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He sits there, alone.
All alone, stars passing by, shining, content. He is once again very conscious of the camera on his head, feeling like a deadweight now, pressing him down to the cold surface firmer than the magna-clamps. He wanted to rip it off and throw it into space so many times now, but he couldn't. Like there still could be...
What was he hoping for? How could he use it again? Why did he even hold on? What could possibly be good, important, worthy to record after hours of footage of-- of--
This is stupid. He's been granted a second chance. They are all there, inside this… shuttle, the flying ego, Swerve used to call it, a little jokingly, a little sadly - they left it where it was, in Rodimus' honour.
Rodimus. Swerve. Alive. Everyone else--
He abandons that trail of thought, for the moment.
To think of Rodimus as alive is particularly jarring. It feels like it's been so long, although it must have been no more than a year. He lost track of time a bit when Magnus made him discontinue the travelogue, and then, after--
This other Lost Light has spent the same time under Rodimus command and probably got into all sorts of things, considering the number of dead mechs, engineering experts and not-really-Decepticons they picked on the way.
He pulls up the crew manifest from his memory banks, just to look it and think, with increasing impact, with amazing clarity: they're alive. But the very first name on the list triggers a recording from his database, automatically, a recording where… where…
Can he even look at them ever again without seeing it? He sits there until he feels almost frozen solid, despite not feeling cold. He sits until he feels something else.
Barely noticeable, pulsing almost erratically, just where his sensors can pick it up - there's the EM-field that is so familiar, that he never hoped to feel again. Its owner, the one he pushed to the back of his mind every time his processor went there, every time he imagined him - visor broken, head thrown back, the light all gone out, and needles, needles--
The field moves closer. He can sense the confusion, the apprehensiveness and the tight-bound bundle of feelings barely held in control, too great to describe, too heavy to comprehend or take in, and it's so frighteningly familiar that he can't help pushing back against it, weakly.
He turns, and the stars fade.
His spark lurches, and EM-field gives a wild flare, and his headcam that he wished so greatly to get rid of turns on automatically.
The other mech sits down. He's afraid to look, afraid that it will prove unbearable. He can barely hold his own field in control. He senses the gaze on him and risks a look of his own.
Slowly, very slowly the barriers come down, and he feels. He feels the pain, the tiredness, the emotional exhaustion seeping through, almost matching his own, and he sends a desperate signal back, and then a stroke, and another one, trying to be gentle, but he knows it's just a plea, a call for help, really.
He doesn't even notice how he's moved into other's warmth, trying to get closer, anything to continue feeling it, recognising it, touching, pushing back. He leans in as much as he can without getting into other's lap. The hand around him tightens, the electrofield lurches, and he hears an intake of breath.
He looks up at Chromedome. He looks and looks and looks, at the yellow light steadily shining right before him, blacking out the stars, blacking out his memories, sick and mortifying, until the only thing he sees is the tiny red light reflected in the visor. He reaches with his whole being, enveloping Chromedome with his field and he hears a choking sound, and before he can even understand who produced it, there are arms all around him, and all the light fades.
The dark is too almost too much to bear alone. But he isn't. He isn't. He can feel it.
He holds on.