Written on June 19th, 2012.
It is only when he feels Ratchet's steady hand against his that Drift realises that the most precious thing that Wing taught him was awareness. Lying on an unfamiliar berth, in an altogether harrowing place, and facing the threat of death—Drift knew that he was afraid. And it delighted him, in a way, to know that he was utterly, completely, and sincerely terrified. So Drift laughed, and the tired old medic shook his head, thinking the impetuous turncoat knight delirious from illness.
It was not that he had not been afraid before—only that he did not know what it was or what to make of it. When he was Deadlock during those long stellar cycles ago, fear was masked by layers upon layers of rage and bitterness, buried underneath a longing for a purpose—and an undeniable lust for something unattainable.
Before Wing, he never realised.
What it was that he truly wanted, who he wanted to be—and what it meant to be afraid.
To be afraid meant he still wanted to live, to continue to want more, to carry on doing, acting, changing—transforming.
So he smiles when Ratchet gives his hand a reassuring, desperate squeeze, "This is familiar. But I don't think I'm going to make it. So do me a favour, if the DJD really are coming for me—" His auditory receptors were barely functional, and his optics no longer focused, but he already knew Ratchet's raspy, unimpressed response. Shut up, you fool. Don't insult me with your weak pretences, your irritating, insecure bravado. I know better than that. I know you, whether I want to or not. Whether you want me to, or not.
"I'm afraid, Ratchet. I'm spark-stoppingly terrified. You're going to think this is dumb—and it is, but I've been afraid this entire time—of the DJD, of this entire mission, of Rodimus thinking ill of me, and I think, I might have done it for him—Primus, I'm such an idiot, right?— and frankly, I'm pretty sure I'm afraid of you—"
Ratchet surprises him then, cupping the younger mech's limp hand firmly but tenderly in both of his own and raising it to his faceplates, and mouths gently, quietly against it: I know. So shut up, already. Making my damned job more difficult than it already friggin' is. Drift's strained spark, weary from fending off his further deterioration, tightens and twists in his chest. The dim awareness of Ratchet's scowl pressed up against the back of his palm floods his already foggy processor with a painful overload of emotion. Ratchet's kindness—despite the doctor's own reservations, despite his personal dislike of the stammering, idiotic mess of a bot who was once a ruthless, insatiable murderer—is sincere, earnest, artless.
Ratchet's compassion cuts right through the core of him, and makes all of his circuity seize involuntarily with fear. He's reminded of Gasket, of Wing—and of the pain of having lost them. And he's painfully aware: Of having wholeheartedly lived and shared incommensurable moments that were taken away from him. Of his own deliberate distance from others despite his gratitude for their kindness, despite his own desperate yearning for acceptance and connection. Of being afraid of dying, and of wanting. So. Much. More.
"Sorry," he has to quip weakly, managing to curl his fingers in another show of mock courage. "I'm sorry." He's repeating himself now, over and over and over, apologising for being terrified and for terrorising and for wanting and for being weak and for hiding and for not knowing himself—apologises until the gears in his voicebox grate against each other and he can no longer apologise with words. He fades out of consciousness and Ratchet remains there for a few cycles longer than he really has to be, his hands still pressed against Drift's all the while, steadfast and true.
—
Drift shuffles quietly into the med-bay on the Lost Light when he's recovered, and waits sheepishly by the doorframe until Ratchet deigns to acknowledge him before speaking. His spark jumps when the doctor turns and grimaces when he recognises him. There's that fear again, and this time, Drift finds that he's not quite so thankful for it.
"I..."
"Does it look like I have all cycle, Drift?"
The way Ratchet spits out his name impatiently shouldn't comfort him, but it does. Of all the things the medic chooses to call him: it's his name—the one of his own making. Ratchet doesn't have to, but he does; there are so many other things he could say—cruel, but not undeserved things: Decepticon, brute, murderer, fool—but instead he calls Drift by the name he wishes to be called.
"No. I just... wanted to thank you. I know what you're going to say—that were just doing your job. Don't think anything of it, and... I know. But I wanted you to know that it means something to me, that you saved me. Twice. That you found ... someone like me, worth saving, despite everything. So thank you."
Ratchet rolls his eyes, and turns back to his work. He tinkers for a bit, waiting for the swordsman to leave. He calls after him just as the door shuts.
"You're welcome, Drift."