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The silence pressed down on Ratchet like a physical weight. The gentle, constant pulse of Optimus’s spark, a presence he had felt as a warm, steady hum in the back of his processor for millions of years, was gone.
Optimus Prime was gone.
He knelt there, at the well, his frame locked in a rictus of grief, the sharp edges of the ground biting into his knee joints. He couldn’t feel the discomfort. He couldn’t feel anything but the vast, cold emptiness where Optimus’s love had resided. It was a phantom ache, worse than any wound he had ever had. He had been drained, and shot, and beaten, but nothing had prepared him for this amputation of the very essence of his being.
Optimus had been his. His beacon. His everything. And now he was gone, a fading echo of light at the bottom of the Well of All Sparks. And Ratchet understood, what was one life, a mech who had lived countless millenia, compared to the rebirth of their entire planet? But understanding it didn’t fill the void. It didn’t stop the frantic, useless mantra looping in his processor: I never got to tell him. He never knew. He will never know.
His own silent grief was so vast it threatened to consume him entirely. He could feel the pull of the Well below, a dizzying temptation. To just let go, to end this searing pain and be with him, to follow him to wherever sparks go when they cease to function.
A faint, fluttering pulse against his own spark was the only thing that tethered him to reality.
It was a soft, rapid thrum, like the beat of tiny wings against a window. A buzzing, insistent wave of pure, unformed emotion: confusion, a flicker of fear, and a deep-seated, instinctual need for comfort. It came from a bond so new, so fragile, it was barely a whisper against his consciousness.
Ratchet’s servo pressed hard against his chassis, the plating warm under his touch despite his trembling. The warm plating wasn't just his own. Beneath it, nestled in his spark chamber, right next to his own spark, was a tiny miracle. A new life. A life created from a moment of desperate, beautiful connection in the quiet aftermath of a near-defeat, a moment of vulnerability and love they had stolen for themselves. A moment Optimus had cherished, his optics soft with a wonder Ratchet had rarely seen, his servos tracing every inch of Ratchet with a devoted reverence that brought the medic to tears.
He and Optimus's sparkling.
He had been going to tell him. He had the words ready. He had run the sensor readings a hundred times, finally coming to terms that this wasn't some dream that he'd conjured for himself. He'd been ready, he'd wanted to share this joy with his bonded. He had wanted to wait for the right moment. A quiet moment. A moment of peace.
And now the right moment was gone forever.
The sparkling’s small field pulsed again, stronger this time, a clear echo of Ratchet’s own despair. It was learning, already, from its carrier. It felt his grief and was responding with its own rudimentary distress. The sensation jolted Ratchet from the brink. He wasn't just one mech anymore. He was a carrier. He was the sole protector of the last, living piece of Optimus Prime.
He looked down at his own chassis, his optics blurred with coolant he hadn't even realized he’d been shedding. The scuffed plating smudged with the grime. But under it, that tiny spark pulsed on. A defiant, brilliant light in the overwhelming darkness.
A choked sound, a sob, most likely, or maybe a laugh, escaped his voice box. Optimus would have known what to do. Optimus would have placed a steady, reassuring servo on his shoulder and spoken in that low, resonant voice that could calm a tempest. But Optimus wasn't here.
I am all he has, Ratchet thought, the realization hitting him with the force of a fusion cannon. I am all they have.
He couldn't fall apart. He couldn't succumb to the void. His grief would have to be locked away, compartmentalized, and buried deep. There was no time for it. There was a life to nurture, a future to safeguard. A future that carried Optimus’s very spark with it.
Slowly, painfully, as if moving through syrup, Ratchet uncurled from his hunched position. He placed both servos over his chassis, feeling that tiny, frantic pulse. He focused on it, pouring all his remaining strength and love down the fragile bond, trying to project affection, calm, and a fierce, desperate promise.
I am here. You are safe. I will keep you safe.
The buzzing against his spark softened, the distress ebbing slightly, replaced by a cautious sense of security. It was a fragile trust, and Ratchet knew he would spend the rest of his life nurturing it.
He forced himself to his pedes, his joints creaking in protest. He didn't look back at the Well. He couldn't. If he did, the pull might become too strong again. Instead, he turned and faced the dark, silent surrounding him. He was completely, and utterly, alone.
But he was not empty.
He carried Optimus with him in a way no one else ever could. In the warm pulse beneath his plating, in the fragile new bond, in the future he now had to build. The grief would remain, a cold, hard lump in his spark, a wound that would never fully heal. But it would have to coexist with a new, fierce purpose.
One servo remained pressed to his spark chamber as he took his first, trembling step away from the edge. He was a medic. His duty was to protect life. And the most important life in the entire universe was now, and forever would be, his.
…
Knockout had been the one to deliver it.
