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The shuttle engines hummed; the vessel prepared for atmospheric entry, its steel frame vibrating subtly as it pierced through wispy layers.
According to Perceptor, the blue-hued planet below was completely benign, with little to offer when it came to noteworthy landmarks, its thoroughly cloudy atmosphere perhaps being the nicest thing about it. The energon deposit that supposedly sat untouched upon its surface was a curious point of interest, one that Rodimus had almost sent someone else to investigate before he'd realized he could whisk Drift away so that it would just be the two of them.
Nothing like an hour or two on a strange planet with his crush.
Silence had reigned for a few minutes.
Rodimus' gaze kept flicking to Drift, who was comfortable in the co-pilot's seat. Because, of course, the captain had insisted on piloting the shuttle; that was a given. His digits tapped a restless rhythm against the controls, getting a little faster with every stolen glance toward Drift's serene profile. He'd counted seven distinct scratches on the co-pilot's console just to avoid staring too long at the way light refracted through his friend's long finials.
The gears turned in his processor as he searched for a non-embarrassing conversation starter, lest the silence drag on to the point where it would drive him mad. The glow of planetary entry bathed the cabin in mystifying cobalt light. He watched as Drift shifted slightly with a smooth whirr of his hydraulics, his gaze turned away, observing swirling patterns within thick cloud layers: the very aesthetic, signature characteristic of this planet’s sky.
There were a lot of glimmering opaque clouds. The shuttle’s descent through them would have been blind, had their radar and scanners not functioned.
Drift's optics then suddenly snapped toward Rodimus, their piercing blue glow cutting through the cabin's dimness like one of his swords and catching his friend off guard. The captain barely withheld a flinch, jerking his gaze to the altimeter and pretending to be interested in its display. In reality, the readings upon it were a blur to him, as he could not bring himself to focus even if he’d wanted to.
He realized that if he did not want to look awkward, it was now or never.
"Y'know," Rodimus blurted, grin flashing too wide in Drift’s direction, his frame becoming defensively rigid, "if the atmosphere's stable, which it absolutely is, I could totally pull off a few intricate manoeuvres through those fancy cloud spirals."
He pointed enthusiastically in the direction of the viewport, bringing attention to the clouds in question even though there was hardly a need. It was all that they’d been looking at for the past ten minutes.
Drift’s helm tilted slightly. He looked somewhat amused, the hint of a smirk tugging at the edges of his intake. When he leaned back, the sleek edges of his finials caught the cabin’s low light, gleaming in soft blue and warm mauve. His voice was a measured, calm tenor. Rodimus could listen to it forever.
“You mean show off ,” he corrected, optics narrowing with fondness. He was not immediately turning down the idea, which was a good sign, but not necessarily definitive.
Rodimus shot an exaggeratedly wounded look in Drift's way. "Show off’s such a loaded term. Call it… application of my highly unique skill sets," he countered, feigning nonchalance. The way his spoiler perked just a little higher upon his back was somewhat of a tell, however. His craving for even a sliver of Drift’s approval was betrayed so easily by his demeanour. “Don’t… don’t tell me you really want a regulations-approved descent. What did we even come here for?”
Drift studied him for a moment. There was a faint hint of warmth in his optics as his gaze lingered on Rodimus’ spoiler—that damned tell —before it flicked back to fix on the viewport once more. The shuttle rocked very slightly while it soared through a particularly dense cloud layer, the turbulence producing a gentle rattle upon the hull.
“Fine, but I want spectacle ,” he said then, with a vague gesture toward the rippling atmosphere outside. His tone held that recognizable undercurrent of someone who had witnessed—and enabled —too many of Rodimus’ reckless stunts to count. His amusement and curiosity was undeniable at this point, as was the challenge that he was posing.
Rodimus loved a challenge. Everyone knew that. Impressing Drift in the process was just a bonus.
He felt the familiar thrill that struck his fuel lines, like it was a live current. His helm snapped toward Drift in full, optics brightening to an enthusiastic cyan. “ That I can absolutely deliver.” He grinned with great confidence, with a gleam in one iris as his digits flew between switches across the control panel, manually overriding their descent protocols with a recklessness that Ultra Magnus could easily lecture him about for a whole day. “Hold on to your blades, ‘cause this is gonna be fragging epic .”
The shuttle pitched sideways. Drift observed the way he worked the handlebar, which admittedly looked far from inexperienced. Not that Drift would have ever doubted his piloting skills, but he was aware that most would not have trusted Rodimus with aerial stunts. Or any stunts, for that matter.
The viewport spun into a kaleidoscope of cobalt cloud spirals as Rodimus threw them into a barrel roll—predictable, perhaps, but a classic move not so easily pulled off nonetheless—centrifugal force pinning them both to their seats. His victory laugh echoed through the cabin, melodic and alive .
Drift could not keep his optics off of him. He should really have been looking out the viewport and enjoying the scenery, but that proved too difficult when he preferred what was right in front of him.
Rodimus was having an absolute blast, like it had been eons since he'd last been so deep in his element. He tugged the controls just a little more energetically; and the shuttle clipped through yet another dense, spiraling cloud formation, its reflective vapour shearing off the wings in glittering arcs. Every calculated risk he took was a flex—throttling up to scrape the stratosphere before diving nose-first.
He glanced sidelong at Drift, prompting their gazes to meet, and lock involuntarily.
Drift tried to anchor himself against that electric blue gaze by gripping the console before him, a little too hard.
Clouds fragmented against the viewport in a manner not unlike shattering glass, casting the cockpit in prismatic light that fractured across Rodimus’ plating, illuminating the angular planes of his helm.
