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[Earth, Autobot outpost Omega-1]
In the dim light of the living quarters, the fresh weld lines, still cooling, looked darker than one might have expected. Their heated interlacing across the silver-white protoform resembled an intricate engraving, its outline star-like: from an oval center on the right side of his chest, gradually thinning “rays” stretched outward in all directions. His armor was folded back, leaving that section of the protoform exposed to ease the work of the auto-repair system, and his door, shattered to pieces, was likely still lying on the now-abandoned platform in the medbay. And Ratchet did not even want to think about how many resources would be required to restore it. He certainly had no intention of leaving the base again. Ever.
This was not his first injury in the course of this endless war, nor were these his first scars, but never before had he left the medbay so thoroughly devastated in spirit. All that remained was to curse his own shortsightedness — and the backup reserve systems that had managed to reconstruct, second by second, every event that had occurred while synthetic energon had run wild through his fuel lines. Every gesture, every word. And without a doubt, he could hardly have sunk any lower.
The door panel, unlocked from the outside, slid into its grooves with a soft hiss. Ratchet sat with his back to the entrance, yet he required neither optics nor short-range scanners to identify his late visitor. No one else on the team would have come to him — not after what he had said and what he had done. Still, there was one mech who, remarkably, was never deterred by the temperamental medic’s outbursts. A warm EM field, heavy with affection, gently pressed against his own, tightly coiled close to his frame.
“It’s late, Ratchet.”
And the familiar gentleness in Optimus’s velvety voice fractured something intangible inside him — something that had been holding the medic together until now. He began to tremble, small and sharp, clutching the edge of the platform with both hands as the metal gave a faint creak beneath his fingers.
“You need to let yourself rest.”
Receiving no answer, Optimus stepped closer, moving around the berth, and his voice seemed to reverberate directly within the medic’s Spark chamber.
Ratchet did not lift his gaze, but he caught the azure glint at the edge of his optics and groaned inwardly. Of course. That well-meaning glitch had brought energon with him.
“I spent a full cycle in stasis,” Ratchet rasped, his vocoder hitching as he dismissed the restart prompt and slowly ventilated. “I don’t require rest.”
For a few seconds, Optimus remained motionless, gently nudging at the bond between their Sparks. Ratchet had kept his mental shields raised from the moment he had come back online at the base, but now, beneath his sparkmate’s attentive gaze, he felt the trembling intensify — and tightened his grip.
“You’re exhausted,” Optimus observed, still softly, as he inclined his helm and carefully lowered himself to one knee before the berth. “And you’re still under-fueled. Stasis is not the same as recharge — you know that better than I do.”
“Get up.” Following the movement, the medic flinched and reached out uncertainly, carefully grasping his partner’s red shoulder to pull him upright. “Oh, Primus… Get up, Optimus. You shouldn’t… please, stand.”
At that, the focused expression on Optimus’s faceplate softened, his lips curving into a familiar, faint smile. He gave a small shake of his helm, extended a cube of energon toward Ratchet, and with his free servo covered the medic’s knee, gently pressing his fingers against the sensitive cabling along the lower thigh.
“Refuel first. You look like you’re about to go offline.”
“I can’t,” the medic answered weakly, flicking a quick glance at the fuel. “I just can’t. I’m so…”
Optimus frowned slightly, but his servos did not waver. At such close proximity, his sparkmate’s electromagnetic field — even desperately compressed — told him exactly what Ratchet was trying and failing to say. He was still trying to conserve energon for the rest of the team, for potential emergencies. And he still, apparently, believed himself undeserving of an equal share — and Optimus, though he understood where that conviction came from, could not help but feel its mirrored guilt.
“You need to drink it,” he said quietly, yet with unyielding firmness. “Not only because our medic must always remain at peak condition. Your state genuinely concerns both the team and me. We have sufficient energon. There is no need to deny yourself fuel.”
To the Pit with all of it… how did he always manage to be so disarmingly sincere? Ratchet felt his own engine downshift; the sound he made in response carried reluctant, guilty compliance. Moving stiffly, he accepted the cube so insistently offered to him, and his sparkmate’s optics brightened. Optimus carefully nudged at their bond again, but the mental shields held fast.
“After everything I… after all of this…” Ratchet usually had a sharp tongue, yet now it was harder than ever to voice what needed to be said. “You should have left me in stasis.”
“I don’t believe so,” the Prime replied with the same calm steadiness, briefly lowering his gaze from the medic’s optics to trace the dark weld marks across the protoform of his chassis. “There is no mistake grave enough to condemn a mech to enforced stasis.”
“Mistake…?”
Ratchet refocused his optics sharply, as if unsure he had heard correctly. Optimus’s faceplate still bore an expression of attentive warmth, and the medic trembled again, armor giving a faint clatter.
