Alias is not behaving right now (if you ask Optimus, she never does... heh) and this has been in my head ever since the end of Drift:EoS, so why not get it out? This is not the same world as Alias and First Contact. I'll probably regret saying this, but this will be short (by my standards anyway)-I'm only planning on 2 chapters. (My muse is laughing at me and reminding me that I estimated Alias would be about 20 chapters... shaddup, Muse. *picturing Whirl singing "No one caaaares what you have to say!"*)

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Ratchet was silent as he and Drift wandered the wreckage of Gigatron's base in search of a way off the planet.

Not just quiet. Silent. For all the complaining Ratchet had done from the instant he'd tracked Drift down, despite the words he'd spoken beside the canyon that was the final resting place of that dreadful stone army–Then come back, if not as an Autobot, as a friend–now Ratchet didn't seem to have a single thing to say to the swordsmech. Drift followed the medic over the broken ground and didn't try to break the silence himself. He briefly considered confidently stating that Primus would provide for them, but until Drift knew what he'd done to shut the other mech down like this, he didn't quite dare.

And right now, he wasn't entirely sure that Primus would provide. Drift and Primus weren't exactly on speaking terms lately.

Not that a lack of faith would usually be a problem when it came to blurting out sayings. Most of his over-the-top spiritual proclamations were mostly to provoke Ratchet into glaring and snapping at him anyway. Anything to get the medic to pay attention, to look his way. Ever since Rodion, Drift had been chasing the affirmation that he was worth noticing.

Well, he certainly wasn't getting any of that right now.

If he didn't know that the only reason Ratchet was even on this world right now was that he'd left the Lost Light to track Drift down–something Drift had never, ever expected anyone would do, much less Ratchet!–he might've thought the medic had completely forgotten he existed.

They finally found an undamaged shuttle that two mechs could fly. It had certainly seen better days, was perhaps in even worse repair than the one Drift had appropriated for his not-suicidal-really-no-matter-what-Ratchet-said trek through the worst parts of the galaxy to liberate the oppressed, but the scans and checks showed that it was still spaceworthy. Even more miraculous, it was actually fully fueled. They ran all the safety checks again, just to be sure, double-checking each other without a word, standard Autobot procedure, comforting in its familiarity.

That comfort vanished when they finished and Ratchet gestured at the hatch release panel. It's a Decepticon ship, you idiot, it's more likely to open for you than for me, Drift interpreted that gesture, and he had to fight not to bristle as he hurried forward to lay his palm against the scanner.

He couldn't exactly argue that, though. Not after the last two days.

It wasn't until they were inside the small vessel that Ratchet finally said something, although he still didn't look at Drift. "I'll set a course for the Lost Light." That was all, a single matter-of-fact sentence, neither warm nor cold, just information, and the medic ducked through the slightly too-short door to the cockpit before Drift had a chance to reply.

Drift just stood there as the hatch behind him sealed and locked. He could only see the side of Ratchet's helm and one shoulder from here, occasionally catching a glimpse of a single red hand moving over the controls as the medic programmed the shuttle's autopilot. Drift vented in a slow sigh and searched out a storage locker large enough to hold his swords–he felt exposed without them, but wearing blades during blast-off was, to use one of Ratchet's words, contraindicated. Even sheathed, they were much too dangerous.

And he wouldn't risk damaging Wing's Great Sword if the launch got violent.

When his swords were safely locked away, he turned and watched Ratchet finish entering data into the autopilot. He'd taken the pilot's seat without asking even though Drift had more flying experience than the medic; he should really be the one to pilot the shuttle, but whatever odd mood had taken Ratchet left the swordsmech reluctant to contradict him.

Maybe he's just worn out from the fighting, he thought, but he'd seen Ratchet after battles before. In the adrenaline let-down, the medic usually bitched even more than normal, which was saying something. Actually, listening to him complaining about the lack of proper supplies to repair his companions' wounds, berating them for being so stupid in battle and letting themselves be hurt, lashing them with sarcasm, was paradoxically comforting to the Autobots who knew him. When Ratchet growled complaints as he put them back together again, they knew the danger was behind them.

But Drift was absolutely certain that this danger was behind them, and Ratchet was still as quiet as Bumblebee had been after taking a blast from Megatron's fusion cannon to the vocalizer.

