sunchime | [ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

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[ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II
Part I (extremely NSFW) (it's very gross) (I'm sorry about everything)
Part II (NSFW post)

IT'S BACK, BABY

Imagine, if you will, that Drift is not a robot, but a gratuitously tropey half-demon hunter roaming around Boston killing demons in order to atone for his as a, well, killer for the demons. For all intents and purposes you can just assume this takes place in the same universe as Buffy (or something like it) for the sake of using a conveniently existing lore that I already really like. Maybe with an extra side of Kabbalah. whatever

HERE ARE SOME FACTS ABOUT DEMON HUNTER AU DRIFT:

Drift is half-demon on his father's side. He never really knew his dad, idk he like fucked off or got slayed at some point when Drift was young and he was mostly raised by his mother, who died of cancer when he was a teenager. It was real sad and Drift had no money and got pretty promptly kicked out of his mom's apartment shortly after her death. This made Drift a TRAGIC TEEN ORPHAN who was homeless on the streets for a while, and given his ~UNIQUE HALF-DEMON AURA~ it wasn't really very long before he fell in with a bad crowd. A demon crowd
Tragic teen orphan Drift got into drugs, specifically orihalcon, a potent substance derived from the refined blood of certain types of demons, because regular human drugs don't quite cut it for him. He was pretty knee-deep in the local demon community, partly because he didn't fit in anywhere else, partly because some of them knew his dad.
Drift spent a while as a homeless addict, barely scraping by, until he was recruited by Megatron, a powerful demon lord who saw much more potential in Drift and his untamed demon powers. He offered Drift a place in his ranks even though he was half-human, and helped him hone his terrifyingly natural talent for violence. For a while Drift mostly did it to feed his habit, but he began to enjoy the rush of violence and of releasing his DEMON SIDE way more than the drugs and eventually got clean.
He also inherited this sweet demon sword from his dad that Megatron apparently had handy. It is powered by his DEMON SIDE
Eventually though Drift's taste for violence got a little out of control and after pissing off some of his superiors for wildly disobeying orders in favor of MORE VIOLENCE, he fucked off and went into hiding. It was at this time that he met a witch named Wing from a smug hippie witch cult based in San Francisco. Wing offered him sanctuary and to teach him to better control his demon side by being ~~more in tune with the spirits~~. Drift took the sanctuary because he had nowhere else to hide, but wound up begrudgingly coming around to Wing's way of seeing things, at least enough to grow to care about him. Unfortunately for the both of them Drift's UNIQUE HALF-DEMON AURA led Megatron's forces right to the Wing's door and he got horribly murdered. Drift managed to get away but he was so tragically torn by the untimely death of his spiritual sensei that he swore off working for Megatron and decided to USE HIS POWERS FOR GOOD
Since then he's discarded the name Megatron gave him and returned to Boston as the newly-reformed demon hunter Drift. He lives in a tiny, shitty apartment in Southie and fights demons by moonlight in order to help people out and atone for his murder-filled past. He has fully embraced his former mentor's spirituality with a level of enthusiasm that, tbh, should probably be worrying. He believes (or hopes, at least) that what Wing taught him will not only help him keep his demon side in check (he is pretty much always concerned he will LOSE CONTROL), but also lead to his eventual redemption. Unfortunately Drift is still learning how exactly to have real faith in something because he is the world's biggest faker
He is Jewish because I know what I like and oh boy does he ever dabble in Kabbalah and a lot of other magical spirituality bullshit that mostly drives other people up the wall
Being half-demon has a lot of perks, SUCH AS: super strength/reflexes/stamina, accelerated healing, and being able to jump way higher than any human. He's obviously not as powerful as a full-blooded demon, but plenty powerful enough to be able to take them head on. He's also really good at fighting shit. Drift's swordsmanship is pretty solid, having been trained in Megatron's demon army, but also he has studied very seriously from a lot of kung fu and action films
He literally owns fourteen swords

PREVIOUSLY ON DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU:

