Archive of Our Own

Windblade, despite being ever so grateful for the upgrades she has been granted by Primus himself, does not need heightened senses or tracking enhancements to notice that something aboard the Alchemor is seriously off.

They had left Earth not long ago. Repairs on the old prison ship had taken a bit longer than anticipated, but with the help of the many Caretaker Mini-Cons aboard, working diligently under Toolbox’s leadership, things had gone mostly smoothly.

Now, finally, they are back amongst the stars and on their way back home- to Cybertron.

The femme purses her derma thoughtfully as she enters the bridge, offering the two Caretaker Mini-Cons passing her a friendly smile before stepping farther inside.

The large frame of Optimus is impossible to miss.

The Prime stands right up front by the control panel, his broad silhouette outlined against the endless darkness of space beyond the viewing port. His servos rest idly at his sides as he gazes out into the distant stars in complete silence.

Around him, the Mini-Cons work diligently at navigation, moving between consoles and controls while engaging in idle chatter amongst themselves. Their voices mingle pleasantly with the low hum of the Alchemor’s systems and the occasional chirp of a console.

Optimus, however, does not seem to mind any of it. Or engage with it, for that matter.

He seems lost in thought. Absent, almost.

That alone makes Windblade’s optical ridges furrow.

Optimus is certainly no stranger to quiet contemplation, but this is different. There is a distant quality to his posture, his gaze fixed upon the stars without truly seeming to see them.

He does not even register the younger jet walking onto the bridge, nor does he acknowledge her approach.

Windblade slows as she nears his side, her expression gradually shifting from curiosity to concern.

“Optimus, sir?”

Nothing.

Her frown deepens. Carefully, Windblade reaches out and gently touches the Prime’s upper arm.

Optimus jolts. A small, startled gasp escapes his intake as his helm snaps towards her, blue optics widening as though he has only just been pulled back into the present.

Windblade instinctively withdraws her servo a little, her optical ridges furrowing with worry.

Optimus Prime is many things. Easy to startle is certainly not one of them.

“Oh, Windblade. My apologies- I must have been lost in thought. I did not hear you enter.”

Windblade’s expression loosens slightly, a little smile drawing across her derma as she steps up beside him and crosses her arms over her chassis.

“I assumed as much,” she replies, her optics flicking forward to follow the passing stars beyond the front window of the ship, her digits tightening ever so slightly around her arms.

Optimus notices the tension in her frame almost immediately. His expression shifts into concern, optical ridges creasing as he turns his attention fully towards the femme.

“You seem troubled, young friend. Is something the matter?”

Windblade’s optics shutter in surprise. Then she gives a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, turning back towards the Prime with one optical ridge raised.

“Me? I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Optimus tilts his helm in genuine confusion, not entirely unlike a Cyber-pup learning a new command for the first time and Windblade swallows the urge to smile at just how unlike the usually stoic Prime the comparison is.

Instead, she gestures vaguely towards him, the edges of her derma curling upward.

“Look, I’m by no means an expert on ‘Optimus Prime’-ese,” she begins, a hint of good-natured teasing slipping into her voice, “but I’d say our time together on the Away-Team gave me enough experience to recognize when something’s bothering you. And you’ve been acting... off ever since we left Earth.”

Something in Optimus’ expression tightens.

It is subtle- the faint twitch of his finials backward, the way his optics shift away from hers a little too quickly and settle instead upon the stars beyond the viewing port- but Windblade catches it.

Her suspicions immediately strengthen.

She bites back the instinctive urge to smile triumphantly at her small victory.

Force of habit. Must have picked that up from Slick, she thinks affectionately.

“I…” Optimus hesitates, his gaze remaining fixed rather deliberately upon the stars. “I am afraid I do not entirely understand what you mean, Windblade.”

The femme’s optical ridge travels higher up her faceplate, and Optimus is certain he can almost feel the disbelief radiating from her.

Windblade places one servo upon her hip and shifts her weight onto one pede, looking the Prime up and down as though searching for any further indication that she is onto something before continuing.

“Well, for starters, ever since we took off, you barely left the bridge. You’re not checking your comms, and whenever you are somewhere else on the ship, you’re sneaking around the halls as though you’re avoiding something…or someone.”

The Prime tenses. His massive shoulder pauldrons tighten almost imperceptibly at her words, his entire frame growing just a fraction more rigid and the blue biolights on his chassis flicker briefly.

Windblade’s derma quirks upward.

Ah. Another victory.

She decides to press on.

“Same goes for Ratchet. He’s barely leaving the medbay and hardly talking to anyone who isn’t, well, Undertone.”

Windblade hums, her gaze becoming increasingly knowing as the scattered little pieces slowly begin connecting within her processor.

Optimus glances towards her at the mention of the medic.

It is brief. Barely more than a flicker of blue optics in her direction before he catches himself and returns his attention to the stars, his expression tightened.

But Windblade sees it.

Gotcha…!

She crosses her arms over her chassis once more, her expression growing that much more smug.

“Considering everything you went through together back in the day- and how close Bee told us you two were- I would’ve assumed you had quite a lot to catch up on.” Her expression turns more inquisitive as she studies him. “But instead, now that you actually have the time to catch up, you both seem like you’re intentionally doing everything in your power to avoid each other.”

Windblade turns fully towards the Prime now, her wings twitching slightly behind her as her turbines give the faintest curious rev.

“Is there a reason for that?” she asks carefully. “Did you two have a fight before we left, or-?”

“No.”

The answer comes quickly enough to stop her.

Windblade’s optics shutter in surprise.

Optimus’ expression has changed.

His gaze remains fixed upon the stars beyond the viewing port, but whatever distant distraction had occupied his features before has given way to something far heavier. His derma press into a thin line. His finials lower. One massive servo curls slowly against the edge of the control panel.

When his voicebox clicks back to life, the tone that emerges is one Windblade cannot recall ever hearing from him before.

It is quiet. Tired. Almost...mourning.

“No,” Optimus repeats, softer this time. “We did not have an argument.”

A pause.

His thumb-digit drags absently along the edge of the console.

“It is…”

The words seem to catch somewhere inside his vocalizer.

Optimus has spoken before entire armies. He has negotiated treaties, addressed frightened populations, offered comfort to dying soldiers and delivered speeches when the fate of Cybertron itself rested upon what he said next.

Yet now, with only Windblade standing beside him, he cannot seem to find the words.

His optics flick briefly towards the bridge entrance, then immediately away again.

“I believe it is a little more…complicated than that.”

Something in Windblade’s expression softens and Optimus’ chassis rises beneath a slow intake.

“But I do not wish to burden you with the matter. It is highly personal, and certainly not something you need waste your time concerning yourself with-”

“Oh, trust me, Optimus,” Windblade interrupts gently. “If there’s one thing we’ve got right now, it’s plenty of time.”

Optimus looks at her.

“So, I’m all audials.”

There is no smugness in her expression anymore. Only an encouraging little smile as she reaches out and gently touches his forearm once more, giving the thick plating an affectionate pat.

Optimus’ gaze drops towards her servo, and his expression twists with uncertainty.