That triggered a new thought, one that unfroze Drift's pedes from the deck and sent him marching across the shuttle to duck into the cockpit and stop beside Ratchet, fists planted on his hips as he demanded, "Are you wounded?"

Ratchet's hands didn't leave the controls even though a glance showed Drift that the program was complete, and he still didn't look at Drift. Even Ratchet's EM field gave him nothing to work with, retracted so close that it was very nearly tucked beneath his own armor, revealing absolutely nothing. "What?" he asked distractedly, and Drift had officially Had Enough now.

He kicked Ratchet's chair around so the medic was forced to stop ignoring him, grabbed the armrests and leaned over him so there was nowhere else for his gaze to go and finally succeeded in getting Ratchet to look at him. "You heard me. Are. You. Wounded?" Drift growled, invading the medic's personal space just to drive home the point and punctuating it with an angry surge from his own EM field. "Is that what this is? You're pissed that I got you hurt and you're trying to keep me from noticing you're hiding some kind of injury?"

"Of course I'm not, and if I was, I wouldn't hide it. That kind of stupid slag gets mechs killed. I'm a medic; I know better," Ratchet snapped, and Drift relaxed a little with relief. He could put up with Ratchet being cranky a hell of a lot better than he could handle the medic being injured. Anyone who spent any time at all around Ratchet built up a tolerance to his famous temper–it was that or never visit the med bay at all, and Drift was a front-line fighter. That meant he'd had plenty of exposure to the Hatchet's surly disposition, and that kind of thing slid in one audial and out the other now.

Seeing Ratchet hurt, though… Drift had no defenses against that. Thank Primus that wasn't what was going on now.

But that still didn't answer the question of why Ratchet was apparently trying to pretend that Drift didn't exist. "Then what is this?" Drift asked, the worried anger leaving his voice to be replaced by confusion and, very, very carefully, not a single trace of pain.

"What is what?" Ratchet shot back, but instead of shoving Drift away and demanding that he get out of his face, Ratchet's gaze skittered away, his blue optics seeking something, anything else to lock onto besides Drift's. It was so out-of-character that it was like a slap in the face. "I'm tired, Drift, let's just get off this damned rock."

"You know what? Fine," Drift sighed. If Ratchet wanted to give him the silent treatment, so be it. He was tired and hungry and filthy and sore, and that didn't even touch on the tangled mess of emotions he was doing his level best to ignore at the prospect of returning to the Lost Light. He wanted a cube of Energon and an hour in the washracks and at least three uninterrupted recharge cycles and some time to meditate and prepare himself to see the crew again, not necessarily in that order, and nowhere on that to-do list was figure out why Ratchet's acting like he wishes he hadn't convinced me to come back with him.

He pushed away from Ratchet's chair and flopped down into the copilot's seat. A touch of a button locked the launch restraints around him and a second one did the same for Ratchet, who let out a noise at the unexpected grab of straps snapping around his body that he would probably kill anyone for daring to call a squeak. Drift didn't even smile at it. "You want to go? Let's go." The instant he heard Ratchet's restraints click into place, he hit the launch switch.

The next few minutes were loud enough to drown out even the most awkward silence. The shuttle, while spaceworthy, was certainly not in optimal repair, and it rattled and squealed and groaned as though in pain as the big thrusters kicked them off the ground. Its two occupants shook violently along with it as it noisily fought to break free of the planet's gravity and Drift smiled for the first time since they'd found the shuttle. Lots of mechs hated liftoffs. That was when things went wrong, when the danger of space travel was at its peak, but Drift loved it. Once those main engines kicked on, there was absolutely nothing he could do to change what was going to happen. Launch or crash, life or death, it all rested in the hands of Primus. There was a certain freedom in that, a peace that came from having no choices to make, in knowing, just for a few moments, that his fate was not his to control.

Involuntarily, he glanced over at Ratchet. The medic's hands were clenched so hard around his armrests that Drift wouldn't be surprised to see dents when he let go. Ratchet clearly did not share his philosophical view of launches–well, of course he wouldn't. The medic prized control. Drift surprised both of them by reaching over and wrapping his fingers around Ratchet's wrist and squeezing. "She'll make it," he said above the roar of the engines. The medic didn't say anything back but his EM field, hidden all this time, gave the briefest flicker of nervousness and gratitude before shrinking away again.

