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Chapter 30: He would do this himself

"Rodimus."

 

"…"

 

"Rodimus. I need to speak with you."

 

"No one's stopping you."

 

"Alone."

 

"I'm not leaving him."

 

Rodimus refused to look up.

 

Beneath his hands, he could feel the rise and fall of Drift's frame as he vented softly in what he could only hope was a peaceful sleep. From the panicked spiral Drift was thrust into at the mere suggestion of recharge, he highly doubted it. Promises to keep him awake made in vain. Rodimus could still see it; the terror in Drift's optics as he realized this wasn't a battle he would win, with his own frame working against him. He could only sit by helplessly as Drift gradually went limp, sleep claiming him once again.

 

Don't send me back, don't-! Please! I can't take any more! Roddy, please-!

 

Drift laid disturbingly still. Eerily silent, dead to the world. It felt like Rodimus had betrayed him, leaving him to fall into some hell trapped in his head when he so desperately wanted to stay here.

 

Just add it to the list of fuck ups, he supposed.

 

"Rodimus."

 

He ignored the pede tapping impatiently beside him. "How about you tell me what exactly made Drift go from recovering steadily to dropping near dead for no reason, huh? Wanna explain that?"

 

He braced himself. Couldn't wait to hear how no, this was actually Rodimus' fault. Despite his pointed attempts to stay far away from Drift specifically to avoid this sort of thing from happening. Again.

 

"I found him with his brain in his mouth, Rodimus."

 

That got his full attention and Rodimus snapped his helm up.

 

"…What?"

 

"He had his brain in his mouth and he was trying to bite it." Ratchet's hands rubbed at his face as he paced. "If I'd been a second later, he would've-"

 

A sinking pit formed in his tank. "…You think someone-?"

 

"I don't know, Rodimus. I don't know. The cameras didn't pick up anything out of the ordinary. No one in or out."

 

"Well, what did you see then? It didn't just materialize in his mouth."

 

"We don't have cameras in patient recovery rooms. This isn't a damn prison," Ratchet snapped, shoulders rigid and stiff. His whole frame was rigid. "Some sort of sick conditioning they probably put him through. He was still offline when I stopped him."

 

A sick nausea came over him. Of course they would.

 

I have to do this. You don't know what they did, Rodimus. The things they did.

 

Rodimus wanted to kill them.

 

Energy still buzzed in his hands. The feeling of the gun firing, the smug, peaceful expression of the ones who'd tormented his friend going up in billowing flames as he held Drift's limp form away from the wreckage. As Rodimus stupidly brought him back into the hell house he'd just escaped from.

 

He could still see Drift's helpless rage as he fumbled with the gun, desperate for vengeance.

 

Rodimus wanted to kill them. He wanted them to really feel it, every second of pain they inflicted. He wanted them to feel all of it.

 

But they were already dead. And he hated that it was Megatron who'd gotten to them first.

 

"…But to answer your question," Ratchet cleared his vocalizer. "It was stress. Granted, stress likely exacerbated by the aforementioned brain in mouth." He took in a deep vent, optics trained on Drift below them. "Like I told you before, his spark can't handle any sort of strain. It's killing him."

 

So even at a distance, he was still hurting Drift. He hated this.

 

"Dammit… he was showing improvement. We're right back where we started." Ratchet muttered under his breath. "He's not going to like it, but he'll have to be closely monitored. And we really can't put off his sessions any longer. Not after this."

 

Oh hell no.

 

"Whoa, whoa! I thought you said-"

 

"I know, Rodimus. But this isn't a situation we can afford to just wait around and hope someone better comes along. Rung has yet to wake up and no one else on this damn ship is qualified to handle any part of this. Whether we like it or not, Froid has a reputation for being the best around. Magnus hasn't found any concrete evidence that he didn't act out of self defense. He's had a thorough talking to about using restraints without my authorization."

 

"Like that matters to me. I'm captain. I can kick this guy and his creepy murder pal right off this ship."

 

"No, you can't. We aren't at war anymore, Rodimus. You can't just boot an Autobot seeking refuge into space."

 

The glare aimed at him cut deep and Rodimus looked down. Drift slept silently below him. Absently, he wondered if it was a dreamless sleep. He hoped it was.

 

Vents cycled in.

 

Vents cycled out.

 

Drift didn't move.

 

"We can only go by Drift's word." A sharp invent and Ratchet hesitated. "…And he's denied any foul play."

 

"You don't really believe him, do you." It wasn't a question. And they both knew it.

Rodimus didn't receive a response.

 

"So you're just going to decide for Drift, then? He doesn't get a say in this?" The thought of sitting around discussing Drift's fate made him feel sick. Just one betrayal after another. That's all he was good for.

 

"I need to speak with him when he wakes up. But his condition is only going to worsen if we let this fester untreated. We have a duty of care on this ship. It would be cruel to leave him to suffer alone with this. We've already failed him enough." Ratchet sighed.

 

"I've failed him enough."

 

Shuffling from behind caught his attention and Rodimus looked up in time to see Ratchet turn around, a box in his hands. Strange red lumps poked out from the top.

 

"Ratchet. What the hell are you holding?"

 

"This is what I wanted to speak to you about." The box got closer and he could see-

 

"Are those- are those hands-?"

 

Ratchet's gaze remained locked on the digits in his grasp. "Yes. My hands."

 

What was that supposed to mean? "What?"

 

"I found them in Drift's berth. Under the tarp." He looked up at Rodimus. "…I hate to say it, but they're definitely mine."

 

"Yeah. They're most definitely not your hands. For reasons I would hope are obvious to you."

 

He squinted. Oh frag- was that energon on the tips?

 

"Dammit, Rodimus! Do you really think I want to believe this? I know very well what my own goddamn hands look like more than anyone else. I've inspected these far longer than I'd ever care to admit. And there's no doubt in my mind. These are my hands."

 

"…Okay. Let's just say for a moment, that these are your hands. Your severed, bloody hands. That are somehow different from the hands currently attached to your body." Rodimus thrust his arm towards the box in a dramatic gesture. "What the hell would Drift be doing hiding th-?"

 

The answer hit hard and fast the moment the words left his intake and his optics went wide as he locked his with Ratchet's. He already knew.

 

He was such an idiot. Drift was right.

 

Rodimus broke for the door without a second thought. "I'm going back."

 

When he saw Ratchet made no sign of moving, Rodimus came to an abrupt stop just inside the threshold.

 

"…You aren't going to stop me?"

 

"No." The box was set down as Ratchet made his way back to Drift's berth. "I was actually going to ask you to go myself."

 

"And not Megatron?"

 

"Do you want me to?"

 

"…No."

 

He would do this himself. For Drift.

 

Ratchet leaned over Drift, cradling his face in his hands. "I don't want Drift hearing about this. He's been through enough. Not until you know for sure."

 

Even from his place at the edge of the room, Rodimus could see the creases under his optics, exhaustion seeping through every movement. Ratchet truly looked terrible.

 

"And the worst part? ...I don't think he's ours."

 

 

 

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