Work Text:
Don't want to know who's to blame
It won't help knowing
Don't want to fight day and night
Bad enough you're going
"Tell Me On a Sunday" - Michael Crawford
It wasn't that he came home--exhausted and still smelling the leaking energon of some of his more critical patients--to a silent apartment.
Or that the recharge chamber was empty of all evidence that another besides himself had ever rested there. Or that only his flannel hung in the washrack. Or that the datapads he'd become used to seeing scattered all over the desk in his office and the lounger in the front room had been removed.
It was the photoscreens that made something deep inside him ache. The photoscreens, hanging on the walls, undisturbed. Not even a hint of crookedness that suggested they'd been removed and considered and replaced. Nothing to suggest that he'd wanted something, some memento of their time together.