Two Patients, No Patience.

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW
Drift/Rodimus, Jetfire
mostly fluff.  Set mid- or before Death of Optimus Prime, before MTMTE 1, after Ongoing 30.  Yeah, all this timeline precision for...a fluffball. i r smert.
For tf_rare_pairing weekly request request Drift/Rodimus no way out

“You sure about this?”  Drift rarely asked questions. He rarely spoke, Rodimus had learned.  Prior to him stabbing himself in the fragging chassis, Rodimus could have counted all the words the white mech had said in less than a kilobyte. But it was like the injury had knocked something loose.  Or, well, looser.  Or maybe he figured it didn’t matter any more.

“You’re the one telling me it’s real.”  Rodimus kicked the chair he was sitting on around, resettling himself, forearms on the back rail.

“I know they were real. I know they existed. I know that’s what they believed. And they were,” a smile that looked almost painful, a cup of memories, “right about everything else.”

“Good enough for me,” Rodimus said.

“Could both just be fooling ourselves,” Drift said.  He shifted on the berth, trying to hide the wince as the movement pulled on a ribstrut under the injury.  On the readout below him, a few tell-lights flared red.  Drift hissed, optics dimming as he cleared or overrode the alarms, the reds dimming down to amber-green.

“Could be right, though.  And it could solve…well, a lot.” Rodimus’s smile dimmed a bit.  He wasn’t really happy with  how things had fallen out: patrolling a perimeter, glaring at NAILs who hadn’t committed any crime other than not wanting to fight. And Rodimus could deal with that: not everyone had the right stuff to fight.

This wasn’t the victory he’d envisioned.  This was no land for heros.  They didn’t need him. But this?  This was adventure. This required courage, determination, and that soupcon of panache that Rodimus brought to everything.

“A lot.” Drift tilted his head, holding his torso rigidly still.  “What have I missed?” 

Frag. Everything?  NAILs, Bumblebee taking charge, Megatron’s…kinda sorta death maybe, mechs suddenly returning.  Bad couple of decacycles to be out, really. 

“There are…,” Rodimus sighed with relief at the sound of footsteps behind him, turning, grin already in place when Jetfire ducked under the lintel. “Hey before you say anything I didn’t even touch him.”

Jetfire: mech with a sense of humor that could be measured in microns. He tilted his head. “There were pain sensor alarms. Why would I relate that to you?”

“Just saying. Before you got ideas.” A broad wink.

“I don’t get, ahem. Those kinds of ideas.”  Jetfire shook his head, crossing over to the berth.  One hand splatted on the chassis, dropping Drift flat on his back again, impassively. “You,” he said to the white mech, “shouldn’t be moving.”

“Wasn’t moving,” Drift said, his face settling into what Rodimus really couldn’t call anything other than a sulk. Poor mech. “Just talking. And it didn’t hurt.”

Jetfire’s blue optics flicked to the ceiling, in a sort of ‘give me strength to deal with idiots’ eyeroll. “The sensors indicated otherwise.”

“The sensors were wrong.”

“You can talk without…wiggling around,” Jetfire said, firmly.

“Staring at the ceiling,” Drift muttered. He squirmed as the shuttle probed the top of his replaced chestplate.

“You’re a lousy patient, Drift,” Rodimus snerked.

“You,” Jetfire said, over one massive shoulder, “are no better. You should be in your own room, and not here harassing Drift.”

“I’m a leader. I was just checking up on my troops.” Rodimus straightened on his seat.

Another sigh. “There’s a reason Ratchet assigned me to this ward,” Jetfire murmured, as though reminding himself.  He bent closer, one thumb probing a patched line.

“Saintlike patience?” Rodimus offered, helpfully.

“Body mass,” Drift mumbled, optics fixed on the shuttle bending over his opened chassis, one massive wing blotting out the light.

“I think penance,” Jetfire corrected. He carefully closed the access panel, the underplating, and then, with the press of on heavy palm, snapped the armor back into place. Drift stifled a grunt.  “I presume you don’t want any more sensor block,” he said, his tone resigned.

Drift shook his head, adamantly.

“And you.” The shuttle rounded on Rodimus. “When was the last time you had a diagnostic?”

His hands came up between them like a shield. “Uh…recently.”

“Recently.”

“…very recently.” Adverbs are your friends, Rodimus. Totally convincing. Totally.

“Yesterday,” Drift cut in. “He hid in the maintenance facility this morning until the tech had gone.”

“Thanks,” Rodimus said. And the adverbs had been working! Okay, probably not. “Snitch.” He barely caught the corner of Drift’s grin around the oncoming mass of white and red and very very serious shuttle.

“Looking out for my leader,” Drift said, an edge of humor in his voice, that blunted Rodimus’s outrage.  His leader. The mission.  He tilted his head up, facing down the shuttle.

“All right. Do your worst.” 

Drift’s laugh was hidden under Jetfire’s long-suffering sigh.

 [Epilogue]

Rodimus jerked awake at the sudden touch on his spoiler.  It took three microkliks to remember where he was, and why. Repair bay, monitoring ward, where he’d been since the backblast of the Matrix contacting the well had blown his circuits. It was just so boring here, it was easy to forget.

A hand over his mouth just as he gasped, and then a soft laugh, dimmed blue optics over his.  The hand was moved, replaced by a mouth, warm and shy. His own mouth, parted in surprise, softened under the kiss, his hands coming up to map the shoulders, finding sleek, scalloped spaulders like small wings.  Drift. 

Drift?

The soft growl confirmed it: the timbre of Drift’s voice, and he could feel the flat span of the mech’s chassis against his, glossy smooth.  His glossa flirted into the other’s mouth, fingertips hooking behind the armor, teasing into the back of the shoulder joints. Who’d have guessed that the ex-Decepticon was a good kisser?

The other mech pulled away, slowly, Rodimus chasing the kiss, covering Drift’s aroused growl with a laugh.  “What was this for?” he whispered, hand cupping the white helm, pressing their crests together, “just can’t resist me any longer?”

“Making up for ratting you out earlier.” Drift’s voice was throaty and hoarse, roughened with desire.  Not really denying the question, though.  Rodimus smirked.

“Really.”  Rodimus wriggled on the berth, pushing up against the other mech, into the fuzz of his EM field. It had been a while. For both of them, apparently.

“Have a conscience, after all.”

“Oh good, guilt.” His mouth stretched into a grin ducking up to bump against Drift’s again.  “I can have fun with that.”

“Can you.” Another tweak of his spoiler, before the palm pinned it flat onto the berth, and he felt the curved swell of a thigh slide over his hips as the mech clambered onto the berth on top of him.  “So can I.”

“You know,” Rodimus said, tipping his head, mouth searching for the throat cables, “going to take a lot to make up for that. A full diagnostic.”

Drift tipped up his chin, baring his throat, fingers curling on the berth, his own free hand sliding between their bodies, skimming over armor for the other’s interface hatch, “I’ll be…,” a soft gasp at the contact of a glossa on his exposed cables, “very thorough.”

Comments

[mieka-writes.livejournal.com]

gurgles... Roddy got got... heee

[ultrarodimus.livejournal.com]

XD Yup, Rodimus is a bad patient, and a headache for every medic who has to put up with him.

[akufu.livejournal.com]

Poor Jetfire XD
But it sounds nice what these to get down to...

[playswithworms.livejournal.com]

Saintlike patience? Body mass? Nope, penance. *roffle* Jetfire's micron-sized sense of humor, ahahahaha!

And Roddy's micron-sized sense of humbleness, lol "Guilt...I can have fun with that." Hee!