Summary: Ratchet's old man hands are cold.
Author's notes: I have no idea if the Lost Light is actually cold or not but pretend it is. My hands and feet are like 15 degrees colder than the rest of my body so now Ratchet must suffer too.
.o
Cybertronians were used to cold temperatures. They could survive in the vacuum of space with nothing more than stars hundreds of thousands of light years away barely warming their plating. That was why the Lost Light didn't waste energy on heating its floors. It was warmer than space itself due to its engines, the energy carrying some residual warmth through the ship, but most organic life might have found it very uncomfortable to live in.
Cybertronians were attuned to their temperatures, their spark providing most of the heat that warmed their energon and kept their systems operational in low temperatures.
Unfortunately, as Ratchet aged, his hands weren't beating to the same rhythm. Due to his hands' sensitivity compared to the rest of his body, they became aware of the cold more easily. Normally, it wouldn't be a problem for an old mech. Older mechs experienced poorer energon circulation to their hands over the millennia all the time. It just meant they might be a bit slower to heal in the servos, or the time it took to run a command to move them might be a bit slower. Sure, their hands would be colder, but it wouldn't be a bother. With a medic's hands, poor circulation meant those highly sensitive sensors were being agitated by the cold.
Drift stared at Ratchet, the poor medic looking miserable with his hands shoved underneath his armpits.
When Ratchet didn't explain himself, Drift reached out. "You okay?"
"'s fine," he grunted.
"Clearly," Drift nodded. He let them stew in a silence that was comfortable for Drift but uncomfortable for Ratchet. Ratchet broke first.
"It's just… Rodimus always keeps this place too damn cold. My hands are cold," he admitted, looking away as though it were something to be ashamed about.
Drift tugged at Ratchet's arms, forcing him to reveal those ancient, red hands. He laced his fingers through the medic's, redirecting some of the energon that recently passed near his spark to funnel directly to his hands, heating up his black servos. "You know he runs hot. But I can keep you warm."
"I can't go around with my hands tucked in yours for the rest of my life, kid," Ratchet protested, though he didn't bother to yank his hands free. His shoulders sagged, his joints noisily complaining from being held in an awkward position for so long.
"Just enjoy the here and now," he murmured, stroking his thumb over those cold hands. The anniversary of when they first met in Rodion was coming up in an orbital cycle. Maybe he could knit Ratchet some glass fiber mitts as a gift.