Drift’s finials dipped slightly as he witnessed that. So much for the grounding techniques that he’d practiced in meditation, all of which were now steadily crumbling under the growing hint of want in his spark.
“You’re going to,” he began, in an earnest attempt to keep his voice steel-calm with the kind of restraint he always wore like armour, “get us killed.” his admonishment was undermined when he smirked. “Eventually.”
Rodimus’ grin only widened at that. “And what a way to go, right?”
The shuttle banked hard when Rodimus yanked the controls. For a second, the motion caused their frames to tilt toward one another, close enough for the heat of Rodimus’ engine to be felt against Drift’s plating. The proximity startled a flicker of adrenaline within Drift’s fuel lines. He processed that for a moment, making an effort to center himself once the vessel leveled again.
“Optics forward, Captain ,” he said quietly, as it was now his turn to stare at the altimeter. A moment went by in silence. When he spoke again, it was quieter: “…for now.”
Rodimus picked up on the subtle inflection in Drift’s words. He let the shuttle stabilize, going back to its gentle descent through dense atmosphere and ever lowering visibility. His grip on the controls subsequently relaxed, though not without a single digit still tapping restlessly against the handlebar. His smirk was all mischief.
“‘For now?’” he was not about to let that go so easily, leaning back in the pilot’s seat, exaggerating the casual manner of his action. “So there’s a totally hypothetical scenario where you want me to stop watching the controls? Maybe… focus elsewhere?”
Drift had not been prepared to elaborate on that just yet, although he only had himself to blame for even saying it in the first place. Once again, he kept his gaze fixed on the displays before him, despite making no effort to actually read them. Yes, he echoed in his mind. Focus on me . He was not sure whether the thought was worthy of shame.
Drift’s silence lasted just a fraction too long—which was enough time for Rodimus’ grin to soften into something surprisingly genuine. The steady sound of the shuttle’s engines was almost too loud in the cabin whilst the air tensed gradually between them. The captain shifted in his seat, abandoning all pretense of piloting. His unrelenting gaze burned into the side of Drift’s helm.
“Hypothetically,” Drift finally conceded, attempting to keep his tone neutral even as the pointed ends of his finials warmed faintly pink. Rodimus’ optics tracked the shift, with a gleam of hunger in them. “Not that you require encouragement to be reckless .”
Rodimus saw this as an opportunity to lean closer, steadily closing the gap between their seats, all the way until his knee deliberately brushed Drift’s. “But hypothetically ,” he pressed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial near-whisper as he loomed over his companion, “Say I do take my attention off the controls… where , exactly, would you want me to focus?” He tilted his helm. That gleam in his optics grew a little brighter. “And be specific.”
Drift’s tongue darted over his lip plating once, before he could stop it. Dangerous. Everything about this was—he could hardly describe the way Rodimus’ proximity made his own spark spin faster. “Rodimus,” he warned. But the response died before it could leave his vocalizer as the captain’s servo abruptly settled over his own upon the console.
“C’mon,” Rodimus coaxed, leaning in until his face plates hovered right over Drift. He tried to use his confident demeanour to mask the speed at which his fuel pump was going. “Just the two of us… there’s no witnesses… hah, if Magnus was here, he would—"
A jagged bolt of something —crystalline, by the sound of it—slammed into the shuttle’s hull with a shattering, resonant crack . The impact jolted the vessel, and by extension its two pilots, sideways with merciless violence. Hull breach alarms went off immediately, the cabin lights flickering under strained power provided by suddenly damaged components, the bright red lights an omen if nothing else. Controls sparked under Rodimus’ digits. Screens flashed warnings.
HULL BREACH DETECTED. ATMOSPHERIC INTEGRITY COMPROMISED.
“Frag!” Rodimus exclaimed as he attempted to steady himself, lurching back to grip the shuddering controls. The shuttle veered into a wild spin as they soared unchecked through an uncharted atmospheric anomaly. Whatever this was, it hadn’t been on Perceptor’s damn scans. Or the shuttle’s own radar. Though, chances were they’d just failed to notice .
Drift braced against the console, his servo instinctively closing around Rodimus’ forearm. “We can still stabilize it—!”
“Working on it!” Rodimus snarled through gritted teeth, wrestling the shuttle into a nosedive. “Tell me later about how you secretly love near-death experiences!”
Another impact. This time, an engine was directly hit.
Drift’s grip tightened on Rodimus’ forearm.
The shuttle spiraled in a nosedive, tremors shaking the cabin, alarms turning into static as every system failed one by one. Rodimus’ digits flew across the controls, attempting to reroute power, but the damage was spreading too fast. There was nothing he could do. The horizon tilted madly through the viewport—clouds, sky, all whisking by too fast until the uneven rock formations beneath came into view.
“Brace!” Drift shouted, though he wasn’t sure if Rodimus could hear him over the din.
The power went out completely then, the lights along with it.
Drift’s processor raced faster than the shuttle’s descent. In the sudden, terrifying blackout, his optics attempted to adjust—what was milliseconds stretched into eternity as his tank churned with the bitter tang of regret. Not like this. The thought seared his spark as he instinctively twisted toward Rodimus, reaching out blindly. His free servo found the edge of Rodimus’ chest plating, digits curling into seams as if he could physically tether them both to survival.
Rodimus, in pure defiance, still gripped the controls. Drift could hear him curse. He stared at the distinct silhouette of Rodimus’ profile, his optics so bright even now, their cyan light cutting through the dark.
Had he ever told him how unbearably alive he looked in moments like these? How the sheer audacity of his grin could sometimes outshine the glow of all the stars in a galaxy? No. He'd never told him anything. He’d stubbornly resigned himself to restraint, buried his want, resisting while Rodimus would unknowingly claw through his resolve with every little thing he did.