Primus decided they would live this time. Weightlessness lifted Drift out of the seat as the planet released them and the gentle press of the restraints kept him from floating far, but only momentarily before the artificial gravity generator automatically kicked in. Drift let go of Ratchet's wrist and triggered the catch on his restraints. "I'm going to find a berth," he said, pushing up out of the seat and turning toward the exit. "If you feel like telling me what's eating at you, wake me up. Otherwise, I plan to plant my aft on the nearest horizontal surface and stay there until we get to the Lost Light."

To his surprise, Ratchet hurried to unfasten his own restraints and stand up, too. "Drift, wait," he said, reaching out and catching hold of the swordsmech's upper arm. Drift froze in place. It wasn't like Ratchet to grab another mech like that, not unless he thought they were about to collapse from some kind of injury, but it was really the urgency in the medic's tone that stopped him.

Drift stood there for a moment, waiting for Ratchet to add anything at the end of that, but Drift, wait seemed to be all of it. He cycled his vents slowly and deliberately for patience and glanced back at the medic. "Waiting, as requested," he said, and it didn't escape his notice that Ratchet still hadn't let him go. "Still don't know why, though."

Ratchet was looking at him now, he realized in the next instant–looking at him like he couldn't look away if his life depended on it, optics fixed on Drift's with an intensity he had no clue how to interpret. The medic's lips moved in a mutter too quiet for Drift to hear clearly even from this close but he didn't have time to question it before Ratchet spoke again, louder this time. "Drift, I… I wasn't completely honest about why I came to find you," he admitted in a low tone that didn't entirely hide his nervousness.

That was unexpected enough to send a jolt through Drift. He jerked back, breaking Ratchet's hold and spinning to fully face him. "What?" he bit out, armor clamping down tight and fuel pump thudding just like it did when he was anticipating a fight. Realistically he knew that he could never fight Ratchet, but he'd never thought Ratchet would betray him like this, either. This time he couldn't keep the pain from his voice. "Exactly what part was a lie? That I'm welcome back? That they know I'm not responsible for Overlord? That we're going to the Lost Light at all?"

Ratchet held up both hands. "No! Slag, that came out wrong. I didn't lie to you," he said hurriedly, stepping closer as if he planned to grab the swordsmech and stop him from bolting. "Everything I told you about the Lost Light is true, all of it, I swear. That's not what I meant, not at all what I meant."

Drift tried to move back and restore the distance between them–being so close to Ratchet was a minefield of want-to-touch/don't-be-stupid that he just didn't have the processor space to deal with right now–but the cockpit was too damn small and his back hit the bulkhead instead. Forcing the surge of battle-readiness and his unsettled emotions away as best he could, Drift straightened to his full height and spoke as slowly and calmly as he could manage. "Perhaps you'd like to start over and say what you actually do mean this time."

"I–yes. Yes," Ratchet said, and relief flickered over his face for a moment before being replaced by tension again. "Start over. Yes. I… I can do that. Yes."

But he didn't. Drift was starting to get nervous all over again now. Ratchet acting unsure was not something he had ever seen before, and he wasn't really enjoying seeing it now. When several seconds passed and the medic still didn't speak or break eye contact, Drift sighed harshly and put his fists on his hips above his empty scabbards again. "You're really starting to freak me out. If it wasn't because of Rodimus telling the truth about Overlord, why did you come find me?"

Ratchet startled as if Drift's voice had shaken him out of some kind of trance. Like he got lost staring into my optics, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind, and Drift firmly told it to shut up and go away. He had a lot of practice telling that little voice to shut up for impossible thoughts like that, and right now with the medic standing so close, that kind of thing was not slagging helpful. "Ratchet?" he prompted, wanting to get this over with so he could get out of this too-small space and try to find some kind of way to clear his head.

Ratchet closed his eyes briefly and pulled a deep vent into his intakes, looking for all the universe like he was bracing himself. When he finally met Drift's optics again, his shone with determination. "Because watching you walk off that ship and knowing that I'd been too much of a coward to do this even once has been killing me," he said in what was very nearly a growl.

Drift scowled because that didn't explain anything but suddenly Ratchet was a whole lot closer, and those legendary hands were on him, one on Drift's waist, the other catching the hand he'd instinctively raised, holding him in a gentle grasp that immobilized the swordsmech as effectively as a full-body stasis net, and all he could do was watch in wide-opticed disbelief as Ratchet leaned down, mouth hovering over his long enough to whisper, "Just once, Drift, please let me do this once."

