The first time Drift woke up, he fought it, and not only because he was still exhausted. Waking up would mean the end of this amazing dream he'd been having. He'd dreamed of getting Ratchet in the berth before but never in such glorious detail. In this dream Ratchet had kissed him, which was something Drift rarely imagined because he knew so little about it, but those kisses had been beyond amazing even before Ratchet had scattered them all over his body. When they'd 'faced, the medic had been more concerned with Drift's pleasure than his own and oh, Drift had drowned in pleasure. And it hadn't ended with just fragging. Ratchet had held him close afterward, held him like he was precious, like he mattered, and Drift had not only found the courage to finally tell the medic that he loved him, Ratchet had even said it back…

No, Drift did not want to return to a world where that was just a dream, and he shifted a little, trying to quickly drop back into recharge in hopes of catching it again.

But then he went rigid when the feel of a warm body against his abruptly told him that he wasn't alone.

His panic at finding out that he was in a stranger's berth was exceeded only by the sickening dread that swamped him at the sensation between his thighs, a just-discernable ache that he hadn't felt in a very long time and had earnestly prayed that he would never experience again.

A quick self-diagnostic confirmed that the barely-there ache in his valve meant exactly what he'd feared it had. No wonder Drift had dreamed of Ratchet–fantasizing about the medic had gotten him through many unwanted encounters, but who in the pit had he fragged after so many centuries of blessed celibacy, and for the love of Primus, why had he done it? Drift had sworn never, ever to defile his body that way again and he could think of nothing that would make him go back on that vow.

Unless he'd been forced… but that didn't make sense. His body only bore minor injuries and the feeling in his valve was definitely not pain, more of a slight, almost pleasant soreness. Drift apparently hadn't put up much resistance and they'd at least been gentle with him, but that left more questions than answers. The most important of those was why hadn't he fought this? His self-diagnostic had found no trace of drugs in his system that could have coerced his compliance, so how the frag had he gotten himself into this situation? Forcefully shutting down his battle protocols–no point in killing this mech before he could get his answers–Drift dared to open his optics just for an instant and see who was with him.

He caught a glimpse of a wide glass chestplate, one broad, strong shoulder, scuffed white plating bearing the proud red symbols of a medic–

–and he recognized the one thing in the universe that could make him willingly, eagerly break his vow of celibacy.

The mech he was sprawled all over was Ratchet. Reacting on instinct, Drift muted his vocalizer so he didn't wake the medic up with an entirely undignified squeak of disbelief that it hadn't been a dream. Luckily he managed it just in time–Drift didn't think his pride would ever recover from that.

… or had it been a dream? How did he even know he was awake now?

He squeezed his eyes shut–he'd always been a visual dreamer, and he focused on other senses now, praying with everything in him that this was true. He and Ratchet were entwined on a bunk more appropriately sized for a single mech, cuddling close the way he'd always wanted, and even more incredibly, Ratchet's arms were locked around him even in recharge as if afraid Drift would vanish if he let go for a second. His engine idled low with sleep but the tone of it was perfect, a sound Drift had memorized long ago. Even the medic's scent was right–oil and disinfectant and that indefinable smell that Drift had always associated with safety.

Still silenced, Drift cautiously dared to look again just to make sure. This time he shifted cautiously and glanced up. Ratchet's face, familiar to him as his own, was close enough to make him wonder if the medic had fallen asleep kissing Drift's helm. The last traces of terror left him to be replaced by a shiver of excitement as he gazed at that beloved face, lit only by the light of his own optics. Ratchet's normal scowl was softened with recharge, very nearly peaceful, but Drift frowned at the exhaustion evident in the pinched expression around his eyes and the tightness at the corners of his mouth.

… sweet holy Primus, that mouth. Memories made Drift shiver again, harder this time. In all the dreams and fantasies he'd had about Ratchet, and there had been many, he'd never once imagined the medic was that fragging amazing with his mouth. He could put trained pleasure-bots to shame with that glossa of his, and Drift could hardly believe that Ratchet not only knew such techniques, but that he'd willingly used them on Drift.

And that he'd so very clearly enjoyed doing so.