The shuttle jerked violently, throwing Drift’s helm back against the seat. Pain bloomed across his spinal strut. Rodimus’ arm tensed under his grip. No time. No fragging time . They had to—
A deafening impact. Scalding heat. Then—nothing.
When Rodimus’ optics came online, the first thing he saw—and heard—was the burning of the wreckage around him. His HUD supplied alerts about critical damage and compromised systems, a bad sign before he could even acknowledge what they said. But the pain —Primus, the pain was a white-hot harpoon searing through his neural net. He glanced down, nearly choking at the sight of sharp, jagged bulkhead plating jutting from his waist, its edges glowing with the pink of his energon. That same energon dripped in steady rivulets down the shrapnel, pooling all the way beneath him on the ground.
Move, he told his traitorous frame. Move or die.
His servo scrabbled against the warped remains of the shuttle floor. Every twitch of his abdominal cabling sent fresh waves of dizzying glitches across his already fracturing vision. “Nnngh— frag this—frag this planet —” He moved his arms weakly to brace both his servos either side of him. “Three… two… one—!”
The scream that tore from his vocalizer was barely his own. It was harsh, guttural, a sound that would’ve made even the likes of Ultra Magnus flinch. The metal resisted, agonizingly slow, tearing further through his plating and delicate inner workings as he levered himself upward. Maybe this was not the smartest course of action, but he was desperate.
The world around him tilted, blurring in and out of focus.
He collapsed forward the moment he was free, energon gushing from the now gaping wound. His knee smashed into a shattered console, but the fresh pain barely registered over what he was already going through. “Drift—?!” He managed to ground out, desperate, terrified. No answer. Just the creak of dying metal, sparking wires and the crackle of the fire that slowly ate away at it all.
Rodimus shook. His trembling servos found purchase on a support beam, hauling himself to his feet, his legs barely able to carry his weight. The empty pilot’s seat stared back, smeared with pink. Someone’s energon, either his or... Drift’s absence gnawed at him, more painful than the hole in his midsection.
He could not help but fear the worst. The crash had been brutal. It felt like a miracle that he was still alive, even if his remaining time was perhaps short.
He stumbled forward, running on sheer stubbornness and desire to find Drift alone, his processors fogging with intermittent static. Each step sent fresh tremors through his entire frame, as he had to try and avoid getting his feet caught on debris; if he were to stumble and fall, he was not so sure if he would be able to get back up. The mangled remains of the shuttle’s interior surrounded him, among the planet’s indifferent rock formations, standing upright like gravestones.
“Drift—!” Rodimus tried again, his voice crackling, strained, raw from the struggle. No response.
He clutched his wound with one servo. Energon seeped between his digits, glowing pink, viscous and alarmingly warm. His HUD continued to assault him with warnings: Critical fuel loss. Seek immediate medical attention. He swiped the alerts away and snarled. Priorities: find Drift. Then panic.
Much easier said than done.
His knee joint buckled. He collided with a shattered slab of bulkhead, his helm snapping back against bent plating. Pain flared behind his optics—this… was bad . He could not go any further like this. He slid to the ground, vents heaving; when he coughed, it was accompanied by a splatter of energon. His spark pulsed erratically. Not like this. Not without—
A shadow moved at the edge of his blurring vision.
“Rodimus,” came Drift’s voice—wavering, urgent, blessedly alive .
Rodimus squinted upward as Drift dropped to one knee beside him, the swordsmech’s frame haloed by flickering firelight. Although he was better off, he’d not made it without his own injuries; a diagonal gash scored Drift’s left shoulder, his once-pristine white plating smudged with soot and streaks of energon.
Drift's optics fixed on Rodimus’ injury. His spark lurched at the grim sight of it. His usual composure had long dissolved—for a moment, his servos hovered uselessly, trembling as his vocalizer stuttered to say something, anything. “ Primus … Rodimus—” He swallowed hard, teeth grit, forcing calm into his tone even as his processor suddenly reeled . This is my fault. The thought of self-loathing shattered, however, as he witnessed Rodimus cough again, energon flecking his chin.
“Wow… you look like… you’ve seen better days,” Rodimus wheezed, the attempt at humor falling flat as his helm slumped forward.
Drift didn’t dignify that with a response. Carefully, he shifted to kneel behind Rodimus, his own injury protesting the movement. He hesitated—briefly, achingly—before sliding one arm around the captain’s trembling frame, avoiding the gruesome wound. “Don’t—” His voice broke. He reset his vocalizer, the effort leaving it brittle. “Don’t speak. Conserve energy.”
Rodimus stiffened at first, then went slack against Drift’s chest, giving a shaky ex-vent. Drift's chin brushed his helm before it settled upon it lightly, their closeness a mockery of the playful, daring moments from before. Now, Rodimus’ plating felt too cold, way too cold, his spark pulse faint and his frame so fragile. Drift’s free servo found Rodimus’, interlacing their digits with a gentleness that belied the panic clawing at his entire being. “Stay… stay with me,” he commanded through his growing despair.
He knew that there was so much more he could have said, should have said, but that was all he could manage.
Around them, the fire burned in mockery, the shuttle settling into its resting place. Drift’s optics darted frantically across the wreckage— medical kit, anything —but all he saw was ruin. His grip tightened. “They’ll send a medic. They'll send Ratchet,” he tried to sound reassuring, but he was uncertain of the truth behind his words, as he had no proof to back up his claim. He did not know if their distress signal had even activated. He did not know if his comms had made it through that deceptively thick atmosphere. He hoped, he truly hoped that they had been received, but the reality of it was that not knowing was more terrifying than the prospective certainty that they hadn't.