Ratchet had gone into emergence protocol at 2248, 6 solar cycles later, with the full intent of having the sparkling on his own.
The former decepticon had forced the ambulance to lay back and let him take over. Scolding him despite everything, unknowingly, or knowingly, providing the old CMO a comforting environment.
The sparkling was small. Too small for Ratchets liking. Its little frame wiggling in the center of his palm, three little digits on each servo reached for his face plates, not strong enough to open its optics yet.
Ratchet held it close to his chassis, watching as it burrowed into him as best it could, its voice box clicking with effort as it tried to call out to him.
“Congratulations,” Knockout said, having just finished washing his hands, “A healthy little femme.”
“She's so small.” Ratchet whispered, digit brushing the back of her helm.
Knockout watched them for a moment, something familiar flashing across his optics. Ratchet wondered if he was thinking of Breakdown, if he had wanted sparklings, too.
“Well,” said the speedster, finally, “This is the first sparkling in millenia. Something's bound to be a bit different. The process is rusty, and with coding as old as yours…”
Ratchet ignored the implementation to his old age, watching his sparkling fall into recharge against his chassis.
“She's healthy, though.” Knockout supplied, “So don't worry that pretty little helm of yours.”
The CMO hummed, probing the newly born sparkling bond that has been slowly growing for the past 9 solar cycles with his EM Field, spark melting at the small licks of affection he received in return.
Her frame was warm against his, inner mechanisms working fiercely to keep her little spark running. But despite Ratchet's slightly overheating frame, a cold sliver of something that was drowning him crept through his processor.
Optimus would have loved her. He'd never get to see her, wouldn't get to watch her grow up, wouldn't get to give her important talks, wouldn't get to teach her of Cybertron before the war…
“She looks like you.” Knockouts voice pulled him from the spiral, “Her face plates, I mean.” He elaborated, “she has your optics.”
“Don't even joke about that,” Ratchet said softly, knowing the other medic wasn't referring to the sickly green hue that lingered in Ratchets own optics after the Synthetic energon incident. The sparkling hadn't even opened her optics yet.
“She looks like him.”
Her little horns reminded him of Optimus's finnals, the little forehelm guard was identical to Ratchets own, and her little mouth guard that she had yet to figure out how to disengage, she was their spitting image.
Knockout hummed thoughtfully, not asking Ratchet to elaborate, “Well? What are you going to name it?”
The weary medic fidgeted with his sparklings little servos, pondering.
“Moonbug-E. I'm going to name her Moonbug-E.”
The child, oblivious to the meaning behind her carrier and deliverers conversation, made a squeaking sound, desperate for attention. When she cracked her optics open to catch a glimpse of her family, the lime green lights casting a faint glow over the surface she could barely see, she didn't notice the hitch in her carriers vents, nor did she notice the arms around her tightening with an emotion she could not yet name.
…
Optimus pulls to a halting stop, holding his servo out to keep the rag-tag team of autobots behind him, the greenery shakes, an unknown enemy in uncharted territory.
Behind him, Bumblebee and his team hover, battle ready. Clampdown cowers, the crab ‘con the picture of pathetic.
The prime doesn't move as a small, unfamiliar figure darts out from the cover of the greenery. They land and stay hunched, ready to pounce, the team of autobots raise their blasters immediately at the sight of both their sevos fully armed. The pale figure hisses at them spitefully, plating flaring in an attempt to intimidate them, door wings standing on high alert.
More pedesteps approach, the leaves rustling again signaling the arrival of someone else.
“I told you to wait,” comes the chiding voice, “Do you know how dangerous this planet is-”
The frozen silence is loud as the second figure emerges behind the first, white and orange planting scruffed in such a familiar way, he held a stasis pod over his shoulder, his green tinted optics squinting at the contact to earth's harsh summer sunlight.
He froze at the sight of them, stasis pod dropping to the ground.
“You.” Ratchet broke the long dragged out silence.
Optimus's vents stutter, his pipes steam subtly, “Ratchet.”
“You're dead.” The Medics blaster is already aimed at his helm, powering up with a sharp buzz.
“Ratchet stop!” Bumblebee, behind Optimus, yells. He advances carefully, servos, now empty, raised with his palms out towards both Optimus and Ratchet, “It's him, it's really him!”
Ratchet pulls the smaller figure behind him, taking a step back.
“Ratchet, old friend. Please.” Optimus reaches out towards him, only for the medic to retreat further back.
“You're dead.” He repeats, “You're dead!”
“I can explain,”
“Carrier!” The smaller figure tugged at Ratchet's plating, “He's getting away!”
Optimus and Bumblebee follow the direction the small digit is pointing, Clampdown scurrying away in the distance.
Sideswiped shouts in surprise, Windblade was already jerking into motion, and when Optimus turns back, Ratchet and his companion are gone.