Or at least, Drift hoped he'd enjoyed it as much as he'd seemed to. It was still a bit hard for him to believe, and he would never forgive himself if anything he'd done had made Ratchet feel the shame and revulsion Drift used to feel when he'd been forced to kneel and endure having another mech's spike shoved down his throat. No, Drift hadn't asked for him to do it, Ratchet had volunteered, but that didn't mean that he hadn't felt obligated, did it? He stiffened again, his elation giving way to anxiety once more as he scrutinized his memories for any indication that the medic had been faking his willingness and pleasure.

Ratchet chose that moment to frown, optics still closed. "Drift?" he murmured, his voice crackling from a vocalizer that wasn't fully online, and the swordsmech realized with a start that he hadn't been dampening his EM field at all. He cringed–every instant of his turmoil had been bombarding the medic all this time. "You okay?"

Ratchet's field held nothing but open, affectionate concern, and that was all it took to reassure the swordsmech that everything was all right. No one who felt dirtied and used could possibly feel that much tenderness toward the one who'd done it to them. "–" Drift said, then remembered muting his vocalizer and reset it with a click. "I'm good," he said, voice a little hoarse.

Ratchet's frown deepened. That tone clearly hadn't reassured him at all. "You sure?" he pressed, raising a hand to stroke Drift's cheek.

Drift leaned into the caress. No one had ever touched him so tenderly, like he was something precious. "Couldn't possibly be better," he said softly, meaning it.

The medic's frown finally eased but didn't fully go away. Ratchet's hand slipped around to the nape of Drift's neck and pulled him firmly back down onto his chest. "Then go the frag to sleep and quit staring at me," he growled with familiar impatience, but his fingertips gently stroking beneath the edge of Drift's helm belied the annoyed tone. "We can't all be as pretty as you."

The touch and compliment combined to send a thrill through Drift's circuits. "Don't sell yourself short," he said, smiling now and likewise falling into old familiar patterns. "Surely you know that you're a very handsome mech, and your aura is nothing short of lovely. Looking at you makes me want to compose a hymn of thanks to Primus for the wonder of your exist–"

"I will offline you myself if you don't knock that slag off," Ratchet interrupted, swatting his aft and making Drift yelp, but Drift felt the warmth in his EM field and knew that his scowl was hiding laughter. Drift chuckled but didn't continue his teasing. The medic was clearly still tired and honestly, he was, too. He snuggled closer and wrapped his arms around Ratchet's waist, closing his optics with every intention of going back to recharge.

Ratchet spoke again before he could. Fingertips still stroking gently over his plating, soothing, he murmured, "You were–you were extremely upset." The question was implied, but Ratchet didn't outright ask, leaving Drift the option of whether or not to tell him why.

"I was… disoriented," he whispered, knowing that a better description would've been terrified and grateful that Ratchet hadn't used it. But he didn't want Ratchet to think it was because he'd awakened with any regrets about what they'd done together, so he swallowed his embarrassment and explained. "I haven't shared a berth with anyone in a long time, haven't done it willingly… well, ever. Wasn't sure where I was or who was with me for a moment. I'm sorry I didn't think to hold back my field. I didn't mean to wake you up."

Ratchet pulled him closer and rubbed his back. "I don't care about that. Drift, we don't have to recharge together if it bothers you. I don't mind moving," he murmured, his own field going very controlled in a way that made Drift almost giddy. If Ratchet truly didn't mind moving, there would be nothing in his field for him to hide.

"Didn't say that. You're the only one I've ever wanted to recharge with like this," he said honestly, nuzzling Ratchet's chest and inwardly thrilling that he was allowed to do so. Ratchet's field relaxed in an affectionate wave and Drift met it with his own, sending the medic his adoration and happiness without bothering to modulate it. "Love you, Ratchet," he whispered, still a bit disbelieving that he could actually say it at last.

"Love you too, you pain in the aft," Ratchet replied, dropping a soft kiss atop his helm as his field went soft and warm with his own contentment, his projections mingling beautifully with Drift's. "Now go to sleep or I'm gonna have to do something about you." And while that threat actually sounded pretty good to Drift, he wasn't selfish enough to keep his lover awake when he was so obviously exhausted.