“I fear that now that I have returned…” His voice trails off, his gaze drifting back towards the stars. “There are things left unspoken between Ratchet and myself.”

Windblade remains silent.

Optimus’ finials lower another inch.

“And that Ratchet’s avoidance of me- his refusal to even look at me now- is a clear indication that the pain I brought upon him is still great.”

Windblade’s processor works quickly as she takes in the way Optimus’ expression grows ever so slightly more somber.

Then she notices something else.

She could swear to Primus that the faintest flush of blue has begun creeping across the Prime’s faceplate.

Her optical ridges rise.

“Such as…?” she asks slowly.

While the tales surrounding the revival of Cybertron are hardly unfamiliar to her, actual details of what truly transpired during those final moments are surprisingly scarce.

Understandably so, Windblade thinks.

Optimus’ expression tightens. His servo clenches once at his side before slowly traveling upward to rest against his chassis, directly over his sparkchamber.

Over the Matrix.

For several long kliks, he says nothing.

Windblade watches his thumb shift absently against his plating.

Optimus seems to turn the words over within his processor once. Twice. Then a third time, perhaps.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“I fear that this time…” His voice lowers. “I have hurt him too deeply to somehow remedy it.”

Windblade’s wings give the faintest twitch.

Optimus continues before she can interrupt.

“Ratchet and I…” Another hesitation. “We shared a deeper bond for many stellar-cycles. One that extended far beyond friendship or comradeship.”

His servo presses a little more firmly against the plating covering the Matrix.

His voice falters.

Even before their sparkbond, Ratchet had known that, as a Prime, Optimus belonged to the people and to Cybertron first and foremost. That when the time came, he would lay down his spark to save their home.

Ratchet had known that. And still, he had stood by Optimus’ side through it all.

Welcomed him back into his servos. Nursed him to health. Pieced him back together every time Optimus returned to him battered and broken, only to watch him march straight back into danger again.

Ratchet had never asked him to stop being a Prime. And somewhere within the comfort of that immutable devotion, Optimus had failed to see just how deeply his actions were hurting his conjunx.

He had grown accustomed to Ratchet always being there- to his care, his forgiveness, his steadfast presence at his side. So accustomed that, without ever meaning to, Optimus had begun to take that devotion for granted.

“I hurt him deeply.” His optics dim. “And I fear that in the stellar-cycles he spent mourning me, that grief eventually turned to anger.”

Windblade’s expression softens. 

“Not that I blame him,” Optimus adds quickly. “I could never blame him. I simply-”

He finally looks at her, only for a moment.

But this time, there is no mistaking the blue flush spreading openly across his faceplate.

Windblade’s optics widen by the smallest fraction.

Optimus Prime is blushing.

The realization seems to strike Optimus at roughly the same moment, because his optics immediately dart away from hers again. His servo drops from his sparkchamber to hang stiffly at his side.

“I simply wish things had gone differently,” he admits quietly.

The words carry none of the commanding resonance Windblade has grown accustomed to hearing from him.

“I wish there had been another way. I wish I could have stayed, somehow.” His derma press together. “I wish I had not hurt him in this way.”

A quiet ex-vent escapes him.

“But I did.”

His gaze lowers.

“And now… all I wish is to give Ratchet whatever space he requires to move beyond the bond we once shared.”

Windblade’s expression shifts.

Once shared. The phrasing does not escape her.

Neither does the faint bitterness that slips beneath Optimus’ carefully measured tone when he says it. His servo curls tightly against his palm.

“Even if doing so means…” He pauses, as though the admission physically pains him. “It is now my turn to mourn my conjunx.”

Ah. There it is.

Windblade’s wings lift ever so slightly behind her.

Optimus does not seem capable of looking at her anymore.

“I simply…” His voicebox catches, forcing him to stop and gather himself before continuing. “I simply do not want to hurt him anymore.”

His gaze lowers.

“If my presence alone causes him pain, then I would rather endure the distance myself than ask him to bear more of it for my sake.”

It is a painfully noble sentiment.

It would probably sound considerably more convincing if Optimus did not look so utterly miserable while saying it.

His finials have drawn so far backward that they nearly disappear behind his helm, his broad shoulders subtly hunched despite his attempts to maintain his usual dignified posture. His derma is pressed into a thin, unhappy line, and when his optics flick briefly towards the bridge entrance, there is something almost painfully hopeful in them.

As though some tiny, irrational part of him is still waiting for Ratchet to walk through those doors and prove every miserable conclusion he has reached entirely wrong.

And, Windblade realizes with slowly dawning surprise, there is something else beneath all that grief.

The faintest trace of annoyance.

Not true anger. Something wounded and distinctly sulky beneath all that noble self-sacrifice.

Because Ratchet is avoiding him.

Ratchet barely speaks to him. Barely looks at him. Apparently goes out of his way to remain within the medbay whenever Optimus is elsewhere on the ship, while Optimus himself has practically taken up permanent residence on the bridge in response.

And judging by the slight tightening of his derma whenever he speaks of giving Ratchet his precious ‘space,’ Optimus is not nearly as accepting of that arrangement as he is attempting to sound.

He understands why Ratchet might want nothing to do with him.

He believes Ratchet has every right to be angry with him.

He is determined to respect whatever distance Ratchet supposedly requires.

But Primus, it is painfully obvious that some much less rational part of Optimus is still hurt that Ratchet will not even speak to him.

Windblade merely looks at him for several long kliks in quiet surprise.

That-

She certainly had not expected that.

For all the possibilities her processor had begun conjuring since she first noticed the strange tension between the two old mechs, Optimus Prime quietly nursing a broken spark over Ratchet while simultaneously sulking because Ratchet is ignoring him had certainly not been near the top of the list.

Yet now that she sees it, she cannot exactly unsee it.

Especially when Optimus releases a low ex-vent through his intake and folds his arms across his chassis, looking out at the stars with all the solemn dignity of a Prime carrying the weight of Cybertron upon his shoulders-

While also openly pouting like a stubborn new-forge.

And while she cannot help but feel pity for the very obvious sparkbreak the Prime seems to be going through, another part of her processor is already beginning to work.

Already searching for some way to help.

Windblade hums softly and nods in understanding, allowing another moment to pass before she speaks.

“I see…” Her expression turns thoughtful. “Did you talk to him about any of this?”

Optimus’ expression tightens ever so slightly.

He shakes his helm.

“No. I felt perhaps it would be best if I did not speak to him anymore.” His finials lower further, a wounded little crease forming between his optical ridges. “He seemed upset with me before we left Earth, and I simply assumed he-”

“So you’re not actually sure about any of this?”

Optimus stops.

Windblade’s optical ridge quirks upward, her expression becoming just the slightest bit scrutinizing.

“I-” Optimus’ derma part before pressing together again. “No. But-”

Windblade stares at him and Optimus stares determinedly at anything but her.

The femme’s processor promptly begins rearranging everything he has just told her.

So Ratchet has not actually told Optimus that he wants nothing to do with him. Optimus has not actually asked Ratchet what he wants. Neither of them has spoken about what remains of the bond between them.

