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Ten years. To most Cybertronians, it’s an infinitesimal amount of time, gone in the blink of an optic, lost to the stars. But to Ratchet, ten years was spent grieving, barely recharging, throwing himself into his work to keep from thinking too hard about the mech he lost. Ten years stretched and felt like ten millennia. Ten painful, agonizing millennia.
When he found himself on Earth again, a consequence of daring to defend the name of the most annoyingly selfless and heroic mech he’d ever known, wounds that were only just beginning to scab over were suddenly torn open again at the sight of painfully familiar terrain. Having a mini-con with him helped only marginally—Undertow disliked talking, and frankly Ratchet wasn’t too keen on conversation himself during this period—but for the most part the presence of an assistant kept the medic’s processor on hunting down Decepticons and off the real reason he was back on this planet.
And so it was. Ten years spent trying desperately to keep his helm above the tumultuous waves of grief threatening to drag him under. Ten years of sleepless nights spent tossing and turning in a cold and uncomfortable berth. Ten years of working and hunting nonstop, neglecting the insistent warnings plaguing his HUD until he was bordering on shutdown.
Ten years without his leader, best friend, and conjunx. Ten years without Optimus Prime.
There was nothing particularly special about today. Ratchet awoke far too early in the morning from a fitful recharge, avoided looking at any reflective surfaces lest he notice how much darker the circles around his optics have become, fueled just enough to clear the fog from his helm—all part of his routine at this point. Then, he and Undertow set out to continue their hunt for the slippery ‘Con that brought them to Earth in the first place. The capture itself was also unremarkable; they’d caught the criminal unawares and managed to shove them into a stasis pod after a minor scuffle. All in all, Ratchet would go so far as to say that today was going well.
That is, until another Decepticon barrels out of the foliage and starts attempting to wrestle the pod away from Ratchet. Key word being ‘attempting,’ as the would-be attacker’s spindly legs struggle to find purchase in the dewy grass and, when the pod slips from his clawed grasp, he’s sent sprawling to the ground. Before Ratchet can even begin to wrap his processor around what the frag is going on, the crablike ‘Con stumbles to his pedes and scuttles off into the woods in a random direction. Ratchet, unwilling to just let a Decepticon roam free on Earth, tucks the pod under his arm with an exasperated sigh and begins to give chase.
It’s… rather pathetic, to be honest. Ratchet watches the ‘Con get stuck on roots and low-hanging branches, yelping and squawking with every setback as the medic picks his way through the brush at a comparatively leisurely pace. Even hauling an occupied stasis pod, Ratchet finds it impossible to fall behind too far. This is not how he wanted nor expected this to go, but it sure as scrap makes his day a little more exciting so he’s not exactly complaining.
He tracks the devastation to the main path cutting through the forest, slowing his pace when he hears unfamiliar voices. He cranks up the sensitivity of his audials until the words become clear: “Clampdown?” Ratchet narrows his optics at the seemingly immediate recognition of the Decepticon, his finials flicking minutely in suspicion. “What’s got you so spooked?” He hears Clampdown only whimper in response.
The sudden change in light levels reduces the gaggle of frames on the path to vague, colorful shapes, but he doesn’t need to be able to discern individual mechs to recognize the immediate shift in stance from the two in front. He doesn’t need to have his audials turned up to hear their simultaneous gasps as he steps out into the open. He resets his optics once to adjust to the light, then twice because he cannot believe what he’s seeing.
Optimus Prime. In the mesh, as different as his frame may be. The sunlight glints off his plating in such a way that he almost appears to be glowing. The sword he wields rattles quietly as his servos begin to tremble in that oh-so-subtle way that Ratchet himself used to soothe in the middle of the night, all gentle touches and murmured reassurances. His faceplate is awash with emotion, flicking through several before settling on pure, unadulterated elation. “Ratchet…” Optimus vents reverently, and the medic’s spark almost goes supernova.
The stasis pod slips from Ratchet’s hold, and Undertow falls to the ground with it in an attempt to catch it, but he can’t find it in his spark to care. He barely moves, barely vents, doesn’t dare tear his optics away from Optimus on the off chance that this is all some sick illusion or dream. The rest of the world fades from his view and he doesn’t notice the tears trailing down his faceplate, or his legs guiding him forward, or his servo drifting up to cradle Optimus’s helm.
