"Full medical check? Doesn't Rodimus know there's injured people here?" Ratchet glared at a somewhat sheepish Drift as he gestured to the prone forms on the other side of the medibay. Ultra Magnus still lay beneath the eerie glow of what Drift had earlier labelled the 'death clock'.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter." Drift removed the datapad bearing Rodimus' message from Ratchet's hands and turned away. Ratchet sighed.

"Get on the table, kid."

"But you just said –"

"First Aid and Ambulon are perfectly capable of taking care of the others. Besides, if Rodimus seems to think it can't wait, tonight of all nights, it must be important."

Reluctant, Drift perched on the examination table, dark fingers curling over the edge of it. The swordsmech was unnaturally subdued, and Ratchet found that it made him feel somehow uncomfortable. He busied himself checking the settings on his scanner, even though they wouldn't have changed since the last time he used it.

"Why do you even need this, anyway? You were in here this morning."

Drift shrugged. "You only fixed my legs," he offered, though it sounded more like a question than an answer.

"What, and that wasn't good enough for the third in command?" He scoffed as he took internal readings. His spark-rate was abnormally high, symptomatic of stress or high pressure. Though, he rationalised, today's events could probably account for that.

When there was no retort to his comment, or any reaction at all, Ratchet glanced up. Drift was staring at the ground, eyes glazed, his quietness almost unnerving.

They had all seen a change in him since they'd returned from Theophany, as much as he'd tried to mask it – a considerable amount of his usual cheerfulness was replaced with quiet scowls and scornful mutters. Of course that was to be expected, after what they'd found there, and what it had meant for the quest, for Drift; Ratchet suspected he, too, had played a part in it himself. But this was… something different. Instead of the shocked, upset or angry EM fields he'd seen in everyone else that day, Drift seemed to have… none at all. His expression, too, was blank, his body language unreadable.

It was as if he had gone.

Ratchet shook his head dismissively. Rung would probably say something about everybody reacting to this kind of trauma in different ways, and Drift, if nothing else, was different.

He allowed himself instead to focus on his work. After all the urgency and trauma of the day, a health check was soothingly routine and familiar for him. Going through the simple, well-practiced motions of taking and testing energon and coolant samples comforted better than a warm hug. Before long, however, the silence began to eat away at him. The only sound was the beep and hum of machinery on the other side of the room, too quiet to ease the silence stretched between them, long and full of tension.

"So, have you been getting enough fuel?"

"Yes."

"Plenty of recharge?"

Drift nodded.

"Any bulbs need replacing? Tyres? Corrosion or faulty wiring?"

A shake of the head.

"Seriously, why do you really need this check?"

Nothing. Not even a shrug.

"Well, if there's a big problem you should probably tell me before I find it. Maybe I'll let you off a bit easier," Ratchet teased, but Drift gave only a glimmer of a half-smile.

Resigned, Ratchet set his tools aside, resisting the urge to sigh. "Hold out your arms. I need to inspect your joints." He could feel the solemn blue gaze on him as he took the proffered arms, which somehow made it harder to keep his touch clinical, indifferent. And, of course, once he'd noticed that, it naturally became even more difficult. Swiftly, he rotated the elbow and shoulder joints, examining them, and again in the legs and feet. "Well, you seem to have no problems so far."

He glanced at the other's face, and Drift quickly turned his head away.

Yes, something was wrong – the question was, did he try to figure it out, or simply finish the tests and send him away? Would anybody else notice that something was up – or care, if they did? He wasn't exactly an expert on feelings… but then neither was Rodimus or Perceptor, the only others he could think Drift might turn to.

"Drift. Look at me."

Tentatively, he met Ratchet's gaze. There was a turmoil of conflicted emotions there, that much he could tell, and for a moment it stunned him. He wouldn't have seen it if he hadn't been looking intentionally. If Drift was this good at hiding his feelings, he thought, how much of that upbeat, cheery temperament of his was feigned?

Feeling suddenly out of his depth, Ratchet grabbed his small torch and the moment became an impromptu optical health test. Drift flinched from the light.

"Sorry. Just need to… check the condition."

But by the time that was done, Drift seemed to have folded in on himself even more, and now it was clawing at Ratchet's conscience. After an irritated huff, he cast aside the torch with a clang.

"Look, just – just tell me what's wrong."

Drift's mouth quivered, his face tight, optics holding a tempest. Then, in a single move, he simply reached up and hauled Ratchet down by the chest plate. It was so sudden that Ratchet didn't have chance to react before his mouth was captured by Drift's.

Drift was fierce, urgent – Ratchet merely uncomfortable, not least because they were in the middle of slagging medibay and he hadn't even had chance to check if there were others around. However, when there were no noises of surprise, snickers, or dropped tools, it was obvious that they weren't being watched. But still Ratchet felt awkward, frozen as Drift's tongue impatiently flirted with his own.