He'd not heard anything in response from the Lost Light. He’d kept trying, but there was nothing. Not yet.
Rodimus’ helm fell to the side, against his shoulder, and Drift pressed his cheek to the captain’s audial, his ventilations shallow in panic. “Look at me. Come on, look—!”
Rodimus’ optics were dimming, his usual bright cyan reduced to a faded cerulean. His servo twitched weakly in Drift’s.
No.
Drift’s vents hitched. He shook Rodimus once—lightly, desperately, to try and keep him awake.
“I’m fine… totally just… need a nap,” Rodimus managed to speak, although the words were slurred, laced with static. The taste of energon was strong on his tongue. Distantly, he knew how bad of a sign that was. Still, he found a smirk, even as his frame jolted with another wracking cough. “‘Besides, you look way worse. Your finish… total scrap... paint’s… smudged.”
Every word was a struggle. Drift whispered a prayer, as if he could physically will Rodimus’ spark to keep burning. The metallic scent of spilled energon filled his vents with every breath. He wanted to scream. To fight something, anything, but there was no enemy here. Just cold inevitability.
“Idiot,” Drift tried to hiss, but the sound was more like a sob. His thumb brushed over Rodimus’ knuckles, smearing luminescent pink across the cold metal. Anything and everything he could say would be drenched in resignation to the fact that even now— especially now—it was impossible not to love him. That was the irony. “This isn’t… this isn’t how it ends.”
Rodimus’ vent hitched—a miserable, glitching sound—before he gave a laugh that dissolved into a cough. “Stop being… so dramatic, I’m—... I’ve survived way worse… you romantic types… always over-exaggerate.” Another cough.
Drift’s processor scrambled to recall every medical practicum he’d ever observed—Ratchet’s gruff instructions he’d done his best to remember, all the way to his own battlefield patch-jobs on fallen Decepticons, none of which felt remotely applicable here. Rodimus’ injury was the kind that required a skilled medic, which Drift absolutely was not.
Yet he tried. He had to try.
With a steadiness he had practiced tirelessly over many years, Drift repositioned Rodimus to lie flat. Rodimus did not protest when his servo pressed against the grisly tear in his midsection. The energon flow had slowed—a small mercy, although almost insignificant. Too slow. His tank’s breached.
Ratchet’s voice echoed in his memory. Direct pressure. Don’t let him move. But Rodimus was trembling uncontrollably, his systems slowly failing. Drift’s servos hovered over the wound, his processor screaming at him to act—but how?
“You’d better—” Drift’s vocalizer glitched the words out. Whatever joke he was about to make was destined to fall flat, because he could never hope to match Rodimus’ charm. “—not die just to spite me.”
Rodimus chuckled weakly. “Wouldn’t… dream of it.”
The uncertainty of that statement was painful on its own. The grin that Rodimus still had on his face was heartbreaking.
Drift put all his strength into tearing a panel from the nearest bulkhead, working his shaky digits as fast as he could to shape it into a makeshift compression clamp. This would have to do. Primus, I should have paid more attention during triage. But the alternative was watching Rodimus bleed out, something he’d never forgive himself for doing.
He secured the metal over the wound, praying it would stem the loss. Rodimus jolted with a strained whine.
“Hurts,” he rasped, his optics darkening momentarily.
“I know. I know.” Drift smoothed a servo over Rodimus’ helm. The motion smeared soot over ruby red and citrine yellow. You’re still cold. His own shoulder also ached, energon still seeping from the gash, but the sting was so distant, so irrelevant; he simply could not fathom paying any attention to it right now. Every alarm in his HUD blared about Rodimus’ fluctuating vitals: depleting fuel reserves, system malfunction alerts, a faltering spark signature. The numbers blurred.
The clamp seemed to help, even if only by a small margin. But only time would tell if this contribution was meaningful.
Rodimus’ servo lifted to grip Drift’s wrist. “Hey… at least now I’ll match your… dumb sword aesthetic.” He accompanied the statement with a crooked grin. “Scars. So… cool.”
The laugh he managed to get out of Drift in response to that was brittle. “You… cannot be serious.”
Rodimus felt like he was fighting a losing battle against the steadily creeping static. The sky above was streaked with ash and smoke, enough of it to blot out the swirling clouds beyond, or… maybe that was just his vision unraveling. “You think… they’ll get here fast enough?” The question came out smaller than he’d intended. His usual cocky certainty was now shredded, and he just had to deal with it. “Ratchet’s… he’s gonna be pissed… heh. About… your shoulder…”
“They’ll come.” The stalwart reassurance was all Drift could reasonably manage. I won’t let them fail you . I won’t fail you. But the perpetual emptiness of the horizon was terrifying. No engines. No signals. Seconds ticked by, too long, too many of them, every single one feeling like an hour. There was just silence, save for the creak of cooling metal accompanied by Rodimus’ labored ventilations.
For him, Rodimus put all the energy he still had left into staying online. “If they… don’t … just… make sure they put ‘Died being incredibly cool …’ on my coffin or whatever…” A tremor ran through his plating. “…no sad slag… no sad— ”
“Stop.” Drift cut him off and leaned over him, his own frame trembling, his bright blue optics lit with despair, a hundred prayers. “You’re not dying here. You’re not—”
Rodimus’ optics narrowed, but he was still smirking even as his energy was on the verge of running out. “Then why… are you making such a scene?” His gaze softened when their optics met. “…you’re crying, you know.”