And then his lips were on Drift's, soft and impossible and maybe he'd hit his head in that fight and his processor module was leaking out his audial because this was a hallucination, it had to be. There was no way in the pit that Ratchet was really saying that he'd left the Lost Light and hunted Drift across the galaxy just to kiss him.

But if this was a hallucination, it was a damn good one. Ratchet's lips moved over his so gently and his hands tightened and his exvents quickened and heated and his EM field bloomed to life when Drift didn't shove him away, bathing the swordsmech in a dizzyingly powerful wave of desire and longing and yes that he wasn't sure he could have imagined even if he'd been trying. His vents ached and he belatedly gasped, and he didn't know if his head was spinning because of this impossible kiss or because he needed air.

Ratchet exploited that gasp immediately and slipped his glossa between Drift's parted lips, groaning deep in his chest as he deepened the kiss.

And Drift had to fight hard not to panic.

Drift was good in the berth and he knew it. His 'facing skills had been honed and perfected by far too many centuries of depending on them for his very survival. He had a repertoire of erotic tricks far beyond anything the medic was likely to have ever experienced. Drift knew he could give Ratchet the frag of his lifetime–Primus, he'd certainly imagined doing so often enough–and if he put his mind to it, he could almost guarantee him an overload so intense that his processor was knocked offline from it. At one time, he'd done it regularly. After all, it was so much easier to rob unconscious customers, and he didn't feel quite as guilty for doing so when he knew he'd thoroughly rocked their world.

But for all the techniques he'd mastered, both by force and by choice, what Drift had never truly learned how to do was kiss. He'd never regretted that before.

And in this moment, with Ratchet's glossa teasing the inner lining of his lips and holy Primus he'd never known his lips were so sensitive and Ratchet's body swaying closer and Ratchet's field sparking fire against his and Ratchet's groan of pleasure still echoing in his audials, Drift regretted his lack of knowledge bitterly because he didn't want Ratchet to stop but he didn't know how to encourage him to continue.

Praying harder than he ever had in his life that he wouldn't screw this up, Drift acted on instinct and touched the tip of his glossa to Ratchet's as he continued to tease Drift's lips. The effect it had on the medic was electric. Ratchet moaned and he released Drift's hand to cup his face instead, holding him exactly where he wanted him as the hand on his hip tightened and dragged him fully against the medic. Ratchet chased Drift's glossa with his own, sliding fully into his mouth now. Overwhelmed by so much sensation, Drift wasn't prepared for the surge of heat that rocked him when Ratchet's glossa caught his and boldly swept them together in an erotic tangle. He clutched Ratchet's shoulders hard as his knees went weak.

And as their bodies pressed together, he felt Ratchet trembling from head to toe.

It is a hallucination, Drift thought again, his spark sinking this time because by the Well, he'd almost convinced himself that this was real. But Ratchet didn't tremble. The legendary Autobot CMO who had saved the life of every Prime since Nominus didn't shake. The fearsome Hatchet didn't quiver. Drift had once watched him perform emergency open-spark surgery on Optimus Prime on the battlefield during an aerial bombardment, while giving him an Energon transfusion from his own body, without a trace of a shiver. He'd seen Ratchet face down Megatron's fusion cannon with only a standard-issue laser pistol in his utterly steady hand. There was absolutely no way that one kiss, especially not one as clumsy and untutored as Drift's, could rob Ratchet of his famous steadiness.

Well, if one of those stone warriors had cracked his head open and this was a hallucination, then by Primus, Drift was going to get everything out of it that he could before he woke up or died.

Throwing caution out the airlock, Drift locked his fingers behind Ratchet's neck and arched, molding his body to the medic's and stroking his glossa firmly against Ratchet's as though he actually had the slightest clue what the hell he was doing. And oh, the reaction he got was gorgeous–Ratchet's groan was muffled against Drift's mouth but that just meant it vibrated all the way through him when Ratchet wrapped his arm fully around Drift's waist and pulled their hips together hard. Ratchet's kiss grew almost desperate, hungry and deep and commanding, his glossa conquering Drift's mouth as his cooling fans roared and his field positively blazed with passion. He pushed his knee between Drift's and pulled him in tight, pinning him to the wall in a way that made Drift go weak all over. That only intensified when Ratchet's hand slid down from the nape of Drift's neck to explore Drift's body, caressing his aerodynamic chestplate, gliding further to the sleek plane of his abdomen, fingers stroking, kneading, claiming. And all the while, Ratchet kissed him like it was all that was keeping him alive and moaned into Drift's mouth and panted through his vents and trembled.

