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Optimus lay awake at night in his berth, the gentle sound of the crew fast asleep filled the base, but did little to dampen the blistering thoughts in his head. Pulling at the delicate wires and scratching at the circuitry, each one screamed the same thing:
You should have killed him.
The moment they defeated Unicron, the instant he crushed Bumblebee's voicebox, the day he created the Decepticon movement.
He was a fool to ever think he'd draw a line. Every single time he'd had hope he could change, Megatron found a new way to disappoint him. Every time he managed to weasel his way out. And Optimus felt like each time he'd let him. The mech he once knew was gone, he knew it, but still he held onto that fickle hope.
His eyes stared blank at the ceiling, dim and tired. He felt so much it made him feel sick.
The anguish.
The rage.
The regret.
It all was too much for him to process that it ultimately just made him feel numb. His body felt so heavy against the metal of his bed. His fans whirred loud in the midst of silence.
***
Ratchet always told him he could confide in him, and while he always would eventually, he never could find within himself the ability to say it all. The way part of him longed to watch Megatron crumple to his knees in defeat, hole torn through his very spark. He imagined the way he'd stare at him, scowling until the very end. Maybe he'd even smile, relishing in the anger that drenched Optimus’ field, knowing he was the one who finally made him crack.
Optimus grumbled, and got up from the bed, backstruts creaking with the force. He walked down the hall and half expected Ratchet to be up, though he only found mild disappointment instead. The base truly was quiet for once and it made his spark ache. He debated going to Ratchet’s room and asking to stay with him. The silence was relentless, eating at him like a swarm of scraplets, and before he realized it, he found himself at Ratchet’s door. Guilt creeped in as he punched in the code, and quietly made his way to his medic's berth. He didn't want to wake him up, but he knew he should have asked first to enter. He looked at him for a moment, listening to the gentle hum of idling engines, and sighed. Optimus wanted nothing more than to hold his hand. He sat down on the floor, knees pressed to his chest, and leaned his head against the bed. He closed his eyes, and let Ratchet’s field wash over him like soft waves on a storm battered shore.
Finally, his processor slowed. The visions of Megatron and the rest of the Decepticon's demise died down, and the rage he felt turned into pure exhaustion.
Would you look at me differently if I told you these things?
Would you see me as no better, if I took his spark? Showed them the same mercy as they’ve shown our friends, our family, our very home?
I am not sure what to do anymore.
Optimus found himself consumed by a mercifully dreamless sleep, for the first time in weeks.
He hoped it'd last.