressure, and adjusting to the sudden drop in energon levels always took his systems some time. "Alright. Mmn." He beamed up at Drift, flashing that thousand-megawatt smile that let him get away with so much, and it made him look a little bit—drunk, almost. "We should do that more often."
Drift didn't say anything. The compulsion that had kept him drinking, Rodimus encouraging it… he'd need to think about it all before he could respond. For now, Drift just held Rodimus for a long, quiet moment, stroking his back, gently rubbing the base of his spoiler. Rodimus purred and arched clumsily into his hands, and Drift clutched him even closer.
"Have I mentioned. You know, the way you hold me by the—" and Rodimus gestured vaguely until Drift brushed his spoiler housing. "Yeah. Like I might run if you don't hold me down tight. It tickles something really good in the back of my head." This was delivered with such careful seriousness that Drift was worried, at first, and then Rodimus' meaning got through to him.
"You like being restrained," he translated, grinning, grateful for the distraction from his own mind. "Good to know."
For some reason, Rodimus' expression went soft at that. He brought a hand up and thumbed the corner of Drift's mouth—right over his cuspids, where he'd just smiled wide enough for them to show. "There they are. Such pretty fangs, and you'd hide them." He frowned. "And file them down. I can't believe you sometimes. If I see that file again I'm launching it into the next star we pass." He gestured towards the window, and promptly got distracted by the energon on his thumb.
Drift watched him examine it, his spark nearly hurting from the conflicted affection he felt. It must have been the energon loss, but drinking from Rodimus always made him sweet —and vulnerable, almost. Trusting. Still him, of course, but Drift treasured it, the idea that he might be the only person who'd ever seen Rodimus like this, been given this kind of trust. He knew Rodimus had sought out Neutrals and even Decepticons in the past, before he'd turned up, and he couldn't imagine Rodimus would've been able to let down his guard around them.
Rodimus sucked his thumb clean, and his eyes narrowed in contemplation. "Huh. Tastes kinda like… innermost energon, actually." He looked at Drift. "Roadbuster dared me to lick some off his knife once."
Drift couldn't help the slightly horrified laughter that left him. He'd worry about the implications of that eventually and at length, but not right now. "Alright. Enough of that. You need a nap." He began walking Rodimus to the berth, and helped him lie down. The book there went on the low table nearby. Rodimus was as sweetly biddable as he'd ever seen him, lying on his side and looking up at Drift. "Percentage?"
"Mm… Forty? Forty-one." Primus. Drift felt guilt crawl up his spine and add itself to the emotions tangled in his throat. "Stay, please?" Rodimus asked, trying to grab Drift's hand and missing. His optics were dim; his vision must've been blurry. Losing half the fuel in his system would do that. "Just until I wake up."
Drift caught his hand and squeezed it gently before letting go. "Sure." If anything, it would give him time to think. "Let me get my book, and I'll be right back."