Drift could hardly think for wanting, but for all his experience, he wasn't anywhere near as bold as Ratchet–he had faked desperate desire countless times, but he hardly knew how to act when he really felt it. That familiar want-to-touch was pounding in his brain and this time he didn't fight it. He'd heard Ratchet dismiss his own frame as merely a box on wheels but Drift found the strength and purpose of him almost irrationally sexy. He'd spent so much time on the Lost Light watching Ratchet and trying not to get caught devouring the medic with his gaze, and now that he had a chance to touch, he could hardly decide what to do first. Deadly black hands were almost hesitant as he stroked the Energon lines of Ratchet's throat, the temptingly smooth glass plate over the arrays of medical sensors in his chest, those broad, powerful shoulders, and the medic rewarded his caresses with a delicious symphony of sounds.

Drift wanted to concentrate on finding all the places that made Ratchet moan but Ratchet was being very, very distracting. His kisses never slowed as he slid his hand down Drift's thigh and caught beneath his knee. Ratchet pulled his leg up over his hip and Drift obediently hooked it around Ratchet's waist, dragging their closed panels together with enough force to make both of them shudder hard. Ratchet's fingers stroked the back of his knee, a place Drift had never considered a particularly erogenous zone, but something about that little stroke had him keening into Ratchet's mouth. He tightened his leg around the medic's waist and rocked against him, seeking some relief for the ache behind his panel. Ratchet broke the kiss for the first time to very nearly shout his name.

And then he went still, and didn't kiss him again.

Drift opened his eyes when Ratchet's hands stopped moving on his plating and found the medic staring down at him with such blatant hunger in his optics that it made his spark pulse, but he still didn't kiss Drift again. "What'd I do?" Drift rasped, wanting that mouth back on his but not sure enough to initiate the kiss himself until he knew why Ratchet had stopped. What had he been doing just now? He hadn't been paying the slightest mind to his kissing technique and maybe he'd bit him or drooled down his face or done something else disgusting without knowing it, and his spark froze with dread and shame. Damn it, even in a hallucination he couldn't make this good enough to keep Ratchet's attention–

But Ratchet couldn't seem to tear his optics from his mouth and his cooling fans roared with blatant lust. Drift licked his lips nervously and Ratchet actually swayed on his feet, mouth dipping toward Drift's for a bare instant before he groaned and pressed his forehelm to Drift's instead. "I asked you for one kiss," Ratchet murmured, the words emerging hoarsely in a crackle of static and was his voice trembling, too? Surely not, but– "And I'm well over that limit. You better tell me exactly what I can have before I go too far."

The words were clear despite the static of Ratchet's arousal, but Drift still struggled to understand them through the haze of his own body's demands. They'd been heatedly making out for long enough that the planet was already growing small behind them and he still wasn't waking up on the battlefield or fading away to the Well, and even though he wasn't kissing Drift anymore, the heat of Ratchet's interface panel against his felt vividly real. More than that, Ratchet was still holding him tight and looking at him like he wanted to devour him. Could Drift actually be awake and truly living this dream? "What do you want?" Drift heard himself ask as his hips moved without his conscious direction, rubbing their panels together. "Ratchet," he moaned, doing it again because it felt amazing.

Ratchet moaned too, but then he growled again and caught Drift's hips in his hands. "Stop that," he ordered a little desperately as he held Drift still and leaned back until their chestplates were separated by several inches of chilly air, "I need you to answer me, damn it."

Answer, what answer, had he asked something? Drift focused with difficulty and remembered–Ratchet wanted to know what he could have. The very idea that the medic wanted anything at all from him was almost enough to choke him. Spark spinning with arousal, Drift concentrated on making his reply understandable through the static clouding his vocalizer. "What do you want?" he repeated, hoping that whatever it was, more kissing would be a part of it.

Ratchet made a frustrated noise. He clearly wasn't getting the answer he wanted, but Drift didn't know what he was doing wrong or how he could make it any clearer–even if he hadn't been lusting over the medic for most of his life, after everything Ratchet had done for him, did the medic really think Drift would ever tell him no about anything? Maybe that was what he needed to hear, so Drift said, "You can do whatever you want to me, Ratchet."