Instead, Optimus has apparently taken Ratchet’s avoidance, combined it with his own guilt over events that transpired stellar-cycles ago, reached the most painful conclusion imaginable, and decided the kindest course of action is to quietly remove himself from Ratchet’s life without ever confirming whether that is what the medic wants in the first place.

And judging by the way Optimus’ finials remain pinned backward and his derma have settled into the faintest unhappy pout, he is not nearly as content with that supposedly selfless decision as he would like her to believe.

Windblade’s wings give the slightest amused twitch.

Oh, Primus.

Optimus Prime- legendary leader of the Autobots, bearer of the Matrix of Leadership, hero of Cybertron- is standing in front of her throwing himself a Prime-sized pity party because he is hopelessly, painfully lovesick.

Lovesick, hurt that Ratchet is ignoring him, and apparently too convinced of his own guilt to consider the rather obvious solution of simply asking the medic what is wrong.

That is almost…Cute.

In a secondhand-embarrassment sort of way, considering both of these mechs are millions of stellar-cycles older than her and are somehow still acting like this.

Windblade’s derma threaten to curl upward. She quickly presses them together.

She offers Optimus a small, sympathetic smile, trying her absolute best not to allow even a hint of her growing amusement to bleed through.

Optimus ex-vents tiredly.

Then he gives Windblade a look she has never seen on him before.

It is the sort of look a sparkling might wear after being caught attempting to sneak an energon treat before recharge- guilty, defensive, and faintly hopeful that perhaps if he simply says nothing, the entire situation will somehow be forgotten.

The effect is only made worse by the soft blue flush now glowing beneath his optics.

How insanely undignified.

Still, somehow, she has far too much respect for Optimus to openly tease him about it.

That does not, however, stop her from carefully filing this particular piece of information deep within the back of her processor for future use.

Especially the next time Optimus attempts to lecture Sideswipe about behaving childishly.

Windblade graciously decides to spare the Prime any further commentary and merely shrugs her shoulder pauldrons, her optics flickering with amused affection for the obviously struggling mech beside her.

“If you don’t want to talk to Ratchet about this…” she begins carefully, “how about I try?”

Optimus’ optical ridges furrow in open confusion.

“For you,” Windblade clarifies. “Kind of like a messenger. I could talk to him, see where his processor’s at, maybe figure out what’s going on with him?”

Optimus’ expression tightens immediately. This time, the embarrassment is unmistakable.

It mingles across his faceplate as he turns away again, shaking his helm slightly at the mere suggestion of having Windblade play messenger for his relationship troubles.

“I cannot ask something so juvenile of you, Windblade.” His voice regains a measure of its usual Prime-like dignity, though the blue blush still lingering beneath his optics rather undermines the effect. “I am perfectly capable of speaking to Ratchet myself. I merely…”

He trails off.

Windblade waits.

Optimus catches her gaze and nearly flinches.

The look of open disbelief the femme is giving him is impressive. Her optical ridges are raised high upon her faceplate, her derma pursed into a thin, scrutinizing line in a manner that, rather unfortunately, reminds Optimus quite strongly of his old friend Prowl.

Windblade does not say a word, she does not need to.

Optimus’ finials lower further.

“I… merely have not yet found an appropriate opportunity,” he finishes, considerably less confidently.

Windblade’s expression does not change.

“I offered, Optimus,” she reminds him gently, finally taking mercy on him. “And I was planning on checking up on Ratchet anyway. So I’ll talk to him, see how he’s doing, and maybe try to figure out how he’s feeling about all of this.”

The Prime remains unconvinced, so Windblade gives his forearm another reassuring pat.

“I promise I’ll be tactful about it. You know me.”

Optimus studies her for a long moment. His optics flicker with contemplation, pride visibly warring with the obvious desire to know what Ratchet is thinking.

Having Windblade act as an intermediary for his unresolved romantic troubles is humiliating.

Juvenile.

Entirely unnecessary.

He is Optimus Prime. He has negotiated peace treaties between warring factions. He has addressed entire civilizations. He has stood before Megatron himself without allowing so much as a tremor into his voice.

Surely he is perfectly capable of walking into the medbay and having one honest conversation with the mech he has been sparkbonded to for millions of stellar-cycles.

His gaze drifts towards the corridor leading away from the bridge.

…Apparently he is not.

Optimus still shakes his helm, turning slightly away from her as though physically ending the conversation might somehow be enough to actually end it.

“I appreciate your offer, young friend, but this is a battle I must fight on my own.”

His tone is gentle, but final.

Windblade ex-vents. Still she nods her helm, trying her absolute best to conceal the flicker of frustration working its way through her field.

Broody-mus Prime…

Windblade nearly winces at her own processor.

Primus, I really need to stop spending so much time with Sideswipe.

“I understand, Optimus.” She gives him a small, respectful dip of her helm. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts for now.”

She turns on her heel, though not before casting one final look over her shoulder at the Prime.

As expected, Optimus has already gone right back to sulking.

Windblade suppresses the urge to click her glossa in annoyance.

Battle I must fight on my own, indeed.

She continues towards the exit.

The bridge doors slide open to allow her through before clicking shut behind her with a metallic hiss.

Windblade takes precisely two steps down the corridor. Then she turns sharply on her heel and immediately makes a beeline towards the medbay.

While having the Prime’s approval is certainly always a good thing, Windblade reasons, it is not technically required for her to conduct a little investigative work of her own.

After all, Optimus had refused her offer to act as his messenger.

He had not explicitly forbidden her from speaking to Ratchet.

It is the least she can do for Optimus.

And if helping him means figuring out- and perhaps fixing- his relationship problems for him because the ancient, wise, legendary Prime apparently cannot bring himself to walk a few corridors down and have an honest conversation with the mech he loves…

Well, Windblade supposes she will simply have to do it herself.

Unlike Optimus, Ratchet’s attention snaps immediately towards Windblade the moment she enters the medbay.

Almost too immediately.

As though the medic has been running on high alert for anyone- or perhaps someone in particular- walking through those doors.

At the moment, Ratchet is occupied with repairing one of the Caretaker Mini-Cons. The little mech sits patiently atop a med-berth while Ratchet works at the plating along his arm with a tiny handheld tool- a buffer, perhaps- carefully smoothing out a damaged section of orange plating.

His own Mini-Con partner, Undertone, stands farther inside the medbay, sorting medical instruments with quiet efficiency. The white Mini-Con does not so much as give Windblade the time of solar-cycle when she enters, remaining silently engrossed in arranging the tools before him.

“Hi, Ratchet.”

Windblade offers the medic a confident smile, neatly concealing both the true intention behind her visit and the smug little satisfaction of knowing considerably more about Ratchet’s current predicament than the medic thinks she does behind a perfectly innocent mask.

Ratchet’s optical ridges rise slightly.

Windblade sends the Caretaker Mini-Con sitting on the med-berth a little smile as well, one that is easily returned when the bot raises his free servo and gives her an enthusiastic wave.

Her attention then shifts towards the white Mini-Con farther inside the room.

“Undertone.”

Ratchet’s partner pauses and he looks up just long enough to give her a curt nod of his helm. Then he immediately returns to his task.