Drift’s vents faltered. He touched his face, digits coming back wet with coolant tears that in all the turmoil he’d not even realized had been rolling down his cheek plates. The reality of that almost snapped something inside him.
His optics darted across the wreckage again, taking note of how the flames surged closer, how hazardous components and volatile fuel scattered all around them, meaning that any minute, something could react and blow. There was no choice—they had to move.
He gripped Rodimus’ arm and hauled it over his shoulders as gently and carefully as he could, leveraging his frame against the dead weight. Rodimus bit back a pained grunt as the movement jostled his wound, the clamp nearly slipping. Energon bloomed fresh across the makeshift bandage.
“Easy—easy. I’ve got you,” Drift tried not to panic. His voice was strained. Every step stabbed agony through his own shoulder, but he used it to sharpen his focus. All that mattered to him was Rodimus.
They stumbled over twisted metal. Ash swirled in their wake, the fire’s heat licking at their backs. Drift’s vision tunneled to the uneven entrance of a nearby cave, something that seemed to be plentiful among these rock formations. Shelter. Distance. Survival.
Rodimus’ helm fell forward against his neck. “Drift…?”
Drift faltered. The cave entrance loomed, its shadows a fragile promise. He lowered Rodimus against the rock wall, their plating scraping. Rodimus’ optics flickered—dim, liminal. Irreplaceable.
A servo rose to Drift’s cheek, tracing coolant streaks that just kept coming. “Why’re you…?”
The words lodged in Drift’s throat. Because I should have told you. He cradled Rodimus’ helm, thumb brushing the Autobot sigil. “Listen to me. I—”
THOOM.
The shuttle’s engine exploded, a violent, concussive wave hurling debris into the cave and sending tremors through the earth, toppling and shattering less stable mineral structures within the vicinity. Drift threw himself over Rodimus as rock rained down, fortunately not enough to do anything other than scrape and dent his plating further, but it was still jarring. Then there was deadly silence once again.
When Drift lifted his helm, Rodimus was unconscious.
The confession lodged like a shard of quantum glass in his aching spark.
Drift sat, frozen, servo still pressed to Rodimus’ cheek. He couldn’t look away from his captain’s face—so still, so splashed with energon that looked almost ethereal in its low luminescence, amplified by the dimness of the cave.
Secure a perimeter. Check for injuries. Conserve energon.
It will be fine. It will be okay. Words that sounded hollow.
Helplessness. Something he’d not felt since the worst moments of his life. He’d prided himself on his self-discipline, his control, yet here, nothing worked. Words turned to ash in his mind. Every prayer to Primus was fractured into fragments, fragile, useless. Panic he hadn’t known in eons creeped up his spinal strut in waves. What use was faith if it failed to give him this? If he—
Ah. The irony. He’d faced death countless times, and all he could do now was bow to it. Another failure. Another—
That was when his optics caught the glimmer from deep within the cave. The same earthy cobalt-toned stone gave way to strands of glowing, pure crystallized energon that threaded through the walls. Their discovery, the very reason for them being down here. It likely spanned for miles underneath them.
Now it meant nothing to him.
All the energon in the universe could do nothing for him in his predicament. It could never replace his closest friend slumped here—more than that—barely alive. If he didn’t make it, if their friends didn’t find them in time, then what was any of it worth, truly?
If anything, he wished this entire place did not exist. This awful place.
His frame shuddered. Energon still dripped from between his digits as he pressed them carefully around the clamp again. Scarcely a touch, and yet he could sense everything. He hated how cold Rodimus had become. He could not accept it as reality. But reality loomed, indifferent.
His digits tightened against his captain’s arm. A vicious anger flared within him, fuelled by deep self-loathing. If I had only been more careful. If he had not fed into Rodimus’ impulse earlier. If he’d told him he’d wanted this sooner. Anger —at himself, at the planet, at everything. Then, debilitating grief. Then, harrowing guilt. Then, promising a thousand things if Primus would just show mercy .
He bent until their helms touched, whispering, rough, unfiltered, “You can’t leave me. Not like this. Not like this .”
The radiance of the nearby energon crystals was a cruel juxtaposition to the situation. The deposit was large, pristine—exactly what they'd hoped to find. Drift could not bring himself to pay attention to it. All he wanted was for Rodimus to open his optics and make some smug remark about "embracing the adventure."
He adjusted the clamp again, unsure of how many times he’d done that by now. The cave's chill was oppressive, although not as much as the icy dread in his spark. Had it been minutes? Hours? Drift felt like he was suffocating, listening out for Rodimus’ vents, watching the colour of his plating as if observation alone could prevent it from turning grey.
If he dies here, it’s because of me. The thought kept clawing at him like a beast. This wasn’t some battlefield gamble or calculated risk—this had been indulgence. Letting Rodimus show off, letting himself want . He’d been weak, and now—
A faint whirr. Then static. Then... voices .
His helm snapped up. For a moment, he thought the delirium of exhaustion was twisting the wind into echoes. But no—there it was again: the unmistakable roar of thrusters. An airship signature blinked on his comm link. It was not a fabrication of his mind. It was real. He almost sobbed.
Urgency.
Any second spent sitting there waiting would be time wasted.
He stumbled to the cave’s entrance and shouted.
His voice broke through dead air. The crystal formations refracted the blazing lights of the descending shuttle as it cut through ash and smoke cast by their original vessel’s miserable remains. Ratchet was the first on comms, frantic. The medevac’s hatch was open the moment it touched down. Drift turned back to the cave where Rodimus lay. Rodimus, who was still silent. Still cold.
“Hang on,” Drift spoke to him in desperation. He rushed back to his side, servo finding Rodimus’ pulse point. Alive. Barely. “They’re here. They’re here—Rodimus, I need you to hold on for a little longer… okay? …for me?”
