Ratchet scans Drift's face, pausing to map out each feature he hadn't seen in so long. Proving that he's here, alive and safe and tangible. Not a dream or fantasy, not a nightmare made out of past mistakes, but another chance to have this. And Ratchet's finally allowed to be selfish. He's allowed to reach for it with both hands, damn everybody else. There's no war to fight, no patients to care for. Just the mech in front of him and the time they have now.
What was he thinking before, of course he knew this mech.
He's right here in front of him so close he could touch, his plating inches away from his servos if he were to reach out. He's so different from the mech he once knew, more confident, more sure, but so much like him too. Not just in looks-his white plating with red accents, his finials, those damned vibrant optics-but in his devotion, his humor. His gentleness despite the violence he knows so intimately, maybe even in spite of it.
Ratchet finally finds his words, resetting his vocalizer as he leans forward, closing the gap between them until mere centimeters separate their plating. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”