Rodimus is this AU's equivalent of the Slayer, and Ultra Magnus is her Watcher. She and Drift are best buds who also make out a lot. Ultra Magnus STRONGLY DISAPPROVES of Rodimus spending time with someone with Drift's substantial murder past but Rodimus believes wholeheartedly in Drift's turning a new leaf.
Perceptor (Percy) is a talented witch and physicist who also serves as Drift's go-to for information about demon lore and magic. They go back a long, long ways, and is one of a handful of people Drift trusts implicitly.
Dealer was, predictably, Drift's orihalcon dealer when he was living on the streets. There were some bad (good) (bad) times that Drift would really love to never talk about, and Dealer loves to hold over his head.
Ratchet is a trauma surgeon whose family was killed by demons around the time Deadlock was active. After patching up Drift a couple of times, they fell into an undefined sort-of relationship that nearly came to an end when Ratchet found out just who Drift used to be. After taking some time and talking to just about everyone else Drift knows, Ratchet decided he still wanted to know Drift as he is now, though things between them are still uncertain.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The surgery had taken eight hours. It had gone badly for a little while there -- they'd stabilized the patient, wrapped up the surgery, but it had added another two hours onto the procedure. Once they pushed over the six hour mark, it probably would have been advisable for Pharma to let another surgeon step in, but aside from a few quick breaks, she'd insisted on seeing through the entire surgery. Eight hours? Nothing at all, especially when it was at the end of her shift. She'd been at the table for longer before, under worse circumstances.

It leaves her feeling strung out and tired, but she stopped by the lab anyway. She had biopsy slides to go over, and then she'd discovered that the sample for another patient she'd handed off to the techs still hadn't been placed in the centrifuge. Profoundly irritated, she'd snapped at the tech until she fled the room. That's fine, Pharma decides. She'll do it her own damn self. She has some paperwork to go over, but that'll have to come afterward. Genetic tests take time; she's not going to wait on an answer.

Once the sample is in the centrifuge, she finally seats herself at one of the microscopes, carefully placing one slide under the scope. A lock of hair falls into her face as she leans forward, and she tucks it behind her ear impatiently. She's tired, but she's still alert. This won't even take that long, most likely.

Fortunately for everyone involved, Ratchet bumps into the tech as she's making her retreat, catching the look on her face and scowling tremendously as he guesses the cause. He takes a moment to reassure her, then sets his shoulders and walks into the lab, scowl still firmly in place.

"You were out of surgery over an hour ago," he says, folding his arms and leaning his hip against the side of a workbench. "You need to go home, Pharma. Get some actual food and actual rest--even you'll make mistakes if you're stretched thin enough. Come on."

Ratchet is one of the few people who would bother her at a time like this. Most people are too intimidated -- she isn't exactly known for her warm bedside manner -- or otherwise know better than to start something with her when she's this tired and out of patience. It's not worth the energy or the sniping match that usually follows. Ratchet, however, is not most people.

"I'm nearly done." No hello, nice-to-see-you -- her voice is clipped in that particular way that belies how tired she actually is, despite how sharp she might otherwise appear. She doesn't look up from the microscope until she's finished with the slide, tucking her hair out of her face and picking up her glasses from the table. She fixes them back onto her face and gives Ratchet a lidded look that isn't quite annoyed, but it has the potential. "These slides need to be done before tomorrow night, and I've still got -- " She shakes back the collar of her lab coat to check her wristwatch. "Ten minutes until the centrifuge is done. Aren't you off shift now?"

"Yeah, you're going to be 'nearly done' for the next two and a half hours if I leave you in here unsupervised," Ratchet says, quite openly annoyed now, though there's a frustrated, fond sort of understanding underneath. He is off-shift, and his whole body aches with an exhaustion he's so used to he can barely feel it, but he hadn't spent eight solid hours in surgery that day.

"You let me know what I can do to help, in that case, since you're 'nearly done'," you get finger-quotes, Pharma, congratulations, "and I'll walk you out once the centrifuge is finished, how does that sound?" His tone indicates that this is not an issue that is actually up for debate, and he seems to settle in right where he is, refusing to sit down or engage in any other attempt to make himself comfortable, clearly not anticipating a long wait.

She’s not at all rattled by how annoyed he is. Other people might be, but Pharma knows Ratchet—and she doesn’t find that attitude to be particularly offensive. Besides, she knows Ratchet isn’t doing it to be contrary. It’s because he cares.

