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The night had started off so well, too.
Some engex, a couple of overloads, some cuddling against a warm, humming frame, bulky and strong and solid. Ratchet had once confessed to him—not last night, but another time, when he’d had a lot more engex—that he sometimes envied the lighter, faster, more graceful frames of racers like Drift, that he felt slow and old next to him. But Drift had pointed out that Ratchet had to be strong to carry unconscious or resisting patients. He had to be solid and firm to protect them when they couldn’t defend themselves. Besides, Drift privately liked a frame that was nice and big. It spoke to some primal part of him, the part that had never left the gutters of Rodion: shelter, security, support, protection. And he’d demonstrated his appreciation for Ratchet’s frame at quite some length, until they were both exhausted. Drift still liked cuddling every chance he got. Hence all the snuggling last night.
He’d slipped off to recharge on his back next to Ratchet, head pillowed on his arms, warm and comfortable. He should have listened to the whisper in the back of his mind and curled up on his side as he usually did, but he’d been so comfortable and lazy, he’d stayed right there. Maybe this time it would be fine.
It wasn’t.
Gradually he cycled into wakefulness from disquieting dreams; it was the laboring in his vents that woke him, when his body started to overheat. And he knew instantly what was happening. It had happened enough before.
Oh no.
Panic started to well up. He tried to quiet it.
It’s all right. It’s fine. I’m going to move: three, two, one.
Nothing. He didn’t move. His optics came dimly online. He could sense his surroundings, the berth under him, the ceiling above him. He could almost see them, but a dark haze hung in front of him. He could feel his body, his arms still tucked above his head. His vents choked.
I’m going to lower my arms. One, two, three.
Still nothing. True panic set his Spark whirling frantically.
Wake up, he screamed at his own processor. Wake up. I’m going to wake up!
He didn’t wake up. He concentrated every ounce of willpower on twitching a finger. Nothing happened. His core temperature was shooting up as his vents stalled. He tried to scream and what he got was the tiniest whimper.
Help. Someone please help. Gasket? Roddy? Wing?
A dark shadow moved above him. “Kid? It’s all right. Calm down. You’ll be fine.”
Skillful fingers tapped the base of his helm, hard, and Drift’s vents suddenly roared as they sucked in huge cycles of air to cool his stress-heated systems. A sob rattled from him as he twisted, yanking his arms down so fast he nearly dented Ratchet’s helm. He ended up tucked into Ratchet’s chest, shaking uncontrollably, while the medic’s hands stroked his back.
“Easy, kid. I’ve got you.”
“Couldn’t,” Drift choked. “Couldn’t…”
“I know, kid. You’re all right now. Wiggle your fingers.”
Drift did. His fingers responded as eagerly as ever.
“Elbows,” Ratchet said, and Drift bent his arms a few times. “And shoulders. There you go.”
Drift calmed down as he reassured himself that his body was responding properly.
“It’s a malfunction,” Ratchet said, his voice rumbling comfortingly all around Drift. “Rare, but I’ve seen it before. When a mech goes into recharge, his processor shuts down motor systems so he doesn’t unconsciously react to memory feedback or other stimuli. Sometimes it doesn’t work.”
“I know,” Drift said into his chest. “I knew a sleepwalker once.”
“That’s one example. And sometimes it goes the other way: your mind wakes up but your body doesn’t.”
“I couldn’t move,” Drift choked.
“This happened to you before?”
Drift nodded miserably. Ratchet’s fingers ran up and down his finials.
“How’d you deal with it?”
“Waited it out. I never…” Drift’s voice caught and he reset his vocalizer. He hated the memory. “…had anyone there to snap me out of it before.”
“You usually sleep on your side, don’t you.”
“It happens more on my back. So…”
Ratchet rubbed the tip of one finial. The touch sent comforting tingles all the way to the tips of Drift’s fingers. He sighed and nuzzled closer.
“I can take a look at your coding later if you want. See if there’s something I can tune up.”
Drift hummed an affirmative, lulled half back into recharge by Ratchet’s patient fingers on his finials. A moment later, Ratchet’s mouth brushed the top of his crest.
“I got you, kid. Get back to sleep.”