Chapter Text
[He’s gone.]
Optimus didn’t feel the cold anymore. It was nothing compared to the sudden chill that raced through his circuits, sudden and unrelenting. He was beaten and dented, almost torn to shreds by Predaking, but now that pain was gone and replaced with something else. Something deeper. Something terrifying.
The return to the base was a blur. He knew he was answering questions; he was speaking to his Autobots, but he wasn’t thinking. He had no idea whether he was making sense, ordering a search of the surrounding area even though he knew it would yield nothing.
Soundwave had escaped and taken his doctor with him.
That cold came back in full force, wrapping around his spark like a servo. Why?
“It would stand to reason that Ratchet must possess something the Decepticons want,” Optimus said.
“Well, whatever it is, Ratch won’t give it up. Right?”
Bulkhead was a good soldier, but Optimus couldn’t help the flinch that travelled through him at his words. He had seen what the Decepticons’ POWs had become after their “stay”, if they came back at all. The strongest of mechs reduced to cowering sparklings, jolting anytime anyone moved a servo too fast. Their minds scrambled after repeated use of a Cortical Psychic Patch; their recharges plagued by nightmares of nothing but suffering.
Ratchet had been captured by the Decepticons before, but only to be used as ransom. They understood that Ratchet wouldn’t give anything up that could hurt the Autobots, Patch or no. He was always returned, worse for wear. But there were no demands yet.
If they were desperate enough—if what Ratchet had was enough to make them—Primus, they had Shockwave back, what if—
He had to stop thinking about it. He had to.
Synthetic energon. Think about the Synthetic energon.
The Omega Lock, the need for Ratchet, it all had to be connected.
The base, think of a solution. An easy temporary fix, or so they hoped.
If they threaten him with an attack on the base, maybe he’ll comply. Maybe they won’t hurt him if he—
Stop. Stop now.
There was nothing happening on the monitors. No activity. They have what they want.
Then the attack. Hanger F burns, but the Autobots survive—and are bought just enough time to formulate a plan. Rafael can handle it until he needs to follow the mechanism, and Optimus needs to step back.
It’s all been a blur. He must seem calm to the others, as no one has said anything. But he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own spark. He moves towards his quarters, the quarters that he was too large for, the quarters where he read Ratchet’s reports and commed Ratchet operating plans and dreamed Ratchet—
Stop.
The Prime turned a corner, leaving his Autobots' line of sight, and had to lean against a wall. He grabbed at his midsection, digging into the mesh.
You know it’s a bad habit, Ratchet whispered in his mind. You’ll tear into your plating.
His vision’s gone fuzzy, his venting irregular. He’s not here. Ratchet isn’t here. Ratchet was always there.
Tell me you’ll stay. That you won’t leave me like he did.
Orion, I’ll be by your side long after you’re calling us both old.
He’s not here.
His servos move up to his chest, digging at the casing.
You weren’t here either. You were busy losing while he was being taken. Failure, mistake, pathetic excuse of a Prime—
He couldn’t be here. He needed to go somewhere, anywhere. His servo supported him as he moved towards the back of the hangar, where a garage door he could escape through was.
Autobots coming back from Decepticon captivity in pieces.
Autobots delivered broken, both spark and mind, the pain snapping any sanity from them.
The Decepticons returning corpses, just to make a point, or to show their loved ones exactly the agony they went through before their demise.
He was outside. He didn’t remember getting there.
Sit down, Ratchet whispered. Sit down and vent. With me, okay? One, two, hold—one, two, three, four, out.
His servos were shaking.
Look at me.
He couldn’t. He wasn’t there.
What if I never see him whole again? No, Primus, please, I never told him—
Optimus Prime did not pray. The Primes were not gods to him. He stood among the legends as an equal, and relying on Primus would not win him the war. But in this moment of pure, true fear, Optimus clasped his servos together in a painful grip and brought them to his head with his knees drawn to his chest.
If you have ever heard me, hear me now. Protect him. Protect him from all that seeks to hurt him, while I cannot. He is worthy of your defense. Save him, save him, save him, please, I beg of you.
Why were his digits wet?
Oh. He was crying.
Optimus Prime could not remember the last time he had allowed himself to cry.
Please. I have earned your audience. I need him!
And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? The ugly, painful truth that the Prime had refused to admit to himself over millions of years. He still loved Ratchet—loved him with all his spark. Loved him enough to cry over his loss, where his optics had remained dry for millions of others. Optimus burned for Ratchet, his sarcasm and brilliance and quiet caring. He had always burned for him.
But he was a Prime. Ironic how a Prime was doomed to solitude because they must love all Cybertronians equally.
It shouldn’t have mattered anymore. Cybertron was gone, as were its subjects. Optimus didn’t have to follow the rules some long-dead council imposed upon him. But fear held him back; fear tied him down and silenced him. And now Ratchet was gone.
And Optimus wept.