"Drift! Get back here!" Ratchet snarled, bolting after the thin white mech. He had been in the middle of repairs when Drift suddenly exploded off the berth. He still had a few tools sticking out of his lower leg, the paneling held open by a clamp, but Drift was immune to the pain due to the interface patch Ratchet had installed.
Sadly, Drift had… Adverse effects to it. He zipped about th med lab and eventuall landed himself behind one of the larger berths, one clearly made for a mech like Fort Max. "Drift, I swear, if you don't-" The medic snarled as he stalked closer, going nearer and trying to reach across the berth to snatch him, but he was just out of reach. The two moved in tandem for a few moments; when Ratchet went left, Drift went to flee in the same direction, to keep himself on opposing sides of the large table.
All the while, the swords mech was grinning like a moron and winking at Ratchet teasingly. "Can't catch me~" He would coo every time Ratchet made a lunch for him. Letting out a snarl of frustration, Ratchet slammed his fists on the table, and it seemed to set something off in the hazed processor of his patient.
Drift pounced, launching himself over the table and latching onto Ratchet's shoulder, sending them both careening to the floor. Ratchet cried out in shock and grappled with the other white mech, but he was sleek and even faster than usual.
The two twisted and tumbled around, Drift laughing, Ratchet snarling, for at least ten minutes. Halfway through it, Ratchet's angry shouts evolved into still angry, but amused bursts of laughter and curses. Finally, systems heaving, they rolled to a stop, Ratchet pinning the smaller mech and sitting on his waist to keep him there. "G—Gotcha," He rasped, clutching his face and staring into his optics.
There was silence.
Then, without warning, they both exploded into laughter. Ratchet thunked his helm forward, nuzzling their forehelms together as rolling, heaving rounds of laughter left them both. Drift reached up to hold the medic's hands on either side of his helm, his vents heaving from the strain of the wrestling mixed with the mirth.