He does, however, notice the sudden stinging of his knuckles, and the thunderous CLANG! that echoes through the woods, and the many hissed intakes of air through clenched dentae and shouts of disbelief. Ratchet blinks, almost unable to wrap his processor around the fact that he had just punched Optimus Prime in the faceplate.
Almost.
Because, Primus, is he angry.
“I…” Ratchet croaks. He stares at his pedes as he swallows past the feeling of his spark pulsing in his throat. “I cannot believe you!” He steps forward and shoves Optimus as someone begins quietly ushering the rest of the group away from the two mechs, leaving them in relative privacy. “Ten years, Optimus!” the medic continues to shout. “I mourned you for ten fragging years, you…!” He cuts himself off with a frustrated growl, turning on his heel and dragging shaking servos down his face. His digits come away wet, and he glares at them as if the heat of his anger will dry them. “How long have you been on Earth?” he demands.
He hears Optimus sigh defeatedly, the sound bringing Ratchet a bitter sense of satisfaction that immediately sours into shame. “It has been around four months,” he answers almost meekly. “I understand that it may not be a satisfactory explanation, but truly I have been… extremely preoccupied.”
Ratchet scoffs and wraps his arms around his chassis. “Too preoccupied to tell your own conjunx that you’re alive?” He can feel those sad azure optics boring cold into the back of his helm, but refuses to give in to the part of his processor begging him to turn around. “One comm would’ve been enough. A message relayed through someone else. Anything.”
A warm servo settles on his shoulder, but he can’t find it in himself to shrug it off; he’s running out of steam, the inferno of rage engulfing his spark dimming to mere embers under a blanket of exhaustion and guilt. “Ratchet,” Optimus coaxes. Ratchet does not turn around, though he can practically feel his hydraulics strain from the effort. “I did not know if any attempts at communication would reach you, and furthermore I did not know your location. If I had, I promise you I would have contacted you immediately.”
Ratchet squeezes his optics shut, feeling himself deflate under the weight of Optimus’s words. Holding himself tighter, he sighs. “I just… I missed you so badly, Optimus.” He shudders as he recalls the megacycles of lost recharge because, every single time he began to drift off, images of Optimus’s grayed-out and empty frame would flash into his processor. “I spent all this time trying not to think about your death, and it never worked, and now…” Static begins to lace his voice and his resolve begins to crumble even more rapidly than it already has been. His vents catch in his throatpipe when he finally turns around and sees the gentle concern twisting Optimus’s features, though Ratchet’s gaze is automatically drawn to the visible scuffs on his left cheek. He doesn’t miss the tears gathering in the Prime’s optics, either.
The last of his anger withers away, leaving Ratchet feeling cold and hollow. He lets himself drift forward, lets his forehelm clunk gently against Optimus’s windshields, as if it would allow him to absorb the steady pulsing of the Prime’s spark directly into his databanks. Strong—forgiving—arms encircle him immediately, sword left forgotten on the ground. Ratchet releases his denting hold on himself to dig his digits into Optimus’s backplates.
And, for the first time in ten years, Ratchet is safe and whole. Still upset? Absolutely. Strut-deep exhausted? When will he not be? But the hole in his spark he tried so hard to ignore has been filled.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his low volume less due to embarrassment and more due to how utterly drained this entire debacle has left him. “I should never have blown up at you or-or hit you, Primus, I’m so sorry.” He takes a clipped vent in, static leaking into his voice again. Optimus gives him time to recompose himself, engine purring comfortingly, while Ratchet wonders what he’s done to deserve this mech.
When Ratchet’s venting has mostly evened out again, Optimus rumbles, “I forgive you, old friend, though I believe that your reaction was at least somewhat warranted.”
Ratchet’s resulting laugh is wheezy and slightly delirious. “I don’t know if I should be happy that you clearly haven’t changed or disappointed that you’re still so self-sacrificial.” Optimus chuckles quietly, and Ratchet revels in it. He pulls away just enough to take Optimus’s helm in his servos, thumb digit briefly swiping over his scraped cheek, and guide him down for a kiss. It’s chaste, a bit hesitant because Ratchet is still struggling to believe this is real, but his spark sings nonetheless when their lips connect and a fresh wave of tears flows down his cheeks.