"How about you do something about me when you're rested up?" Drift said, nuzzling the glass again and finishing with a soft kiss right over Ratchet's Autobot symbol. It made the medic shiver beautifully. He remembered Ratchet's teasing from before and grinned. "Because I've got plans for you and you're going to need your strength. I'd hate for you to fall asleep in the middle of them."

Ratchet chuckled as he pinched one of Drift's helm finials, although if he thought that was a punishment, the soft whir of Drift's cooling fans kicking on proved otherwise. "Pain in my aft," he grumbled again, and Drift fell asleep smiling.

The second time Drift awoke, that moment of fuzzy confusion was much shorter, and he remembered that he was with Ratchet before he even opened his optics. This time he kept his field under control and didn't stiffen or gasp, and Ratchet's EM projections didn't change from the slow, tranquil indications of deep restorative sleep. Drift lay still in his medic's arms, basking in the moment and almost overwhelmed with gratitude and joy.

But soon the proximity to Ratchet began to affect him as it always did. Drift curled his fingers into his palm, firmly telling that familiar want-to-touch that Ratchet deserved his rest and it would just have to wait until the medic woke up. Besides, I'm practically lying on top of him, he told himself, trying to shut down his rapidly awakening interface protocols by sheer force of will, although this position made that extremely difficult. I'm touching him plenty right now.

Memories of running his hands all over the medic's sturdy frame replayed in his mind, accompanied by the vivid auditory recollection of how Ratchet would gasp with pleasure when Drift would run his fingertips over certain transformation seams, or the sound of his moans muffled against Drift's own mouth as he kissed him like he could never get enough of it.

Definitely not touching him anywhere near enough right now, his protocols insisted, and it was a point of view that Drift was having significant trouble disagreeing with.

He managed to last several more minutes before admitting defeat. If he didn't get out of this berth, he truly was going to wake Ratchet up, and much as he would like to awaken him in a very special kind of way, right now the medic really did need his rest. The last few days had been tough on both of them, but Ratchet wasn't a warrior build, and he was older than Drift. It had been harder on him.

Plus, Drift could honestly use a little time to himself. This new thing with Ratchet was beyond wonderful, and the unexpected granting of every wish he'd ever had, but it didn't mean that he wasn't still nervous as hell about returning to the Lost Light or deeply disturbed by what had happened on the planet he'd just left. Looking up into Gigatron's face and being called Deadlock had dug up a lot of memories he would've much rather had stayed buried.

And knowing that Ratchet was aware of his Decepticon history was one thing, but being forced to relive it right in front of him was quite another. His thoughts churned and his body felt like it belonged to a stranger. He urgently felt the need to center himself.

But it was much harder than he'd expected to slither out of Ratchet's arms without awakening him. Ratchet might've been deeply asleep, but that didn't mean he was letting go of Drift easily. Twice he almost got away only for Ratchet to grab him and haul him right back into his embrace. The medic's determination to keep hold of him made Drift's spark sing, especially when he'd thrown his leg over Drift's the second time he'd nearly gotten free and mumbled something that sounded a lot like don't leave me.

Drift's chest ached with so much love, he couldn't understand how one spark could hold it all. "Never," Drift whispered, giving up on his plan of sneaking away–his lover was every bit as stubborn asleep as he was awake. "Never going to leave you, Ratchet, just going into the other room so you can rest a little longer."

Ratchet grumbled in his sleep, muttering something Drift couldn't quite understand but that still managed to clearly convey that he deeply disapproved of this plan. Drift smiled at his sleepy scowl and kissed the frown-line between his brows, and Ratchet finally let the swordsmech go. Drift slid off the berth, but he turned back at the last minute, unable to resist the urge to press another kiss to the center of Ratchet's chevron.

Ratchet swatted at him, still significantly more asleep than awake, but he also shivered in an extremely satisfactory way, and Drift made himself scoop up his discarded scabbards and walk out before he let his libido convince him that maybe Ratchet wasn't really all that tired.

The shuttle wasn't all that big, consisting of only a handful of defined areas–the cockpit, the berthroom, a small washracks crammed in beside the engine room, and the small cargo hold where they'd entered, which was empty save for a few smallish barrels against the far wall. Drift made quick use of the washracks–he would really have liked to have stayed in there longer, but the cleanser level gauge was broken and he didn't want to accidentally use it all before Ratchet got his turn. And maybe, if he was very, very lucky, Ratchet would let him join him when he took his shower, a thought that sent shivers through Drift's entire frame.

