A/N : So I'm jumping on the human!optimus trope, even if it isn't really a trend. This set pre-Season 1, before Arcee and Cliffjumper made it to Earth, but there's never an explicit mention of when this occurs woop. Anyways, hope you enjoy & lemme know if you liked it! It's up on ao3 as well, just so ya know.

One, two, three, four.

"Heyhey'ey! You're not leaving this house until you've had breakfast, you handsome ass."

Five, six, seven, eight.

"May I asist you with the preparation of dinner?"

"You set the sink on fire yesterday."

"I—"

"The sink O.P. The sink."

"…I will set the table."

"Fine."

Two, two, three, four.

"How do you manage to hold your body in such a complex position?"

"Practice O.P. Practice. And a lot of pain."

Five, six, seven, eight.

"It has been a privilege to know you, C.R. May our paths cross in the time to come."

"Woah, easy there."

A gentle pressure on his chassis urges him down. He tries to open his optics, but is met only with shadowy figures, blurred shapes, and a strong urge to purge his tanks. Attempts to run a system diagnostic are exercises in futility, and agitate the throbbing ache in his helm. He feels strange. Awful. Like he's overheating. But the sensation is far worse, far more overwhelming. It feels as though every micron of his protoform has been exposed to air, too hot or too cold — he can't tell which. Memory comes to him slowly. Too slowly. In fragments that tell him too little of where he is, what has happened, how he has come to be in such an terrible state. He tries to focus, tries to block out the pain— shut off his pain receptors, divert power to his professor.

His… there was… he can't remember… there was an battle… there was an ambush… there was an energon deposit.

There was an energon deposit, there was a battle… an ambush… he can't remember, Primus, why can't he remember!

His autobots. His autobots… they're in danger! He must go— they need him, they need my help! I need to go. I need to go no—

"You need to go nowhere," soothes quiet, gentle voice in his audial. But my autobots— he tries to protest, "—are safe."

"If you wish to see your autobots, you must rest." Gentle pressure on his helm— a servo. An incredibly soft, gentle servo, stroking his helm, his brow, his cheek. The voice washes away his fears and resistance like the waves upon sand, promising his family is safe. The voice is soft and gentle, and sounds so very sincere. He wishes to protest; he wants to see his family with his own optics. But he is tired, and he has not even the strength nor willpower to keep his optics open. As a carrier soothes their distressed sparkling, the voice calms his harried spark.

And lulls him into oblivion.

There's a naked man in her bedroom. He's been asleep for three days now, mostly. Fitful bouts of waking interrupt his comatose state, and she seizes them as opportunities to feed him, keep him hydrated, and maybe tease some semblance of information out of him, though she finds she never needs to resort to such methods. He talks in his sleep. A lot.

Autobots, Deceptions, Megatron. That means it's a bad nightmare. First time it happened, she hadn't really known if those were the words he'd said, considering he'd been strangling himself in his sleep whilst reliving a haunting memory. Or a few. She'd pried his hands off his neck. Cuffed them to the bedpost. Tied down his legs for good measure. No need for him to strangle and/or kick her, or himself again. She's prepared the next time it happens. Cuffs and ropes are wielded. Form beneath her, bound to the bed. She brews batch of strong tea. Pulls a book from the shelf. Pulls a chair up beside the bed. Watches over him all the way 'till dawn, when his muscles no longer strain against their bonds and his brow is no longer furrowed in pain, desperation, fear. His face is almost peaceful in the light of dawn. She gives it ten minutes, then releases him, then coaxes him back to awareness just long enough to put some food and water in him. She runs down to the mall and buys a set of clothes. They may not fit right, but they'll have to do for now.

Ratchet, Bumblebee, Bulkhead. That means she can rest easy — so long as he's not shouting the words. He's sleeping like the dead when she moves him off the bed and wipes him down with a damp towel. The sheets are soaked with his sweat. She unwraps his bandages, cleans his wounds. Makes sure they're not infected. Redresses his wounds, wraps them up again. Pulls the clean set of clothes over his body. Changes the sheets. Doesn't bother to make the bed before, as gently as she can, heaving him back on and pulling the covers over him. Checks if he's woken up, feeds him and hydrates him when he has. Waits for him to go back to sleep. Gives it another ten minutes in case nightmares decide to rear their ugly heads. She does the laundry, cleans up the house, gets ready for work. Pauses in the doorway. She calls her mobile on her landline, puts the phone on the beside table and leaves the line open all through work. Comes home, ends the call. Leaves the bathroom door open when she showers. Towel dries her hair. Slips into the chair by the bed.

Where and what are as far as he gets before he's interrupted by a coughing fit. She pats his back. Gives him some water. Answers his questions as best she can. Doesn't offer her name nor ask for his, and neither does he. She feeds him, makes sure he's hydrated, urges him to rest. Promises she'll be there to help when he wakes up, and soothes him back to sleep. She doesn't wait this time, just leaves the door wide open, keeps her footsteps quiet, her movement quieter and comes back after taking in the laundry. Folds the clothes in the room. Has a rather bold pair of lingerie in her hands that he sees when he wakes up again. He stares. She sets it aside and arms herself with sippy cups of baby food, blended vegetables and water. Helps him sit up. Hands him the cup when he reaches out for it instead of holding it herself. Catches the cup as it falls when it slips from his grip. His hands are shaking hard. She casts out for a topic to distract him with. To distract them both with. When she asks for his name, he hesitates to give it.

"Just you initials then. C.R.'s mine."

"…P," he replies in a baritone voice, beautiful despite its hoarseness. She loves it. He takes a sip of water and speaks again. "My initials are O.P."

She wonders if she can persuade him into reading off of a phonebook.

A/N : End part 1! Lemme know what you thought about it in a review yo!