This wasn't right. It felt horribly right – the soft slide of Drift's tongue, the heat of him – but it wasn't. Not only because they were doctor and patient, which was a whole other issue, but because… well, Ratchet had spent the last year or so doing nothing but criticising, mocking, or insulting Drift. No, the medic was certainly the last person on the ship Drift should be feverishly kissing as though his life depended on it.

Pulling out of the unexpected embrace was difficult, especially when Drift tried to follow him, making a soft sound of disappointment when Ratchet stilled him with a hand on the flat white expanse of his chest. "Drift. I'm… I'm not what you need."

Drift's searching gaze became almost defiant. "You don't know that."

"Why? Why would I be?"

Drift regarded him solemnly. "Because… you've always been there. When I was at my worst on Rodion, and again when I was dying on Delphi –"

"Coincidence," Ratchet muttered.

"I don't believe in coincidence."

"I know." He folded his arms between them, and Drift waited, expecting more, but now was not the moment for this tired debate.

The white helm fins sliced the air as Drift bowed his head. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Everybody else I've ever cared about – hell, everybody I've ever known – has died, or left me, or… or they just don't care about me."

Ratchet wanted to argue that he wasn't exactly Drift's number 1 fan; to point out that Rodimus must care about him more, or Perceptor – but did he really know that? Perceptor hadn't really seemed very warm towards Drift, and Rodimus was… Rodimus. And, yes, deep down, buried beneath all the hard layers of sourness that had accumulated, despite everything, he did care about him. From the lost Guttermech to this flaky spiritualist who wanted nothing more than to please, to right his wrongs, to be known as something other than the ex-Decepticon.

To be accepted.

Ratchet struggled, caught by this realisation, chewing on useless words.

"I haven't exactly… done a good job showing that I – I mean, that you –" he gestured between them pathetically.

Drift looked up, the earnest expression impossible to look away from. "You saved my life in Rodion –"

"That was my job. How many times do I have to say it?"

"– and then you told me that I was special."

Ratchet couldn't argue against that. He was reminded of their story-telling session in Swerve's, Drift's admission that he "thought about it often enough." Not for the first time, he wondered how things might have turned out if he'd not said that, or said something else entirely, or forced the kid to go to the functionists.

"And again, on Delphi; yes, it's your job to save lives. But you didn't have to hold my hand and tell me that I was gonna be okay. Especially since I'd just… you know. Dent."

Yes, but Drift had been scared, had been dying. And what about all those times Ratchet hadn't comforted him, had instead sneered or shouted? And…

"What about – on Theophany?"

Drift's mouth turned down at the word. He shifted, twisted his hands together.

"I only reacted so strongly because of the situation. Seeing the city – seeing it –" he shivered, and Ratchet was surprised by a desire to soothe a hand over one of the agitated shoulders. He resisted, though, and after a moment Drift steadied himself with a shuddering breath. "And maybe what you said had some truth. Primus knows I… I wish I could be forgiven." He laughed bitterly. "Not that any of it matters now anyway."

Ratchet frowned. "Why not?"

At the question, a flash of something crossed Drift's face, leaving his optics round and troubled. "Oh… I didn't mean that."

He'd let something slip – being forgiven no longer mattered? An urgent full medical check the night of the Overlord incident? The strange behaviour, this… confession?

"Drift, what's happening?"

He scrambled off the table and too his feet, shaking his head, but Ratchet caught his arm quickly, gave him the trademark Ratchet stern look.

Drift seemed to wrestle with something. "I can't tell you."

But Ratchet was concerned now, his mind racing with possibilities. He really didn't want to believe that Drift was somehow connected to Overlord's presence on the ship, couldn't see that even being possible – why would Drift involve himself with something like that? And yet…

"Is someone forcing you to do something?"

"No," Drift said firmly.

"Is something bad going to happen?"

He hesitated now, rubbed his forehead with his free hand. "Look, just forget I said anything."

Normally he might have just let it go, but he couldn't shake the feeling that, in some form or other, something was going to happen to Drift. And as much as he complained about him, as irritating as the whole spirituality thing was… he didn't want to lose him.

He remembered the flash of the great sword, and of the determination in his optics, as Drift told Ratchet to lock himself in medibay earlier. He remembered the crash, and the slosh of the red rust as Drift collapsed after saving Ratchet's life at Delphi, having climbed all the way to the roof to find him, even though he was dying.

"Kid," he said, but no more words came.

Drift tried to pull himself from Ratchet's grip, but Ratchet tightened it. No. He wasn't about to let this slip away, not if something bad was around the corner. He watched him for a long moment, steeling himself, and then – the hell with it.

He pulled Drift – stupid, beautiful Drift – against his chassis and found his mouth with his own. The white swordsmech let out a noise of surprise, which quickly became a gratified moan as he clutched Ratchet closer, his arms tight around his waist as though he was never letting go. It was fiery and demanding, and just as intense as Drift himself.

In fact, so engrossed was Ratchet in the taste, the sweet smell of him, the warm slide of smooth armour against his own, he didn't even hear First Aid's squawk of shock.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are encouraged, but please be gentle. I haven't written in a long time so I already know I'm pretty rusty. :)