Trying to clear his mind of that too-tempting thought, he made his way into the hold. He retrieved his swords from the storage locker, smiling for a moment at Ratchet's admission that he'd fully expected to be stabbed with one of them for kissing Drift, and sheathed them. Then he lifted Wing's Great Sword and reverently checked it for any damage from the turbulent lift-off. Finding none, he went to the center of the hold and sank down into a cross-legged position, laying the Great Sword across his knees, and closed his optics to meditate.

Only to instantly remember that first kiss again–the shock of it, his disbelief, and how quickly it had turned into an explosively hot make-out session.

Shivering again, Drift resettled himself and tried to clear his mind. It worked for a few minutes, but this time the image that distracted him was the sight of Ratchet lying between his thighs, looking up at him with the devil's own grin and kissing the center of his interface panel, shamelessly holding his gaze the whole time.

Drift's fans kicked on as his panel started to heat up again. He vented slowly and deeply, trying not to get caught up in the memories. Acknowledging distractions and gently dismissing them, that was the way Wing had taught him, and Drift tried his best, he really did. He was even successful in his efforts for a while, but for every few minutes of calm, centered, open-minded presence in the current moment that he managed, he spent many more distracted by increasingly heated recollections of just what he and Ratchet had been doing a few hours ago.

Most of them centered on the medic's spectacularly talented mouth.

Drift caught himself licking his own lips now and opened his eyes. Wing had also taught him that sometimes sitting meditation didn't work, and that wasn't a failure. It simply meant that he needed to be present in his body, not only his mind, and there were ways of accomplishing that.

Standing in one smooth movement, Drift kissed the center stone of the Great Sword and returned it to its place on his back. Then he drew his two normal swords, centered his awareness just below his spark, and fell into the familiar opening stance of one of the longer and more advanced Metallikato sword forms. It would take all his concentration to perform it properly within this confined space, but that was exactly what Drift needed. He vented slowly, closed his eyes, and extended his awareness outward from his body's core to the corners of the room–not looking at the space he occupied but feeling it.

He moved.

Slowly at first, his motions almost more dance than attack, Drift's blades wove invisible patterns in the air. He became aware of his own Energon flowing within him, from the tips of his auditory flares to the bottom of his pedes. He felt his innermost Energon warm and safe around his spark. He kicked low, then high, blades weaving around his leg, feeling the flex and give of the metal mesh over his protoform, the contrasting rigidity of the plate armor above it, and the currents of the air he disturbed with his movement. Optics still offline, he concentrated on moving silently between those invisible currents, and the stirring of the air lessened even though his own motions quickened. Less was better, but none was best, and Drift submerged his consciousness in the effort to move more smoothly, more silently, more perfectly.

He only came back to himself when he felt the weight of optics upon him and caught the faint scent of fresh cleanser, but he was too well-trained to allow that to make him stop. Metallikato was more than exercise or fighting style. It was a form of worship and was therefore to be treated with proper honor. Once a form was started, it must be finished–to abandon it would show disrespect, and there was still a third of it left. Everything else would just have to wait until he completed the sacred moves.

But Ratchet did nothing to interrupt, even keeping his EM field to himself as though actively trying to keep from disturbing Drift. The respect warmed him, a brief rise of the emotion in his mind, then allowing it to slip away again. Drift didn't pause or online his optics, merely acknowledged the fact of his audience and adjusted his movements accordingly to ensure that his blades did not come too close, his kicks and punches would not harm him, that nothing he did would put that precious, beloved spark in danger.

Drift flowed with the patterns more smoothly than ever now, as though protecting his lover somehow gave him that final edge of focus he'd never found before.

When the form drew to a close, Drift crossed the blades over his chest and bowed his head in reverence. He was venting fast but his body was at peace once more, calm and familiar, and his mind was finally quiet–yes, this had been exactly what he needed. He finally sheathed his swords in one smooth motion and onlined his optics at last.