But Rodimus could not hear him, let alone answer.
Drift’s optics stung again with tears. He cradled Rodimus close, barely aware of the others’ approach, or the way Ratchet’s voice was nearly unrecognizable with panic as it echoed in his audials. The world became a haze of white noise.
Still, he prayed.
Through the fog, Drift registered Ratchet's harsh orders, what he believed was a gurney beneath them, some kind of pressure on his own shoulder. Then Drift was being pulled away, still reaching, still yearning, fresh panic surging as he realized what was happening. “Let me stay with him! Primus —Ratch, let me—!”
“You’ll kill him if you hover. Out of the way!” Ratchet’s snarl was laced with terror. Only then did Drift fall silent.
The neat walls of the medevac shuttle did not feel any less heavy than the uneven ones of the cave.
"The audials on you—!" Ratchet's usual ire cracked like frozen glass. He shoved Drift aside once more, his focus fixed on the mess of energon and copper wiring protruding from Rodimus' midsection. First Aid was already there, efficient with procedure as always, preparing a transfusion line.
A lot was said. A lot was done. Drift processed so little of it.
First Aid worked fast, his servos sure even in the chaos. Ratchet, on the other hand, swore so viciously Drift could only reel from the noise of it. Orders barked again and again. Panic was there, but none in their motions. “Don’t. Fragging. Die. On. My. Table.”
Ratchet’s frame blocked Drift's view.
Excluded somehow, even when he was right next to them.
Drift's own frame threatened to give out. Something pressed beneath him. A seat. When he looked down, he realized his own damage and energon loss was perhaps worse than he’d imagined. Probably. He'd not read his HUD alerts. Someone had patched his shoulder, but he had not even noticed. His spark felt like it would extinguish, but realistically he knew he would be fine.
His optics never left Rodimus. Even as they raced skyward against time, avoiding the anomaly that had taken them down. Even as sheer exhaustion claimed him, he fought the static creeping at the edges of his vision to keep Rodimus within sight at all times, never faltering. Not once. One promise echoed like a beat. A sacred aria.
This was not over.
The hum of the Lost Light 's medbay was loud enough to drown out Drift’s ever racing thoughts. Before, he’d had trouble thinking at all. Now, it was all that he was doing, and it was a world of torment. He stood rigid at the edge of the room, finials low, plating still smeared with ash and dried energon. Ratchet hadn’t ordered him to leave. Not yet. But the medic’s silence was more terrifying than anything else.
Megatron’s voice echoes over the comms, bypassing Drift entirely as he spoke to Ultra Magnus somewhere down the hall: “The deposit is secured. Perceptor confirmed it’s the largest vein he’s catalogued in centuries.” There was a small pause, before his deep voice followed in a quieter tone: “How is Rodimus?”
Drift’s fists clenched. The deposit. The fragging deposit . Perceptor’s giddy update to Magnus two hours prior had called it “revolutionary” —enough raw energon to power the entirety of the ship for excitingly long amounts of time, or whatever. The crew’s muted celebrations in the corridors felt like mockery when Ratchet hadn’t stepped out of surgery in six hours.
Six agonizing hours.
No one acknowledged Drift. Not even when his knee buckled, forcing him to brace against the wall.
He was only able to read Ratchet's frustration. The way his servos tensed. The huff he made when he was distracted by yet another alert on a monitor. The presence of First Aid brought forward an ease, however. When the CMO stepped back, exchanging a glance with his assistant, Drift could take it no longer. He strode forward, and Ratchet finally faced him, looking as worldweary as Drift felt.
A pause. Ratchet's tone was dull. "He'll live."
"Tell me that he'll recover ."
Ratchet was never one to play around with words. "Recover? He almost didn't. He’s borderline comatose. You want me to recite technicalities?" With that, he pushed past Drift like he was not even there, presumably to find some high grade.
First Aid was calmer, more diplomatic, as usual, in his attempted quest to offer Drift some reassurance. "The physical damage can be repaired. Function will come back. But… the spark. High stress events can have… unique impacts.”
Drift should have felt relief. Instead, numbness set in again, like a blanket too heavy. His optics flicked beyond First Aid, attention shifting to Rodimus’ motionless frame on the medberth. Lines and sensors webbed over him like a spider's thread, while his plating was clamped open, exposing a dark hollow where his spark pulsed slow and faint. So close to the edge. Drift envied Ratchet’s ability to just walk away.
He'd not moved, not until Velocity had to nudge him to get his own injuries properly treated. Frag that. But he conceded, if only so they would stop pulling him away. They barely spoke. Words felt wrong.
When he found himself in the medbay lot after an indeterminable time, still refusing to leave the premises, a familiar voice called him back.
Ultra Magnus’ heavy footsteps were recognizable from a mile away; the sound of his voice snapped Drift’s gaze toward him. The commander’s expression was as unyielding as ever, but the subtle furrow of his brow betrayed… concern? Disappointment? Drift could not quite tell, so he braced himself. Whatever was coming, he deserved worse.
“Procedure dictates,” Magnus began, his voice brittle yet controlled, “that in the absence of leadership, the third-in-command must—”
Drift had no patience for procedure. Not when he could not bring himself to return to duty, not if it meant leaving Rodimus. The words blended together into noise, once again sliding off his processor like water from the back of a swan. His position as third in command would obligate him to step into a role he had no interest in having. He’d filled temporary positions before, but none such as this—
“—but considering present circumstances, it’s been collectively decided that this role would… burden you beyond the parameters of reason. Megatron, you’ll be pleased to know, has volunteered to share the workload, in tandem with myself. If that’s alright with you. Drift? Are you listening?”