Ratchet studied his face for a moment and whatever he saw there made his entire body go tense. "What I want is for you to pay attention for a minute and really listen to me," he finally said, and Drift had heard many responses when he'd offered a mech whatever they wanted from him, but that one was a first. Disappointment that no more kissing was going to be forthcoming mixed with frustration that he couldn't seem to entice Ratchet to keep going and he unwrapped his leg from the medic's waist, not trusting himself to speak.

It was clearly the right thing to do because Ratchet's tension eased–just a fraction, but Drift would take what he could get. "Everything that's happened between us before now, we're even, do you understand? Rodion, Delphi, all of it–you don't owe me a damn thing. I'm not calling in a debt. We're not doing this as some kind of transaction. We're here as equals." He caught the swordsmech's chin in his hand and said in the gentlest voice Drift had ever heard the medic use, "Do you want this to continue? If you don't, Drift, you can tell me no. If you don't want me, I'm asking you to please tell me no."

Those words should have thrown coolant on the roaring blaze of Drift's arousal. He was well aware that Ratchet knew exactly what he'd done in his past–it had been more than obvious how Drift had kept himself alive when Orion Pax had brought him to the Dead End clinic where Ratchet had first saved his life. Bringing it up now, in this situation, should've shamed him. Should have made him want to shove Ratchet away and go find a place to hide from the humiliation of being reminded that he was nothing but a gutter trash buymech who could never be worthy of a distinguished and respectable mech like Ratchet.

But he didn't feel any of that.

Drift felt… grateful.

Yes, Ratchet knew what he'd done. Knew he'd sold himself more times than he could count and done things with strangers that he didn't want to think about. Knew that not all the services Megatron had demanded from him had been performed on a battlefield. Knew that he could give Ratchet whatever he wanted, be whatever he wanted, because interfacing didn't have to mean anything to him.

And Ratchet was telling him plainly that this time, he wanted it to.

Drift looked up at him in a kind of awe. "You really did come after me because you–you really came and found me to kiss me," he whispered, finally believing it even before the medic nodded.

"Yes," Ratchet said, his voice as quiet as Drift's. "I wanted that kiss and I took it and I didn't ask, and I should apologize for that but I won't because I'm not sorry." His face hardened as he took a determined vent and then completely released the swordsmech–hands off, body retreating, not pulling out of Drift's arms but initiating no contact beyond that. "But I'm not taking anything else, Drift. What happens next is entirely up to you."

"What–up to me?" Drift echoed, hardly daring to believe his audials.

"Yes. You're in charge."

Drift stared at him, mouth going dry. He'd never seen the medic look so intense and the hunger he wasn't even trying to hide was revving Drift up almost as much as those kisses had. "What can I have?" he whispered, echoing Ratchet's own question.

And finally, that was the right thing to say. The medic smiled, and that was rare and precious all by itself even without the words that followed it. "Everything. Nothing. Anything in between. Whatever you ask for, Drift, I'm going to say yes."

Drift's spark felt like it was going to surge right out of his chest. "Really?"

Ratchet nodded, still smiling and clearly understanding just how rare having control in this kind of situation had been in Drift's life. "You can ask me to let you go and never touch you again, and I will do it," Ratchet said. When Drift clutched at him and started to immediately protest that, the medic's optics narrowed and his smile went dangerous. "Or you could ask me to get on my knees right here and don't stop until you can't overload any more, and I'll very happily do that, too." Drift gaped at him–he'd never, ever imagined Ratchet would say such a thing–but his spike was a huge fan of that plan and throbbed insistently beneath its panel. When Ratchet saw the look on Drift's face, he grinned. "You don't believe me? Say it and find out."

If this is a dream, I might just fall on my sword when I wake up, Drift thought, feeling drunk and breathless and dazzled by possibilities he had never allowed himself to ever hope would become reality, and all he had to do was ask. His processor nearly glitched with the influx of every fantasy he'd ever entertained about the medic, fantasies that had started four million years ago in Rodion when he'd awakened to see the ambulance standing over him, handsome and strong and capable and showing Drift the first true kindness and compassion he'd ever received. Was it any wonder he'd been smitten from that moment on?

Whatever you ask for, Drift, I'm going to say yes. You're in charge.