Ratchet, meanwhile, gives a quiet hum. Whatever tension had briefly entered his frame when the medbay doors first opened seems to loosen once he realizes it is only Windblade, his expression softening as he returns his attention to his patient.

The tiny tool in his servo gives a faint mechanical whir as he carefully works it along the orange plating of the Caretaker Mini-Con’s arm.

“Windblade. What a pleasant surprise.” Ratchet glances towards her again, his tone considerably warmer now. “What brings you here? Do you require medical attention?”

Windblade studies him for a moment.

His demeanor is remarkably mellow. Certainly far more so than she had anticipated, considering the way Optimus described Ratchet’s recent behavior towards him.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The corner of Windblade’s derma begins curling into a smirk. She quickly catches herself and softens it into a pleasant smile instead.

Cannot break character too soon.

“Oh, no, no. I’m fine.” She takes another casual step into the medbay, clasping her servos loosely behind her back. “I just wanted to come check up on you. Haven’t exactly seen you leave the medbay in cycles, y’know?”

Ratchet’s servo pauses against the Mini-Con’s arm for a fraction of a klik.

Windblade notices immediately but her smile remains perfectly innocent.

Ratchet gives a curt huff, one optical ridge rising as a lightly scrutinizing look passes over her before his attention returns to the little Caretaker Mini-Con sitting before him.

“Well, I am certainly not running out of work to do…” he says pointedly.

The Mini-Con gives a sheepish little laugh.

“When I’m not fixing scrapes or buffing out dents, I’m working on repairs. The Alchemor took that Cryogas explosion worse than we initially anticipated.” Ratchet gives the buffer another careful pass over the damaged orange plating before inspecting his work. “…at least it keeps me busy. I get restless easily.”

He trails off.

His aqua optics flick upward towards Windblade, narrowing slightly when he realizes she has wandered closer. The younger femme leans just enough to peer over his shoulder at his work, watching him with open curiosity in a way that reminds Ratchet rather painfully of how Bumblebee used to hover around him back on Earth whenever he wanted something from him.

Windblade’s turbines give a quiet little rev as she offers the older medic another smile, her expression impossibly innocent.

“Well, it’s admirable. We’re glad to have you here.”

Ratchet’s expression grows slightly flustered. His free servo rises almost instinctively, waving away the praise before it can properly settle.

“Oh, puh-lease. Above all else, I am a medic.” He turns his attention firmly back towards the Mini-Con’s arm. “It is the least I can do.”

Windblade sees the opening.

And being the seasoned warrior that she is, decides to go for it.

She steps just a little bit closer, her pleasant smile finally beginning to curl mischievously around the edges. Her shoulder pauldrons rise in a casual shrug as her optics wander towards the ceiling, as though the thought has only just occurred to her.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She hums. “You do seem pretty special.”

Ratchet’s optical ridge quirks inquisitively. 

“At least according to Mister Tall-and-Broody over in the command center.”

Ratchet freezes. Completely.

The buffer stops halfway across the Caretaker Mini-Con’s arm.

For one glorious klik, the old medic looks as though someone has struck him point-blank with the Immobilizer.

Windblade has to bite down hard on the inside of her intake to keep herself from laughing.

Oh. There it is.

If Optimus’ reaction to Ratchet’s name had been revealing, then Ratchet’s reaction to the mere implication of Optimus talking about him may as well have been a full confession broadcast over the Alchemor’s intercom.

Even the Caretaker Mini-Con glances curiously between them.

“...What?”

The single word comes out considerably sharper- and perhaps half an octave higher- than Ratchet likely intended.

Windblade’s wings twitch delightedly behind her.

This is going to be much easier than she thought.

The femme innocently shrugs her shoulder pauldrons once more, pursing her derma playfully as her optics follow the metal plating of the ceiling for a klik before flicking back down to meet Ratchet’s wide aqua ones.

“I’m just saying, you must be a slagging good medic if you can manage to make a Prime sulk over you…”

She tuts lightly, one blue optical ridge arching upward as she watches the horror slowly dawn across Ratchet’s faceplate with each passing klik.

Ratchet’s light grey faceplate promptly tints aqua. His optics widen before he whips his helm towards the orange Mini-Con sitting between them, his derma twisting into a tight, painfully professional smile.

“You’re dismissed. Just don’t put too much pressure on that arm, and you should be fine.”

The Caretaker Mini-Con blinks at him but Ratchet is already turning towards his own Mini-Con partner.

“Undertone, would you be so kind as to escort our patient out?”

The request comes quickly.

His optics flick towards Windblade with a warning glare, one the jet merely returns with a little knowing smile of her own as she leans back, folding her arms comfortably across her chassis.

Undertone raises his servo in a little salute, apparently either oblivious to or wisely choosing not to involve himself in whatever strange tension has suddenly descended upon the medbay.

He quickly skips over and ushers the orange Caretaker Mini-Con towards the exit, the pair disappearing through the medbay doors in a blur of white and orange.

The doors hiss shut behind them.

Silence settles over the medbay.

Ratchet then slowly turns back towards Windblade and his faceplate is still very flushed.

“Did he send you?” he asks slowly, his optics tightening into scrutinizing little slits as he watches her expression carefully, almost as though daring her to lie about it.

Windblade hums and shakes her helm before leaning back against the examination table.

“I offered, but he declined.” She crosses one pede casually over the other. “So I decided to take matters into my own servos.”

Her helm tilts inquisitively at the medic.

Ratchet stares at her for a long klik.

Then he releases a long, suffering ex-vent and drags one servo down the side of his faceplate, as though he might physically wipe away the stubborn aqua blush still glowing across his face.

His optical ridges furrow at the femme instead, and Windblade merely smiles right back at him.

“There’s only so much of Optimus Prime sulking and pouting that I can take.” She raises one servo and gestures loosely at Ratchet. “So- are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to start prying?”

Ratchet’s optics narrow another fraction.

Something tells him that not answering is only going to make Windblade considerably more determined to find the answer herself.

His gaze leaves her as he decides to study the tool-wall instead, his expression softening ever so slightly.

“I assume he told you about…” Ratchet hesitates. “Us.”

Windblade hums, nodding her helm. Ratchet resets his voicebox once, attempting to rid it of the stubborn tremble that has suddenly worked its way into his vocals.

It does not quite work.

“Well- it should come as no surprise to you, then, that I am angry with him.” Ratchet’s tone turns curt. “That’s all there is to it.”

“...”

He says it as though that settles the matter.

Windblade does not move.

Ratchet remains silent for another klik. Then another.

Windblade merely waits as if some instinct tells her there is a rant coming. She is proven correct almost immediately.

Ratchet abruptly throws both servos into the air.

“I mean- what does he expect of me?!”

Windblade’s optical ridges rise.

Ratchet begins pacing in front of her, his expression tightening with every step.

“That I just- bounce back? That I fall straight back into his arms and pretend nothing happened?” Ratchet seethes, planting one servo firmly on his hip while the other gestures wildly through the air. The blue biolights along his chassis flicker with his mounting frustration, accompanied by the agitated blinking of his warning lights. “How many times does he expect me to go through losing him? Over and over and over again!”