Drift struggled to even process the words. “Yes. Whatever is needed. Thank you, Magnus.” His voice was mechanical. He did not care. Let Megatron take the reins. He was already a captain of sorts anyway. Let him. Let anyone. It had little to no relation to his current line of thought. All he could see on the back of his optics was Rodimus trembling in pain and suffering right before going dark.
It took him a moment to realize that Magnus was still hovering even a minute of silence later.
“…It was not your fault, Drift.”
But Drift’s silence was answer enough. He did not even attempt to correct Magnus.
Days blended together in the suffocating monotony of the medbay. Drift almost never left; only to recharge when he managed to bring himself to do so—which was not often at all—or to take his rage out upon the training grounds. He counted the cadence of monitors, the steadying pulse of Rodimus’ spark—nowhere near its usual vibrancy, but growing stronger. Ratchet’s absence was conspicuous; he’d deemed Rodimus “stable enough to stop breathing down my neck,” which Drift translated as cautious optimism.
The signs were good regardless.
Others came and went. Velocity was too kind to comment on Drift's haggard state. First Aid worried aloud about fuel intake and mandatory rest, but the words passed by Drift like the stars through the viewports. Megatron’s presence was a looming shadow that lingered at the threshold once in a while; even the former warlord appeared hesitant to intrude. If he had anything to say, he kept it to himself.
The only one who dared confront the swordsmech directly was Ratchet, and even he would tread with uncharacteristic care.
“Eleven days,” Ratchet stated from the doorway late one day, arms crossed. “You know he’d hate to see you run yourself into the ground like this.”
Drift did not shift his gaze from the medberth. His optics were dim, his finials drooping. “He’d call me an idiot and then do the exact same thing.”
Ratchet gave a subtle snort in response. “…Fair. Still, recharge is a necessity, not a suggestion.”
Drift knew Ratchet was right.
When Rodimus stirred back online, it was sudden, unexpected—a twitch of his servo, a faint groan. Drift snapped upright from his slouch in the chair, finials high, spark surging, his frame running on sudden unexplained energy. Ratchet had warned him the captain’s first moments back would be disorienting. Nothing prepared him for the ache of watching Rodimus fumble for the medical leads stuck to his chest, optics bleary and unfocused.
His name escaped Drift’s vocalizer in desperation and the hope that this was really happening. He was there by the berth in an instant, gentle digits closing over Rodimus’ wrist to still his movement. “Stop, you’ll… It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
The tremor in his voice must have been so obvious. He grit his teeth.
Rodimus’ vents hitched; for a second, he had to squeeze his optics shut, finding it a challenge to handle all the alerts his HUD deemed of importance. His free servo rose instinctively, reaching toward the sound of that familiar voice, as he attempted to focus on that instead. “What… the hell… happened…?”
Drift’s thumb traced circles against his wrist cables. The ghost of a smile threatened to break the tension that’d been building over cycles. He could barely contain his relief, his desire to just hug Rodimus, but his voice came out calm and soft, even despite the waver in it. “You… didn’t die being ‘incredibly cool.’ You just got knocked offline being incredibly reckless. Again.”
Solace.
“But at least we won the crashing contest, right…?” Rodimus’ charming humor would never be contained. Not even in near death.
Drift didn’t realize he was crying until Rodimus’ digit swiped at the corner of his optic. His frame fell forward, his face plates ending up pressed against Rodimus’ chest, so that he could listen to the resonance of his spark, that which he had been so close to losing. He was barely aware of anything else until Rodimus’ arms curled around him, weak though they were. “Hey… I’m still here, okay? You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
That was all it took for the dam to break.
If Rodimus minded Drift’s broken, erratic sobs shaking his healing frame, he said nothing. He simply let him cry while he traced gentle, careful patterns along the his spinal plating. Vent in, vent out. For however long they, or the universe, would allow it.
Even exhausted and in pain, Rodimus found a way to keep Drift grounded. Always. Something Drift had never dared to admit.
“I’m sorry,” Rodimus’ quiet voice broke the sound of Drift’s crying. His digits toyed with the sharp edge of Drift’s long finial. It was an intimate gesture, although he was quite possibly unaware of the significance of it. Drift’s vents hitched, not induced by his current state, but Rodimus did not comment. “For making you carry me like that. Must’ve internally and… externally destroyed your… very cool finish.”
Drift’s arms tightened around Rodimus, but only gently. His fear of hurting him was apparent. “I’ve borne worse loads,” he said in a broken whisper, failing to keep his voice steady even as he attempted to stifle his sobs. “But I’d prefer… I’d like you to be more cautious. If you can help it.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s worth it. Got you to fuss over me.” Rodimus’ wink was noticeable to Drift from the corner of his optic.
Drift choked out a laugh—inelegant and yet sincere, always sincere. Despite the guilt that lay dormant for now, twisting somewhere in his subconscious waiting to resurface, the warmth blooming across his spark managed to dampen it, if only temporarily. He moved to lift his helm, unsure. Once again, Rodimus had succeeded in making his emotions unpredictable. Cruel as ever.
Rodimus craned his neck to see Drift’s face. The usual sky blue of his optics had been dimmed by exhaustion. A few small splatters of energon upon his frame had not yet fully been washed off. His plating was still scratched, giving the impression porcelain about to crack. He looked so vulnerable that it made Rodimus falter. The joking façade momentarily fissured.