“There isn’t anything, really,” Pharma says, her tone going slightly naughty in response, but there’s a flatness to it. “The sample can be stored once it’s done, and I don’t think two heads are better than one translates well to people crowded around a single microscope.” She removes her glasses again, pointedly, and sets them down. She arches one manicured eyebrow before turning back to the microscope. “Don’t you have a plant to water at home, or something?”

"Several," Ratchet says pleasantly, not moving an inch. "They'll wait. Like I said, I'll leave when you're ready, I have time."

It feels bizarre to simply stand still in the lab, but Ratchet controls the impulse to go pick at work with a tremendous effort of will--if he gets sucked in, neither of them is going anywhere for at least another two hours, and Pharma does actually need rest, as does he.

“How patient of you.” It comes out dry, but there’s an underlying fondness there, too. It’s rare that someone can bring it out of her—not easily, granted, but it requires a certain combination of trust and respect, and few people meet her standards. Without looking, she reaches for her notepad to jot something down. "Did you clear your whole schedule just to escort me from the building?"

"My 'schedule' consists of going home, cooking and eating dinner, possibly drinking slightly too much, and then passing out for at least nine straight hours," Ratchet informs her, his own voice dry. "Nothing so inflexible that it can't be moved around a little here or there, as a special favor."

"I'm flattered."

She doesn't look up, but there's a faint smirk in her voice. It's not a bad post-shift routine; she usually follows a similar one herself, once she actually leaves. But after eight hours in the OR, the thought of cooking her own dinner sounds like hell. Takeout it is. Though even if Ratchet dropped her off at home now, she'd likely find some work to do until the excess energy burned off. She's exhausted, but at the same time, too wired to relax. Relaxing isn't her strong suit.

"I drove in today. Do you want a ride home?"

Ratchet pauses, his arms crossed over his chest and his blue eyes sharpening on her profile as he shifts a little, his mouth curving up despite himself.

"Please," he says, his smile crooked. "I'll make you some proper food as a thank-you if you'll stick around."

Pharma hums her interest in the affirmative, slowly turning a dial on the microscope before swapping another slide in.

"What a gracious host you are," she says, and it's still dry, always dry, but she's smiling slightly too, just barely hidden by her hair. "Does that dinner come with drinks?"

"I'm offended you'd think otherwise," Ratchet says, watching the curve of her mouth, the intense focus on her face unobstructed by her glasses or by any exhaustion she must be feeling. It's a long moment before he sucks in a breath and looks away, reminding himself firmly of where they still are despite Pharma's clear invitation and the warm bite in her voice.

If Pharma notices, it's hard to tell -- she doesn't miss a beat while working, and there's always a smug shade to her smile.

A few minutes later the centrifuge winds down with a loud chirp. Pharma, still locked onto the microscope, raises a hand and points in the general direction of the centrifuge.

"There's something for you to do. Mind getting that?"

"I offered, didn't I?" Ratchet's not foolish enough to say something snide about Pharma wanting to do it herself--the fact that she'd trust his results as easily as her own when she's this tired and annoyed says enough, and Ratchet doesn't let himself forget it. He finishes with the centrifuge and stores the samples, taking any necessary notes and leaving the questionably legible pad next to the one she's been scribbling on.

"Whenever you're ready," he says pointedly, not quite rushing her but very firmly letting her know that he isn't going to stand around all night while she 'just finishes up this last thing'.

Pharma refuses to be rushed, but she's already onto the last slide, jotting down notes in arcane shorthand to be entered into the file later, when she isn't holding up a potentially thrilling evening. Ratchet doesn't waste her time. She likes that about him.

She pushes back from the microscope and puts on her glasses, collecting the slides in a neat sweep of her hand to put back into storage. "I'm ready," she says, unruffled. "See? I told you I was nearly done. I wasn't going to while away my entire evening in the lab."

She's already shrugging off her lab coat, picking up her purse. Now that she's ready to go, she is going. Chop chop. She glances at him over the rim of her glasses. "You must be at least as tired as I am."

"Uh-huh. And what were you planning to do after your labwork was done? It sure as hell wasn't 'go home and relax because you're done for the day'," Ratchet says, rolling his eyes very slightly, but he follows her out and to her car.