His pedes strike the medbay floor with increasingly irritated metallic thuds.

“For Primus’ sake, the number of times I have had to watch his blatant disregard for his own safety- or my feelings, for that matter- I mean-”

Ratchet turns to Windblade, throwing one servo towards her as though appealing to a jury.

“Wouldn’t anyone be angry?”

Windblade wisely nods her helm, giving him all the room he needs to continue.

“For crying out loud, I thought he was dead!” Ratchet snaps. “Dead for stellar-cycles! I mourned him for stellar-cycles! And then he comes back and acts as though nothing happened?!”

His voicebox cracks around the final word.

Ratchet falters for barely a klik before frustration carries him onward.

“He always does this! Running off, being his altruistic, brave, and so stupidly, stubbornly responsible self without thinking for even a single klik about what it does to the bots who love and care for him!”

His servo strikes his own chassis.

“...What it does to me.”

The words reverberate through the medbay. Ratchet goes still.

For a moment, the only sound is the faint hum of the Alchemor beneath their pedes and the uneven cycling of Ratchet’s vents.

Then a long, exhausted ex-vent escapes him. All the furious energy seems to leave his frame at once.

Ratchet turns and lets himself slump back against the workbench, both servos rising to cover his faceplate.

“Primus…”

His shoulders sag.

“I love that mech,” he mutters through his servos, the anger in his voice finally giving way to something much more tired. Much more wounded. “But my old spark can only take so much.”

Windblade’s expression softens.

Ratchet drags his servos slowly down his faceplate, revealing dimmed aqua optics and an expression caught somewhere between exhaustion, affection, and the desire to personally throttle Optimus Prime.

“...And him apparently just- sulking because I’m rightfully angry with him does not make it better.”

Windblade lets Ratchet take a few vents for a moment.

Quite frankly, she needs a moment to digest all the information he has just thrown at her as well.

She watches him for several long kliks, her optical ridges furrowing as her processor works through the medic’s rant before she finally pushes herself away from the examination table and approaches him.

Her servo settles gently against his shoulder pauldron.

“Have you told him that?” she asks slowly.

Ratchet scoffs.

Not really at her, Windblade realizes. His frustration is simply beginning to stir all over again at the mere mention of Optimus.

“Of course not. He can figure that out himself- he’s old enough.” Ratchet’s derma pull back from his denta in irritation. “Frankly- I don’t want to see his dumb aft again until he apologizes to me.”

He glares towards the medbay doors as though, with enough determination, he might somehow glare directly at his conjunx through several walls of the Alchemor.

Windblade stares at him.

Then she ex-vents with such profound exasperation that her shoulders slump along with it.

“Ratchet- one of you has to make the first step.” Her servo falls away from his shoulder. “And Optimus has quite literally put himself into self-exile because he thinks you hate him.”

Ratchet grunts.

His faceplate grows steadily more aqua at the revelation, though whether from embarrassment, indignation, or the sudden realization that he apparently still possesses this much power over his conjunx is difficult to determine.

Probably all three.

“Pff. Well, maybe I do.”

Windblade’s optical ridges shoot upward and Ratchet folds his arms stubbornly across his chassis.

“I am not running after him again this time.”

With that, he turns curtly on his heel and marches towards the medical tools Undertone had been sorting earlier, suddenly appearing extremely interested in their organization.

Windblade watches him go and her optics narrow.

She recognizes that maneuver. Optimus had attempted practically the same thing less than a cycle ago.

Apparently, turning one’s back on an uncomfortable conversation and pretending to be preoccupied with something else to avoid talking to eachother is a shared feature of their sparkbond.

Windblade sends him a long, judgmental look but ultimately decides that this particular battle seems lost.

“I’ll… leave you to your own sulking, then,” she murmurs.

Ratchet responds with another irritated grunt, already pretending to be thoroughly engrossed in rearranging Undertone’s perfectly organized medical tools.

Windblade turns on her heel and makes her way back out of the medbay.

Well, maybe this is not going to be quite as easy as she had initially thought.

But seriously- how was she supposed to anticipate that Ratchet was going to be this stubborn?

The medbay doors slide open with a mechanical hiss, allowing Windblade through before sealing shut again behind her.

The moment they do, she stops.

Windblade drags a servo slowly down the side of her faceplate as she leans back against the wall beside the door. A soft, exhausted groan leaves her intake before two digits rise to rub tiredly over her optics.

“Primus… and to think these are the mechs who saved Cybertron and defeated Unicron.”

She allows her helm to thunk lightly against the wall behind her.

“Note to self: never get conjunxed.”

Windblade remains there for another klik, seriously reconsidering every decision that has led her to somehow becoming involved in the marital problems of two mechs several million stellar-cycles older than her.

Then her wings twitch and her helm lifts.

Windblade stills as her heightened senses pick up the unmistakable feeling of a presence somewhere to her right.

Undertone looks up at her with wide, attentive yellow optics, blinking owlishly at the jet.

His optics flick towards the medbay doors beside her, then back towards Windblade.

Windblade ex-vents and shakes her helm. “No chance.”

Undertone’s shoulder pauldrons slump slightly. Apparently, the Mini-Con has been trying the same thing she has- with equally little success.

They remain like that for a moment, united in silent exasperation over Ratchet’s stubbornness.

Then Undertone suddenly perks up.

He raises a single digit, his entire frame straightening as though he has just been struck with an idea.

Windblade tilts her helm at him as Undertone turns and points down the hallway behind him, towards the storage area.

She follows his gesture, her blue optical ridges furrowing in confusion as she attempts to decipher the silent Mini-Con’s suggestion.

The medbay…

Then the storage area…

And from there, the adjoining hallway leading to the command center.

Her optics trace the path once. Twice.

Then it clicks.

Windblade’s optical ridges shoot upward. Her derma slowly curl into a knowing little smirk.

“Oh…”

Undertone looks up at her expectantly.

Windblade pushes herself away from the wall, her turbines beginning to rev with barely contained excitement as the Mini-Con’s little masterplan fully assembles itself within her processor.

She reaches down and gives Undertone an enthusiastic, approving pat on the shoulder pauldron.

“Undertone- you devious little genius…!”

The Mini-Con’s faceplate flushes lightly in embarrassment. He quickly waves away the praise with a sheepish little gesture, ducking his helm as though whatever scheme he has just proposed is really nothing worth making a fuss over.

Windblade’s grin only grows.

A moment later, Undertone takes hold of her servo and begins leading her down the corridor towards the storage area.

Windblade follows willingly.

Perhaps this battle is not quite as lost as she thought.

“Windblade, I do not wish to question your reasoning, but do you truly think it is wise to ask me to help with this…?”

Optimus speaks slowly, uncertainty bleeding openly through his voicebox as he makes his way down one of the Alchemor’s hallways, one servo raised to press against his audial finial.

His expression tightens into one of practiced neutrality as he passes another little group of Mini-Cons, giving them a polite nod of his helm.

The Mini-Cons eagerly return it. Then they exchange little looks of barely concealed excitement amongst themselves before quickly rolling off past him.

Optimus glances after them.

Curious.