Ratchet leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, and Drift had never seen such frank admiration directed his way before. He didn't know what to say–the medic was an atheist, and right now Drift's mind was coming down from the spiritual plane. Anything he said might make Ratchet pull away, which was the last thing he wanted.

But Ratchet didn't wait for him to say anything. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he said softly, straightening and staring at Drift with awe in his optics. "You almost make me believe in Primus."

Drift started to duck his head, embarrassed, but something made him stop. He held Ratchet's gaze and smiled, and if this made Ratchet angry, well, it was still the truth. "I didn't believe in Him until I met you, but you are the one true miracle I've ever known, Ratchet. You have saved my life in every single way."

Ratchet stared at him for a second, visibly stunned by that. Then, to Drift's complete surprise, the medic coughed and looked away, as embarrassed as Drift had felt only a moment ago. "Wasn't a miracle that night in Rodion," he said gruffly. "Just Orion Pax in the right place at the right time, and me doing my job."

Drift stepped closer. "What do you think a miracle is?" he asked gently. "Orion Pax being there at the right time to bring me to you, and you being willing to expend so much effort on a worthless leaker like me when anyone else would've said it was too late and let me die–if you ask me, both those qualify as miraculous."

Ratchet looked at him again, mouth quirked in the little half-smile Drift had always secretly adored. "Trying to convert me, kid?" he asked, but without heat.

He shook his head. "Can't imagine you as a worshiper of Primus," he admitted, although he had his own theories about why the medic was so passionate in his condemnation of the gods. He privately thought Ratchet actually did believe in Primus, believed with all his spark and was angry, furious with Him down to the depths of his being, because no god who allowed so much suffering to continue deserved his belief.

But now was not the time to say that, if there ever would be a time for it. Now Ratchet's optics were regarding Drift with an intent expression that he had only just learned how to interpret. "I'd much rather worship you," Ratchet growled, already reaching for him.

But Drift, his reflexes razor-sharp right now, got there first.

He caught Ratchet's hands in his and kissed him hard. Ratchet groaned and responded eagerly, lips parting and welcoming his glossa inside. Drift took one step forward, then another, crowding Ratchet with his body. He didn't stop until the medic's back hit the wall, pressing his body firmly against his lover's, pinning Ratchet's hands beside his shoulders. Ratchet's field blazed with approval of his aggressiveness and Drift kissed him again just as deeply, this time drawing Ratchet's glossa into his own mouth.

And then he closed his lips around it and suckled it just like he would've done to a spike.

Ratchet gasped out an unintelligible curse, his fans switching on and bypassing half the lower-range settings. Heated air washed down Drift's body as he pushed his knee between Ratchets and kicked his pedes shoulder-width apart, then slid his thigh boldly up to rub against the medic's panel. The heat of it against his thigh armor kicked his own fans higher. Drift finally released his glossa only to turn his attention to his lover's throat. One sharp nip had Ratchet gasping, and the next made him moan aloud, field throbbing with desire.

Ratchet pushed against Drift, tugging at his hands, but Drift didn't let him go. A spike of heat rocked Ratchet's field and he tried again, pushing harder this time, and the medic was much stronger than he looked but Drift had leverage on his side and kept him pinned. The instant Ratchet knew that Drift wasn't going to release him, a shudder shook his entire body and his field went positively molten with excitement.

It was beyond intoxicating.

Ratchet ex-vented in a rush and his head dropped back to allow Drift all the access he could possibly want. "Oh frag, Drift, please tell me what I did to provoke this so I can do it a whole lot more," he groaned as Drift bit his way down the strong column of his throat.

Drift laughed softly against his neck as he nibbled at the medic's collar assembly, still a little damp from his turn in the washracks. He was sad that he'd missed his chance to join in but there was always next time. "You did all the work last night for me," he murmured, not lifting his head so Ratchet would feel every movement of his lips sliding over his plating. He pressed his thigh harder against Ratchet's heated panel for emphasis. "How about this morning, you let me give you a good time?"

"There's not–ahh–not a winner and loser in this," Ratchet panted as Drift went back to his biting, which the medic seemed to enjoy quite thoroughly. "If you think I didn't have a good time, you really weren't–oh frag right there–weren't paying attention."