“…for the record. I don’t plan on— y’know—leaving. Ever. Unless forced. Or… shot into a star. But even that wouldn’t kill me, really. Sounds like fun, even. So. Yeah.” Rodimus' intake quirked into a small smile. His way of comforting others may have been unusual, but it worked. Right now, it worked, which was a relief; Rodimus could tell that Drift blamed himself, but he was entirely unsure of how to approach the subject. Eventually, he'd have to, but not now.
Serenity.
Drift rested his helm on Rodimus’ shoulder with a shaky ex-vent, closing his optics. The words he’d tried for so long to voice sat like a chunk of obsidian in his throat. He wanted so badly to say them now, but there was hesitation; even now he was tormented by that festering hesitation, despite it being the exact thing that had almost taken his chance away permanently…
What if this was not the right time?
What was he waiting for?
Before he could dance around it—
“I love you, too, weirdo.”
Drift’s systems almost malfunctioned, sending confused diagnostics into his HUD. His ventilations seized, then hitched again, having barely recovered from his earlier crying. What he'd heard just now, he was wholly certain that there was no way he could possibly misinterpret it.
He willed himself to pull back enough to see that infuriating, knowing smirk. He could barely form a coherent response. “How did you…?”
Rodimus’ optics were gleaming with mirth. “C’mon. Coolest mech you’ve met? Zero subtlety.” He raised a shaky digit to tap Drift’s cheek. “And… the way you looked at me before the crash. Had me tilting…”
Drift’s finials went hot with a rush of energon, his spark spinning in a flutter as he tried to process that. “…you… cannot … be serious.”
“Believe it or not. Been wanting to mention it. Surprised you hadn't picked up on it. But how do you tell your best friend you’ve got it real bad? I play it casual. Like. Super casual. Obviously. Maybe crash a shuttle for good measure while distracted by his dazzling optics.”
Drift remained stunned whole-heartedly. Despite the odds, he had been read so transparently, and through his own clouded affections… the recklessness this admission invoked was unmatched. This—recovering together, legs tangled on a medberth made for one, so much going on between them—was so very comforting. It just felt extremely right.
In that moment, he refused to restrain himself any longer.
Brash and fast, he pressed his intake to Rodimus’. It was a fleeting, delicate collision. Any bolder and he would have been afraid of causing pain, of doing something wrong, of ruining something. But even that single bit of contact sufficed, their sparks dancing in time, resonating in unison. For a while, all Drift could focus on was this sacred moment…
Rodimus' optics brightened with pleasant surprise, then softened, his intake parting in a breathless laugh as Drift pulled back just enough to observe his reaction. The proximity was electric, excitement lingering from the kiss even though it had been short-lived. For once, Rodimus seemed momentarily speechless, a rare vulnerability which he felt comfortable showing Drift, and only Drift. His thumb brushed the edge of Drift’s jaw, before moving to trail the straight edge of his finial with tenderness some would have thought him incapable of, this time perhaps truly considering the significance of the gesture.
“Mmm… honestly, I expected you to completely lose all your zen and do something crazy. That was… not the case.” Rodimus drawled playfully.
Drift couldn’t, for once, resist the dare in his tone. Without a word, he kissed him again, slower, revelling in the warmth of his exhale, and the fact that he did not feel so exhausted for once in so many days. In response, Rodimus hummed enthusiastically into the contact, his free servo sliding up to grasp at Drift’s back, pressing him down with as much strength as his healing frame could muster. Which, as it turned out, was not a whole lot of strength at all, but Drift shifted closer regardless.
They broke apart only when Ratchet finally returned. Clearing his throat, grumbling under his breath, he quashed their moment even if he may not have truly wanted to. Rodimus made a show of it by pouting and complaining, but Drift was entirely appreciative of the gentle bat of Ratchet's servo to the back of his helm. If only for the stable, familiar comfort of it. As Ratchet descended into passive-aggressive check-ups and chiding that Rodimus would never escape, the captain simply tugged Drift’s servo into his own and refused to let go.
Throughout numerous visits over the next days, any attempt by Drift to step away even momentarily were met with a dramatic clutch at the chest. “Ah! My broken frame… only cured by Drift snuggles…”
The jokes and taunts were a paper-thin cover for Rodimus’ lingering fear of Drift being out of his sight; he worried too much about Drift's state of mind. Even so, Drift had no complaints with his needy attitude. He could never possibly mind that , even if he was not so sure he deserved the attention. Not even when Velocity shot him apologetic looks. He wanted to stay with Rodimus. The anxiety of the crash and its aftermath would take time to erase, and yet, whenever Drift’s guilt and self-loathing resurfaced, reproaching him for his role, one glance at Rodimus’ lopsided smile or hearing his incessant chatter dissolved it all into something small and ignorable.
In moments like those, it felt good to want .
The energon-rich planet now faded into the darkness of space beyond the viewports, left behind, a distant memory. They were cruising away from it at last, returning to their grand voyage. Drift had forgiven it, if one could even do something as strange as forgiving a planet. He had never bothered to learn the name Perceptor had given it, or hear his theories on the anomalous coalescence that had taken their shuttle within the atmosphere. He'd forgiven it all and left it in the past, where it could continue to exist.
Doing so was much easier than forgiving himself, after all.
With time, the incident would become another footnote in their reckless tale—though in the quiet moments, when the observatory deck was empty and only the two of them remained, Drift would notice the scar on Rodimus’ midsection. A prominent ripple across his bright red plating that, according to Ratchet, would never be fully buffed out. He traced it reverently once, expecting bitterness or regret to ensue, only for Rodimus to capture his digits and kiss them with that same impish grin.
“Perfect. Now I look like a badass sword wielder. But you know us ‘romantic types’ love to be overkill.”
The flippancy was as classic as it was bearing hints of truth.
Drift could never bring himself to object.