But he does not dwell on it. Instead, he takes another left turn, following the corridor towards the storage area.

His comm-link crackles to life once more, and Windblade’s voice filters through his audial channel.

“Who else should we ask? You’re the only other mech here, and I doubt the Mini-Cons are a safe option to help Ratchet carry around stuff heavier than they are. Plus he already refused my help…” There is a brief pause before unmistakable teasing enters her voice. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’re scared to even be in the same room as him.”

Optimus’ optical ridges lower.

The juvenile jab is not lost on him and the Prime fights the sudden urge to roll his optics.

“Of course not,” he replies curtly, his derma twisting into a little frown. “I will be there shortly. Please try to stop him from lifting anything too heavy in the meantime. He has had problems with his knee joints and shoulder pressurizers for some time now, and-”

“Okay, okay- got it, Casanova. Just hurry up.”

The comm-link clicks into silence.

Optimus stops walking. His servo remains pressed against his audial finial for a long, disbelieving klik.

Casanova?

A heavy ex-vent escapes him. Windblade has clearly been spending far too much time around Sideswipe.

He lowers his servo and resumes walking.

He supposes encountering Ratchet is inevitable. The Alchemor may be large, but it is not that large, and there are only so many corridors either of them can retreat down before they eventually find themselves sharing the same room.

Besides…

Optimus’ expression softens.

Even if Ratchet hates him. Even if Ratchet has moved on beyond their bond. Even if Ratchet wishes to avoid him entirely.

Optimus still cares far too deeply to stand by and allow his conjunx to injure himself over something as trivial as taking stock in a storage area.

Not when Optimus can prevent it.

Ratchet grunts as he shoves the small crate of supplies back onto the shelf above him before turning to look down at Undertone standing by his side.

One optical ridge quirks inquisitively as the Mini-Con points back towards the shelves, gesturing insistently with both servos.

“Oh, for the love of- Undertone, you know I am always glad to help you, but this really seems like a waste of time. We took inventory of our stock yesterday. I doubt much has changed since then.”

Ratchet plants both servos on his hips before following Undertone’s pointing digit towards another crate sitting on one of the higher shelves.

His optics narrow as he reads the label.

“Seriously- what do you need…” He squints. “‘Rust protectant’ for this urgently?”

Undertone crosses his arms over his chassis defensively.

Ratchet stares at him and Undertone stares right back.

After a klik or two, Ratchet rolls his optics with a groan.

“Fine, fine. But we’re done here after-”

Ratchet stops mid-reach.

Heavy pede-steps echo from somewhere beyond the storage-room doors.

Slow. Measured. And very familiar.

Ratchet’s optics widen.

His raised servo freezes inches away from the crate.

Optimus steps through the doorway-

And freezes just as abruptly.

His optics immediately land on Ratchet’s form, one arm still stretched above his helm towards a small crate on the shelf.

A crate that is clearly not particularly heavy.

One Ratchet is quite obviously capable of retrieving himself. One that he most certainly does not require Optimus’ assistance with.

Everything happens very quickly after that.

Undertone looks at Optimus, then up at Ratchet whose optics snap downward towards the Mini-Con.

“Undertone-”

The Mini-Con bolts.

He darts straight past Ratchet in a blur of white, races across the storage room, ducks beneath Optimus’ legs before the much larger mech can react, and disappears into the corridor.

Optimus twists around after him.

“Wait-!”

With a sharp metallic hiss, the storage-room doors slide shut directly behind him.

A heavy clunk follows.

Optimus and Ratchet both go still.

Silence.

For several long kliks, neither mech moves.

Then Optimus slowly turns his helm towards the sealed doors. Ratchet’s raised servo drops from the shelf.

Their optics meet.

And with slowly dawning horror, both mechs arrive at precisely the same realization:

They have been set up.

The silence that follows immediately after is nothing short of agonizing.

Optimus’ frame all but shrinks beneath Ratchet’s burning glare, and the medic is quick to cross his arms tightly over his chassis before stubbornly turning away from the Prime.

Optimus’ blue optics linger on Ratchet for a moment longer.

His intake opens, then closes again.

His conjunx’s name burns against his glossa, along with a thousand other things he desperately wishes he could say. The tips of his digits tingle with the longing to reach forward, to close the unbearable distance between them and simply hold Ratchet in his arms again.

To feel him there.

Alive. Warm. His.

“Ratchet, I-”

Optimus barely gets the words out before Ratchet cuts him off.

Aqua optics, narrowed into furious slits, dart towards him in warning. Ratchet pulls one servo free from where it rests across his chassis and points sharply towards the door.

“Just- open the door.”

His expression sours further as he turns away again, choosing instead to stare at the wall of storage crates.

Optimus visibly deflates, still he does as he is asked.

“Yes…” The word leaves him quietly.

He turns towards the door panel with a disappointed ex-vent.

But before he can so much as touch it, the overhead lights flicker.

Once, Twice. Then they shut off entirely with a low metallic hum.

Darkness engulfs the storage room.

The only light comes from two pairs of glowing optics and the matching biolights scattered across their frames, painting faint blue and aqua reflections across the surrounding metal.

Ratchet releases a long, exhausted groan.

“Oh, for Primus’ sake…”

He pushes past Optimus, his shoulder pauldron knocking against the Prime’s frame as he reaches the door panel and begins punching in the release code.

Nothing.

The display flashes a refusal.

Ratchet’s derma pull back. He enters it again.

Still nothing.

“Oh, what did you do this time?!” he seethes, stabbing the code into the panel once more.

Optimus’ optical ridges rise. He shakes his helm immediately, both servos lifting defensively as he takes a small step back from the panel.

“Ratchet, I did nothing. But please, be careful.” Concern overtakes his embarrassment almost instantly. “It is dark, and I do not want you to injure yourself if you fall. The lights have only just gone out, and-”

He reaches instinctively towards his conjunx, one servo moving to steady him by the shoulder.

Ratchet immediately shrugs the comforting touch away so Optimus’ servo hangs uselessly in the air between them.

“I’m fine, Optimus.”

Ratchet shoots him a glare before turning his attention stubbornly back towards the panel.

His digits punch in the code again.

ACCESS DENIED.

Again.

ACCESS DENIED.

Ratchet’s vents flare.

Then, beneath his breath- quietly, almost as though he does not actually intend for Optimus to hear it- he mutters:

“Not like you care much for my well-being anyway…”

Optimus freezes.

His optics widen. His finials twitch sharply backward at the sheer bitterness in Ratchet’s voice.

For several kliks, he simply stares at the medic’s back.

Then he steps away. The servo he had reached towards Ratchet slowly lowers back to his side, his digits curling weakly into his palm.

His derma twist into a thin, wounded line. Whatever Optimus had been preparing to say dies completely in his voicebox.

With a loud metallic clang, Ratchet hammers his fist against the display in open frustration.

The door lock flashes again.

ACCESS DENIED.

Then another message flickers across the screen.

DOOR LOCK: MANUAL OVERRIDE.

Ratchet goes still and his optics widen as realization settles over him.

This was planned, all of it. 

His processor begins to heat with rapidly mounting anger.