"I didn't spend eight hours in surgery today, for the record," he says mildly as he settles into the passenger seat, buckling in literally and proverbially, watching her right back. "Clinic isn't the same."

"It's not," Pharma agrees with a slight face. "It's more exhausting than surgery."

People tend to assume that, being a woman, Pharma must be better with patients than some of the other doctors. That she must have some warmth in her bedside manner and the patience to deal with the general public. Unfortunately, she absolutely does not. The car, a modest but far from shabby sedan, rumbles to life as the engine turns over. Pharma turns on the heat with a negligent gesture as she checks the rearview mirror.

"And you like clinic," she points out, but now that they're clear of the hospital she sounds less strained, less annoyed. She's always high-strung, but it varies by degrees, and she seems to relax somewhat, or at least come into a better humor. The corner of her mouth quirks up just slightly, wryly. She's wearing dark lipstick today. "So what's for dinner tonight? Or are you going to surprise me?"

"I find it less stressful than a lot of the other things the job entails," Ratchet says--he's not sure if like is the word he'd use, because he's in deep denial about how much it seems to recharge him, to be able to help that many people in such a relatively short period.

"Chicken and vegetables over rice," he says, shrugging. "Nothing fancy. If you want surf and turf, you've gotta call ahead."

"I'm not feeling particularly picky," Pharma says with a short laugh that's too dignified to be a snort. She can be incredibly picky, but she doesn't usually burden Ratchet with that. She's just very...particular about what she buys for herself. "Make whatever you like. I'm just glad not to be cooking tonight. I find that I lose interest in it after hour six or so."

Her hands are tired. After whatever entertainment ensues at Ratchet's place, she fully intends on soaking in a hot bath, hands and all. Okay, so she knows how to relax with like, one thing.

"What a relief," Ratchet says dryly, but his eyes are warm as he watches her watch the road and settles in his seat, finally feeling the tension in his shoulders unwinding slowly himself. The drive isn't long and Ratchet's place isn't quite as sterile as Pharma's, but it's cozy. He gestures once they're inside.

"You know where the cabinet is, mixers are in the fridge and for the weak," he says, going to wash his hands and start pulling things out of his fridge.

Pharma laughs at that, a real laugh, short and amused. She drapes her jacket and purse over the back of a chair and steps out of her shoes, and then she goes straight for the gin with a tumbler in hand.

"What about you?" she asks over her shoulder, screwing the cap back onto the bottle. She is not drinking alone.

Ratchet can't help smiling as she laughs, the expression softening his whole face before he looks back at the stove.

"Scotch, please," Ratchet says without turning around as a pan starts to sizzle. "I should probably wait until I've eaten, or at least until I'm done cooking, but where's the fun in that?"

"You drink like a man twice your age," she remarks over the edge of her glass, drowning another laugh into her gin. She gets another glass and pours him a generous two fingers before capping off the bottle. She holds it out to him, her own glass half-raised, and she smiles. Pharma's smile isn't particularly warm or soft; it's sharp, open, a little ruthless, unshakably confident.

"Yes, because you're notorious for finding the fun in every situation." Utter hypocrisy, but Pharma smirks anyway, giving the glass a gentle shake. "No sense in falling behind only to have to play catchup later."

"Thank you?" Ratchet says, poking at the vegetables in the pan with one hand as he takes the glass with the other. "And, you do not 'play catchup' with scotch I have in my cabinet. Or the gin, for that matter."

He does take a sip though, feeling it burn down his throat as he slides the chicken into the pan. "Make yourself comfortable," he tells her, tilting his glass in her direction. "This won't take long."

"Proving my point," Pharma says, taking a full sip. Warmth spreads down her throat, into her back. She shivers involuntarily, just slightly, and leans her hip against the counter, watching him. "You know if I really wanted a head start, I'd be pouring the Russian Standard. But I'm not interested in a race tonight."

It's almost certainly indicative of a good mood, despite how annoyed she'd been back in the lab, to deliberately not turn this into a competition of some kind. Well, for now, anyway.

[ DEMON HUNTER DRIFT AU: PART II (SFW) ]

for ratchet

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