As much as he wants it to last forever, Ratchet is still well aware of the sizable group of bots (including a Decepticon!) waiting for them, though he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t lost himself for a good while there. So when he finally manages to disentangle himself from Optimus, he isn’t surprised to see another familiar faceplate looking at them with a fond—and visibly relieved—smile. Bumblebee, upon being noticed, stands a little straighter and pretends like he wasn’t just looking at the two mechs who raised him being old and sappy, crossing his arms and directing his gaze off randomly into the woods. Ratchet shakes his helm in mock exasperation before patting Optimus on the upper arm and crossing the distance to embrace the former scout. Bumblebee tenses for just a second before practically leaning his full weight onto the medic, dropping his helm in the junction between his neck cables and shoulder; Ratchet closes his optics as he remembers that Bumblebee did the same thing as a sparkling, after Tyger Pax, and after they first landed on Earth.
He knows that it’s likely there’s some sort of mission to be had, some kind of adversary he doesn’t yet know about that he’ll inevitably be recruited to help take care of. But for the moment, Ratchet is starting to believe that finally, finally, he’s on the way towards peace again.
The ship is quiet. The engines rumble gently as it propels through space toward Cybertron—toward home. Of the hundred-or-so passengers, Ratchet is the only one awake, standing at the helm and watching the stars drift by.
He and Optimus didn’t get to talk very much in detail about what happened over the last decade; Ratchet had to be introduced to Bumblebee’s new team, and then a mini-con appeared with information on a Decepticon island (???), and frankly Ratchet was spending most of that mission either fighting for his life or struggling against the compulsion to smack some sense into both Bumblebee and Optimus to get them to work together, slaggit! It all worked out well enough in the end, with the ship-full of Decepticons and formerly-enslaved mini-cons loaded onto Ratchet’s ship along with him, Optimus, and Windblade, but sweet Solus Prime, Ratchet hasn’t been that frustrated in a damn long time. Needless to say, he’d love nothing more than to curl up in a berth next to Optimus and recharge for the next week, but here he is. Awake. Alone. Stargazing and fearing what will happen when they land on Cybertron.
There’s no end to the things that could go wrong. For all he knows, Optimus could be jailed, or banished, or even… executed. A frigid wave of dread engulfs Ratchet’s spark at the thought, causing him to shiver and tempting him to turn this ship around and head straight back to Earth. He swallows it down, venting deeply and repeating to himself in his processor that he won’t allow any more harm to come to Optimus if he can help it.
The door to the helm hisses open, and Ratchet doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s Optimus; he’d know those slow, heavy steps anywhere. He turns anyway, the corners of his intake quirking up slightly as his conjunx levels him with a disappointed look. “Oh, puh-lease,” he scoffs, though not without audible amusement, “don’t give me that look like you aren’t also supposed to be recharging.” Optimus responds with a world-weary shake of his helm, but Ratchet still catches the small smile gracing his face—one that anyone else would miss—as he crosses the room to wrap his arms around his medic. Gladly returning the embrace, Ratchet chuckles. “Any particular reason for the recent uptick in affection?”
“Is it not enough to have simply missed you, old friend?” Optimus mutters into the top of Ratchet’s helm. Ratchet only hums, suddenly reminded of all the time they lost and will have to make up for. The same thought seems to have occurred to Optimus, because he pulls away slightly to hook a digit under Ratchet’s chin, tilting his helm up so they’re looking each other in the optics. Cyan meets azure, both dulled in mutual grief for the years lost and exhaustion from the years lived. Optimus sighs, and Ratchet notices all at once just how impossibly ancient he looks. “I worry what will happen upon our return. I do not wish for you to be harmed any further simply for associating with me.”
Ratchet frowns at the implication. Of course you’re not thinking about what harm could come to you, he thinks, but bites his glossa and instead says, “Trust me, Optimus, the feeling is mutual. But whatever happens,” he wraps his arms around Optimus’s neck to bring them faceplate to faceplate, and presses a kiss to the Prime’s lips for emphasis, “I’m not letting you slip away from me again.”