One bot immediately comes to mind. No, Two.

Ratchet quickly turns his helm, glaring over his shoulder towards the security camera nestled in the back corner of the storage room. His optics narrow dangerously at the tiny lens with absolute certainty that whoever orchestrated this little scheme is probably watching them right now in wicked glee.

Oh, they are going to regret this.

This is exactly what he did not want.

He wanted Optimus to come to him naturally.

He wanted space. Time to cool off. Time to work through the anger and grief that had been festering in his spark since Optimus returned so that, eventually, he could accept him back without wanting to simultaneously kiss him and throttle him.

To love him fully again.

To renew the promise they had made to one another in peace. To simply enjoy having his conjunx back.

But being forcibly shoved together in a dark, stuffy storage room while both of their emotions are already running dangerously high?

This is a disaster.

Ratchet snarls and whirls back towards Optimus, gesturing sharply at the sealed door.

“Open it.”

Optimus blinks.

“Rip it open, punch it open- for Primus’ sake, shoot it open!” Ratchet throws both servos towards the door in exasperation. “I don’t care about the damage, just get us out of here!”

Nothing. Silence.

Ratchet’s expression sours further.

“Optimus?”

He turns away from the door to glare at the Prime-

Only to freeze once more.

Optimus is looking at him.

And whatever angry remark had been sitting on Ratchet’s glossa promptly dies.

The Prime’s expression is somber with open pain. Those pretty blue optics Ratchet has spent far too many stellar-cycles missing are dimmed with grief, his derma curled into a wounded frown, his finials tilted tightly backward against his helm.

Optimus simply stands there.

Looking as though Ratchet had reached directly into his chassis, torn out his spark, and crushed it between his servos.

Ratchet’s anger falters.

Optimus’ derma part.

“...Ratchet…”

His voice is low, so painfully soft.

A shudder runs down the sensor line of Ratchet’s backstrut.

He stares at his conjunx.

“Do you truly hate me so much…” Optimus begins, his voice trembling towards the end despite his attempt to control it, “that you would rather have the door destroyed than remain in the same room with me?”

Ratchet’s optics widen.

What?

Optimus’ expression twists further before Ratchet can answer, pain flickering openly through his optics as one servo rises to cover his sparkchamber.

“I…” His voicebox catches. “I do not blame you.”

“Optimus-”

“I simply…” Optimus’ digits curl against his chassis. “I am so, so unbelievably sorry, Ratchet. For everything.”

Ratchet’s intake closes.

“You deserved so much better than what I gave you.”

And Ratchet’s spark aches.

Not metaphorically.

Not merely from the sight of Optimus standing before him looking utterly sparkbroken.

It aches. Something deep within his chassis pulls taut.

Ratchet sucks in a startled vent, one servo instinctively rising towards his own sparkchamber as a sensation he has not felt in far too long suddenly stirs within him.

Their sparkbond.

Dormant ever since Optimus had plunged into the Well of AllSparks, that once-vibrant connection had become little more than an empty place inside Ratchet’s spark. A hollow space where the presence of his conjunx had once lived.

Now, suddenly, painfully-

It blooms back to life.

Ratchet’s frame shudders.

Primus, it hurts. It hurts so much.

Grief. Guilt. Fear. Longing.

Love.

So much love that Ratchet’s spark seems to constrict beneath the sheer weight of it.

And underneath all of it is the terrible certainty that Optimus genuinely believes Ratchet no longer wants him.

Ratchet stares at his conjunx in open disbelief.

His anger does not disappear. Neither does the pain. Optimus’ return cannot erase stellar-cycles of mourning, and one apology cannot magically mend everything Ratchet has carried since watching the mech he loved disappear into the Well.

But the fury slowly begins washing down to a simmer.

Because through their bond, Ratchet can finally feel him again.

Alive. Here. His.

And despite every stubborn thought Ratchet has entertained about making Optimus suffer a little longer for what he put him through, his entire frame warms with an affection so immediate and familiar that it almost makes him ache all over again.

Oh, how he has missed this stupid mech.

Ratchet slowly steps away from the panel.

Optimus watches him approach with wide, uncertain optics, seemingly afraid to move even a single servo as the medic closes the distance between them.

Both of Ratchet’s servos reach out and settle against the Prime’s chassis.

Optimus’ vents hitch.

Ratchet’s helm moves forward, and he gently rests it against his mate’s chassis, his chevron settling directly over the place where Optimus’ spark thrums beneath layers of armor.

Ratchet’s frame gives another shudder at the familiar warmth of his conjunx beneath his digits, against his faceplate.

His servos tremble, digits digging into the familiar red plating just that much harder.

Then his arms move and curl around Optimus’ broad frame, tugging the Prime into a tight embrace.

Longing. Desperate, almost. As though Optimus might simply disappear again if Ratchet loosens his hold for even a nano-klik.

A shaky ex-vent leaves the medic.

Optimus merely watches him with bated vents and wide, expectant optics, still seemingly too stunned to believe Ratchet is actually holding him.

“Optimus…” Ratchet’s voice trembles beneath the weight of his emotions, barely above a whisper. “I missed you so much…”

Optimus feels Ratchet’s shoulder pauldrons trembling against him.

Another little, pained sob escapes the medic and Optimus realizes with an ache in his spark that his conjunx is crying.

“All I ever wanted…” Ratchet struggles through another uneven vent. “Was to be at your side.”

His servos tighten around Optimus.

“How can you say I deserve more than that…?”

Ratchet slowly turns his helm until his cheekplate rests against the warm metal beneath him, nuzzling closer into the Prime’s chassis.

“I was hurting so much…” he admits quietly. “I truly thought you were gone.”

Optimus finally ex-vents, only then realizing that he has been holding his vents for far longer than necessary.

His expression crumples.

At last, his arms rise. Slowly at first, almost hesitantly, as though some part of him still fears Ratchet might change his mind. Then they close around the medic.

Optimus pulls Ratchet tightly against himself, one servo spreading protectively across his back while the other cradles him closer.

“Ratchet…” His voice breaks around the name.

He lowers his helm towards his conjunx.

“My Ratchet… I am so sorry.”

Ratchet remains pressed against him for another long moment. Then he finally lifts his helm.

His faceplate has relaxed into a soft, wounded frown, his aqua optics glittering with unshed lubricant tears. He raises one servo and hurriedly wipes at his cheekplate, his optical ridges furrowing.

“You should be,” he mutters.

Optimus’ expression tightens.

“For what you put me through…” Ratchet’s voice begins to tremble again. “Leaving me behind like that. Making me mourn you. I just-”

His voicebox catches with a frustrated huff.

Ratchet’s servo returns to Optimus’ chassis, gripping the plating there as though he needs the physical reassurance that the Prime is still beneath his digits.

“I cannot bear to lose you again.”

Optimus goes very still.

Ratchet looks directly into his optics.

“Never again.”

There is no anger behind those words now. 

Only fear. Raw and painfully sincere.

“It would kill me…”

A violent shiver runs through Optimus’ frame. His optics widen in horror, his arms instinctively tightening around his conjunx.