Drift rocked his thigh against Ratchet's panel and nuzzled along the medic's strong jaw. "Oh, I know you did," he whispered, remembering the absolutely glorious expression on Ratchet's face when his overload had hit. That, more than anything else, had been what had tipped Drift over into his own fourth overload when he would've bet anything that there was no way he could possibly overload again. "But I think it'll be worth your while to try what I'm planning."

Ratchet shivered and pressed harder against Drift's thigh. "Think I already told you," he said breathlessly. "Whatever you ask for, I'm going to say yes. That didn't come with an expiration date." When Drift looked up, stunned, Ratchet smiled and gave him an outrageous wink. "Doesn't only apply to the berth, either."

The thrill that shot through Drift at that nearly undid him completely. For a long moment, all he could do was stare. Then his lips moved before his processor could stop them and Drift's deepest and most impossible wish spilled between them. "Be my conjunx endura."

He instantly regretted it. He wasn't even close to worthy of that from anyone, much less a mech like Ratchet. But Ratchet's optics flared and his smile went fierce. "Yes," he breathed before Drift could take it back. "Yes, Drift, yes!" And he dragged the speedster into his arms, lifting him entirely off the deck and spinning with him, laughing out loud as though he couldn't contain his joy.

Drift caught Ratchet's head in his hands and stared in mingled awe and disbelief at the happiness on that usually stern face. "You–you mean it," he whispered, stunned to the depths of his spark. "You really mean it, don't you?"

Ratchet squeezed him tight and kissed him soundly. "You bet your sweet aft I mean it," he growled against Drift's lips. "And you better have meant it too or I'll–"

"I meant it," Drift said quickly, feeling a jagged flash of anxiety slice through Ratchet's overjoyed EM field. His instant reassurance soothed it away. "I meant it, I definitely meant it, Ratchet, I just… I never thought you'd say yes and I can't believe you actually just did."

Ratchet finally put him back on his pedes and pressed their forehelms together. "Are you kidding? Of course I did," he said firmly. "And I'll keep right on saying yes until you believe it, you stubborn slagger. I never thought I'd get to even kiss you, and now you ask if I want to keep you forever? I may be a rusty old son of a glitch, but I know a good offer when I hear one."

"Don't talk about yourself that way," Drift snapped, poking him in the side and glaring–he hated hearing the mech he loved beyond all reason insult himself. "And let's not pretend that I'm some great catch. You're a legend, Ratchet, you could do so much better than–"

"Finish that sentence and see what happens, I fragging dare you," Ratchet growled, and Drift was stunned as Ratchet's field echoed the exact same displeasure he'd felt when the medic had belittled himself. "You want to know what matters to me about your past, Drift? Yeah, you started in the gutters, so the frag what? It wasn't your choice to get dumped there by your makers, and you clawed your way out," he said, his optics burning with intensity as they held Drift's. "Not one mech in a thousand manages to get free of the Dead End and you did. And yeah, when Megatron offered you a place, you took it. What were you supposed to do, lie down and die? When you realized that the Decepticon cause was wrong, you changed. You remade yourself again. Do you know how few mechs have the strength to admit they made a mistake like that, much less defy the entire Decepticon army to correct it?"

Ratchet cupped his jaw in one of those famous hands and caressed his cheek with his thumb, his voice gentling. "I don't care if anyone else can see how brave and strong you are, I still see it. I still admire it. If I wanted some kind of trophy mate, I'd have taken the Rite with Pharma, but I don't want some perfect, shallow berthwarmer. I want the mech I love. I want you." He smiled gently at the look on Drift's face. "So tell me, how could I do better than getting exactly what I want?"

And Drift couldn't take it another minute. He grabbed Ratchet and kissed him, pouring all his love and passion and amazement and gratitude into his field. The medic moaned into his mouth and replied with his own field, overwhelming Drift in a wave of desire and adoration, all capped by so much happiness that it couldn't possibly be contained. "Love you, Ratchet," Drift gasped when he broke away, scattering kisses and little bites all over the medic's neck and shoulders. "Primus, I love you so damn much, and I can't believe how blessed I am that you said yes."

Ratchet moaned and bared his throat for Drift's attention. "Then get me to the berth so I can keep on saying yes to you," he groaned, and the swordsmech laughed as he very happily did as he was told.