Optimus stares at the emptiness where Ratchet had stood moments before, as Bumblebee and his team begin to rush off to pursue Clampdown, Bumblebee places a servo over his arm, “Go,” he said, “We'll handle the ‘cons. Go talk to him.”
The prime nods, and then he's already moving, disappearing from the yellow scouts' sight behind the greenery.
…
“Carrier?” Moonbug-E glances up at her carrier wearily, her optics a beautiful green, the same green the Synthetic energon had been, the same green Ratchet's optics were, the same green Ratchet had grown to stop hating. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing, sweetspark.” Ratchet lies, pulling her against him as he quickens their pace, “We just need to hurry back to the ship, alright?”
Moonbug-E makes a small sound, but doesn't expose him for the lie he knows she knows he's telling.
“Who was that mech?” She asks instead.
Ratchet sighs, coming to a halt near a slightly lighter clearing, and sat her down on a large bolder, “That was… someone pretending to be a dead mech.”
“Pretending?”
“Yes, Bug-E.” Ratchet brushes her cheek with a thick digit, “That mech you saw today is dead. I watched him die, I felt it.”
The little helm tilts to the side, “Why would he pretend to be him, then?”
Ratchet huffs a tired little laugh, “Because maybe he knows how much that mech meant to us.” Meant to me. Goes unsaid.
“Was he important to sire, too?”
The medic is silent for a few moments, “Your sire didn't are for him nearly as much as he should have.”
The youngling’s voice box clicks as she gazes up at Ratchet curiously, her large optics cycle with the intensity of her working processor.
She's about to speak again when her sensory horns pick up the subtle vibrations of footfall.
Ratchet straightens himself, gaze following his sparklings’ line of sight, his stance protective.
Moonbug-E stood on the bolder, tiny engine revving as her plating flared, blasters held in front of her chassis.
She hisses, “Who's there!”
…
Optimus raises his servos slowly, palms outward. His voice, when he finds it, is barely above a rumble, rough with an emotion he cannot name.
"I mean you no harm." His optics hold Ratchets, and the weight of the last 8 years crashes down upon him, then he looks to the young femme, "Either of you."
He takes one slow, deliberate step forward, then stops, waiting. Hoping. Dreading.
The leaves whisper around them. No one moves.
“What are you?” his former CMO demands, he pulls Optimus's attention away from his companion and back to himself. Behind him, the youngling continues to threaten him with her engine.
“Here,” Optimus whispers, his servo outstretched towards his bonded, “I am here, old friend. It's me.”
“I-” Ratchet cut himself off with a choked sound, “I saw you die. I felt it.”
“I cannot explain how I am alive,” the prime admits, “Even I do not know. But I am here now. Please, let me prove to you.”
“You've got some nerve…” Ratchet says behind grit denta, vents heavy, “To, to just-”
He doesn't finish, letting the sentence tapper off into a heated silence.
Optimus watches the young femme behind his bonded click at him agitatedly, her wide lime green optics pinning him with a heated glare, a three digited claw- servo, clutching at Ratchet's plating.
“Carrier.” She mumbles, not taking her sight from the largest mech even as she presses her face plates into Ratchet's side, “ ‘m scared. Let's go.”
Optimus feels his spark ache. The small voice of this youngling tugging at his very being, Ratchet doesn't answer her, though he places an arm over her frame, his optics don't leave the Primes.
“Carrier?” Optimus repeats gently, “You're her…” his optics widen, “I see.”
“What? Disappointed?” The medic snaps, “Well too bad! If you wanted her raised a certain way, you should have been there-”
“No, no. Never.” Optimus took an urgent step forward, secretly relieved that his Ratchet fixed him with a familiar glare, standing his ground with his arms crossed across his chassis, “I just never knew…”
The air was silent again.
Then Ratchet bowed his helm, “I know.” He whispers.
The sound of their unsaid words filled the void between them, Optimus reached out towards his medic. He didn't shy away.
“Ratchet,” the prime takes Ratchet's face in his servos, lifting him so he could see him, digit caressing the deep tiredness that was suddenly evident under his optics, “My love.”
Ratchet's vents rattles in a stuttering gasp, “You were gone, I couldn't even…” his own servos coming to cradle Optimus's own, “I missed you so much.”
Optimus closes their distance with a soft, gentle motion. Pressing their derma together carefully, relishing in the way Ratchet melted against him.
When he pulls away, both of their face plates are wet with coolant. The liquid leaks from behind their optics, and Optimus finally engulfs them in his field. Strong, regretful, loving.
“Moonbug-E,” Ratchet calls softly, and the prime follows his gaze towards the young femme hiding behind her carrier, who was staring at them with wide, confused optics, Ratchet's optics.
“Come say hello to your sire.”