Because there is no exaggeration in Ratchet’s voice. No dramatic flourish spoken in the heat of the moment.

Optimus knows Ratchet.

He knows every minute shift in that weathered faceplate, every tremor in his voicebox, every subtle change in the field wrapped so intimately around his own through their reawakening bond.

And Ratchet had said those words deliberately.

With complete, devastating honesty.

Ratchet looks up at Optimus with a pained, almost pleading expression, holding onto the Prime as desperation shines openly within his beautiful aqua optics.

“Optimus, I love you.” His digits tighten against the red plating beneath them. “I want to forgive you. Wholly and entirely. But I need you to promise me that you’ll choose me from now on. That you’ll never put me through this sparkbreak again.”

His voice trembles.

“That you’ll never make me mourn you again.”

Ratchet searches his optics.

“Promise me.”

Optimus does not waste a single klik.

He had made his decision the second he and Ratchet reunited in that forest clearing.

He would never leave him again.

He would remain at his side. Whatever life awaited him now, whatever purpose he might discover beyond the duty and the mantle he had carried for so long, Ratchet would be there beside him.

This time, Optimus would choose him.

Optimus lowers his helm and gently presses his forehead crest against Ratchet’s chevron, his optics lidding with love and undying loyalty to his conjunx.

“I promise, my Ratchet,” he whispers. “I promise with all that I have.”

And with those words, the plating across Optimus’ chassis shifts.

A mechanical hiss fills the darkness and Ratchet’s optics widen.

Protective armor retracts piece by piece until the Prime bares his spark completely before his conjunx, brilliant blue light spilling outward and illuminating the medic’s stunned faceplate.

Optimus smiles down at him, his finials twitching affectionately.

Ratchet simply stares.

His aqua optics flick from the beautiful gleam of Optimus’ exposed spark to the Prime’s face, searching those familiar blue optics for several long kliks.

Then his expression softens.

A small smile, matching Optimus’ own, slowly grows across his derma.

Ratchet’s chassis follows in kind. His armor parts with another soft mechanical hiss, revealing his own spark to his conjunx.

Optimus’ vents catch.

“My Ratchet…”

The words leave him like a prayer.

Love and affection pour through their bond, so powerful and familiar that Optimus can scarcely distinguish Ratchet’s emotions from his own.

He leans down once more, his servos moving to hold his medic close against himself.

Their forehead crests meet with another gentle metallic click.

Neither looks away.

Blue meets aqua as their sparks begin reaching towards one another, tendrils of brilliant energy stretching across the narrow space between their open chassis. Their energies nip and curl together, pulling and pushing against one another with an intimacy neither spark has forgotten despite the stellar-cycles spent apart.

Recognition surges through their bond.

Home.

Ratchet shudders.

“My Optimus…” he whispers.

His voice is so tender, so impossibly soft that Optimus almost fails to hear it beneath the growing rumble of their engines.

Lubricant tears slip freely from Ratchet’s aqua optics now, tracing shining paths down his faceplate as he nuzzles closer against Optimus.

Optimus responds immediately, turning his helm to press his faceplate lovingly against Ratchet’s own.

Their engines rumble beneath their open chassis, the vibrations mingling with the powerful thrum of their sparks as they stand wrapped around one another in the darkness of the storage room.

Sparkbonding as though it were their first time.

And perhaps, in some strange way, it is. Not the beginning of something new, but the renewal of something old. A promise once broken, now spoken again with the knowledge of exactly how much it means to them both.

Eventually, Ratchet tilts his helm upward.

Optimus meets him halfway.

Their derma meet in a tender kiss full of everything they have been unable to share for so many stellar-cycles.

Ratchet’s frame trembles beneath the sheer force of it all, and Optimus’ arms tighten around him by the smallest fraction, holding his conjunx closer while their sparks continue to intertwine between them.

At last, Optimus breaks their dermalock with a soft ex-vent.

His gaze remains lowered as the plating of his chassis slowly shifts closed again, sealing protectively over his spark. His entire frame buzzes pleasantly with the lingering charge of their freshly renewed sparkbond, every sensor seemingly alive with Ratchet’s presence.

Optimus lifts one servo and lovingly traces the side of Ratchet’s faceplate, his thumb digit brushing slowly over his conjunx’s bottom derma.

Ratchet leans instinctively into the touch.

The soft aqua glow of his optics and the lingering flush across his faceplate mingle with Optimus’ own blue light as they remain close, simply looking at one another while they catch their vents. Neither seeming particularly eager to move.

Then Optimus leans in again.

Ratchet follows the motion with considerably more vigor this time, his arms tightening around the Prime as he feels that familiar charge steadily growing between them.

“My Ratchet… how I-”

“Hey, so- I’m sorry to interrupt you two, but, uhm…”

Both mechs freeze.

Windblade’s voice crackles through the storage room speakers.

Optimus and Ratchet whip their helms towards the security camera in matching horror.

“We kind of… sort of… cannot open the door again.”

Ratchet’s optics widen.

There is a distinctly sheepish pause.

“Undertone and me might have overdone it a little bit. But, uhm- don’t worry! Toolbox is working on it.”

Ratchet releases an ex-vent that sounds as though it has been dragged from the very depths of his spark.

One servo rises to cover his faceplate.

As if the situation were not humiliating enough already, his faceplate only flushes brighter as the full realization hits him.

The camera. The working camera.

Windblade and Undertone have very likely just watched them sparkbond right there in the middle of the dark storage room.

…And kiss afterward like two newly conjunxed fools.

“Primus give me strength…” Ratchet mutters into his palm.

Optimus, infuriatingly, takes the revelation with considerably more dignity. In fact, after the initial surprise passes, a small smile begins curling across his derma.

His blue optics lower as he turns his attention back towards Ratchet, arms remaining comfortably wrapped around his conjunx.

“Oh, do not worry, Windblade,” Optimus replies smoothly. “We will be just fine.”

There is the slightest hint of a purr hiding beneath the honest sincerity of his voice.

Ratchet stiffens in his arms and his aqua biolights flicker.

Optimus’ EM field brushes against his own, warm and charged, nipping affectionately at the edges with an intensity Ratchet has not felt in far too many stellar-cycles and Ratchet’s own field responds almost immediately.

Windblade laughs through the speakers.

Ratchet’s optics narrow. He can practically hear the smug little smile on her face.

“Okay, okay. Just don’t get any ideas, you two. The camera’s still working, remember?”

The comm clicks off.

Silence.

For a little while, Optimus seems entirely content to simply remain there with his conjunx held safely within his arms.

Ratchet, however, is suspiciously quiet. Then his arms slowly circle Optimus’ lean waist.

His digits begin tracing idly along the seams of the Prime’s plating, wandering over the blue biolights scattered across his chassis.

Optimus’ finials twitch upward.

“Optimus…”

The Prime looks down at him, his arms tightening fractionally around Ratchet.

“Yes, my Ratchet?”

Ratchet’s optics flick upward.

Towards the corner of the room. Towards the camera. Then back to Optimus.

“Do you think you can reach that camera…?”

Optimus follows his gaze.

“…”

His blue optics return to Ratchet.

“Yes.”