“I dared to accuse you of indecision in front of the team,” he said, his voice breaking as his vocoder faltered and the rest of the sentence dissolved into distorted static. Ratchet clutched the broad hand still resting on his knee as though that touch alone kept him from completely losing balance. “In essence, I accused you of prolonging the war. I grossly violated the chain of command, and you…”
“May not entirely agree with your phrasing,” Optimus finished for him, lowering his optic ridges. Despite the sadness in his expression, he wordlessly pressed the cube more firmly into his partner’s hand, their fingers brushing again. “But in the end, there was truth in what you said. Then and now, I am ready to listen to you, Ratchet.”
“I… I said that you’re too soft to make the hard decisions,” Ratchet whispered, acutely aware of the stutter in his cooling fans. Each word pulsed through his vocalizer, as though the sharp edges of his own phrases were cutting him from the inside. “I didn’t mean it like that… Your compassion and your mercy infuriate me sometimes — because they seem impossible, impractical, doomed. But then… then I remember that they are what make you a Prime. They make you who you are meant to be. What none of us could ever become. You have always stood above cruelty, above rage, above… vengeance. And I… I struck at the very place where you are honest, where you are kind. Forgive me, Optimus. I am so… so sorry…”
He fell silent, unable to continue. His gaze dropped; his optics dimmed. The trembling intensified, spreading from his digits to his shoulders, along the cables of his neck, into the center of his chassis — as if even his Spark recoiled beneath the weight of its own guilt.
But Optimus did not move. He did not rise, did not pull away, did not leave. He remained exactly where he was — and that was unbearable, because Ratchet knew he did not deserve it.
For a moment, the Prime said nothing, his wise, immeasurably ancient gaze never leaving the medic. His servo, still tightly clasped in his sparkmate’s grip, continued its weightless motion over the white armor, carefully tracing the reflectors. He allowed the silence to fill the hab-suite, allowed the bitter words to settle between them like metal after the strike of a hammer — still incandescent, still alive. His fingers did not withdraw; instead, they tightened slightly, threading more firmly with Ratchet’s and sending a careful pulse of reassurance and acceptance.
“I am accustomed to your impetuous temperament,” he said at last, his EM field unfolding in a faint shimmer of sorrow and understanding. “You can be sharp. You can be ruthless in your phrasing. But you have never been indifferent. Not once. Indifference destroys faster than the harshest reproach. You may not realize it, but often it is your bluntness that keeps me anchored in reality.”
He inclined his helm slightly, their foreheads nearly touching, the bond between their Sparks flickering with soft pulses of warmth.
“When I hesitate, you remind me that time does not wait. When I grow weary, you demand that I not lower my servos. Your exacting standards — for yourself and for all of us — never allow complacency, and yet they have saved us from collapse more times than you know. I may lack resolve at times — but you have always carried enough for us both. I can misjudge, I can delay, I can search for a path where none exists. Yes, you spoke it aloud — and it hurt.”
The Prime ventilated a little deeper, but did not withdraw. He no longer tried to conceal the faint yet steady answering thrum of his Spark reaching for his sparkmate: do not be afraid, do not shut me out. Everything here remains as it has always been, you are needed here.
“But pain does not make truth a lie. And I would rather hear it from you than from an enemy. Because you seek to save, not to destroy. And I know that. Perhaps you did not mean to strike at the most vulnerable place… but, Ratchet, you perceive weakness as few others can. And I am not afraid to be vulnerable before you.”
Ratchet still did not raise his gaze, yet his frame began to sag. He seemed to fold inward, slowly yielding, as though realizing that Optimus’s words were not a rebuttal. They were absolution, freely given and sincere.
“I am grateful you have remained with me, even after all these exhausting years,” the Prime continued more quietly. “I hear now that what you said had been building for far too long. That is my failing. I should have told you sooner: you do not need to carry everything alone. You will always have an audiosensor willing to listen and a Spark capable of sharing your pain. Because to me, it is not a burden, but a sign of trust. And for that, I am more grateful than for any loyalty. I am sorry that you felt so alone. That is… inexcusable.”
His voice was gentle, yet utterly without hesitation. There was no bitterness in it, no trace of offense — only weariness, deep as the nights Cybertron once knew, and unfeigned acceptance.
And then the mental shields fell. They did not shatter — they dissolved, slowly, like snow beneath warm sunlight. The bond flooded full and fierce, strained with desperate anguish on one side and answered with fervent forgiveness on the other.
Still trembling, Ratchet straightened, released his sparkmate’s servo, and reached impulsively to wrap his arms around the Prime’s neck. The motion was sharp, unsteady, but irrepressibly sincere. Optimus allowed himself to be guided, returning the embrace — firm, careful, steadfast — bowing his helm so that his brow struck lightly against the center of Ratchet’s chestplate, where the Spark thrummed, uneven but strong. He ventilated softly; a warm current from the Prime’s cheek vents brushed over the delicate plates of the medic’s exposed protoform.
“The energon must have gone cold,” Optimus murmured, dimming his optics. “If you would prefer, I—”
Ratchet leaned over his helm, gently brushing his fingers along the audial, tilted slightly back. He found himself stunned, wondering what in his restless life had earned him such understanding. The bewilderment flowed openly across their bond, and Optimus surrounded it with steady pulses of profound respect and care.
“…The energon is fine, Optimus. There is no need to worry.”