And as erotic as the thought of the medic on his knees was, it didn't come anywhere close to the impact of those words. Anything he wanted… what did he want? For an endless moment, Drift couldn't even speak, but finally he pulled himself together enough to whisper, "Will you–will you kiss me like that some more?"

"Oh, Drift, with pleasure." Ratchet's field surged with relief and longing as he cupped Drift's face in his hands and bent closer, breathing the words against the swordsmech's lips. Drift closed his eyes as Ratchet kissed him again, long and slow and deep and perfect. He did his best to keep up his side, imitating what the medic did with lips and teeth and glossa, and apparently he wasn't as awful at it as he'd feared because Ratchet shuddered. "Drift," he moaned, and went back for more.

His name on Ratchet's lips was the sexiest thing Drift had ever heard in his life.

The kisses didn't stay slow and languid long. Ratchet showed no signs of stopping and reacted so beautifully to every hesitant stroke of his glossa, and Drift slowly grew more confident. Soon he'd almost entirely lost his nervousness and let himself just get lost in the pleasure that spread to overtake his entire body.

Wanting to make Ratchet feel as good as he did, Drift pulled back slightly to ask, "Can I touch you?"

Forget not trembling–Ratchet shuddered from head to toe as he whispered, "Yes, please," in a voice that was almost all static.

Drift let his hands wander as Ratchet's glossa plundered his mouth, feeling the strength of Ratchet's sturdy frame, learning the planes and angles of his body. His fingertips traced transformation seams in search of sensitive places and he thrilled when Ratchet groaned into the kiss with every one he found. He truly loved how vocal the medic was, especially the way he said Drift's name over and over between increasingly passionate kisses. He had been called many things by many mechs in situations like this, but very rarely his own name. His cooling fans roared in a futile effort to control his temperature, keeping pace with Ratchet's.

And best of all, Ratchet didn't try to push him to do anything more than this, didn't so much as move his hands from where they cradled Drift's face.

He respected Drift's boundaries.

Ratchet was making Drift hotter than he'd ever been in his entire life, but it was more than that. He made Drift feel safe.

He rewarded Ratchet for it by redoubling his efforts to please him, and if there was one thing he was better at than violence, it was this. If the rumble of the ambulance's engines was anything to go by, Drift hadn't lost his touch at all. Ratchet's kisses were bordering on desperate now and Drift didn't want to lose a single glorious second of it by speaking again, so he reached up to grasp Ratchet's hands and dragged them to his chestplates in a silent invitation backed up with a welcoming, eager pulse of his EM field–touch me, too–before going back to his own explorations.

Ratchet wasted no time in taking him up on the offer and oh, those hands were just as talented at this as they were in the med bay.

And he was just as thorough, too. Ratchet caressed his chest, mapping out every transformation seam, every place where a fingertip could slip between armor plates and tease the sensitive protoform beneath. Drift was whimpering before Ratchet had made it halfway down his chest, which made Ratchet growl with satisfaction while still not stopping for a single instant. By the time the medic's hands had reached his hips, Drift was glad of the wall at his back because he wasn't sure he could've stood without it.

What Ratchet was doing along the flexion joints of his hip armor was stealing all the strength from his legs. Drift had never even known there were sensors there, much less ones that seemed directly wired straight to his interface arrays, and every flick of the medic's fingertips over them brought him closer to overload. "Ratchet!" he gasped, head dropping back and panting for breath as his entire body burned with charge. He had never felt like this, ever.

"Yes." Ratchet's voice came from right beside his audial flare, gritty and dark and sexy as he pressed kisses along the hypersensitive metal and didn't stop what his fingers were doing for a second. "Anything you want. Yes."

There was only one thing Drift wanted and that was more. "This shuttle has to have a berth somewhere," he said, trying to match Ratchet's gravelly tone and missing by a mile when the medic's glossa licked a hot path all the way to the sharp tip of his exquisitely sensitive audial flare. The wickedly thrilled surge of Ratchet's EM field seemed to indicate that the medic found it pretty sexy anyway. "Maybe, if you want to, we could find it."

Ratchet shuddered beneath his hands. "Yes," he groaned, and the longing in his voice sent shivers down Drift's spinal strut. He pulled back at last and met Drift's optics without trying to hide the raw desire in his gaze. "Yes."

Drift couldn't help it–he smiled up at Ratchet, unable to contain his happiness. Whatever happened next, this was by far the best moment of his entire life. "Then lead the way."

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I'm looking forward to the reviews! MWAH!