Rated for a little bit of language.
It's the first time I've set foot in my own house in over a month, and I already know I won't be getting any sleep tonight. I grope for the lightswitch as Spike clings to the crook of my elbow, his skin alarmingly hot, his eyes glassy. "Dad?" he murmurs.
"You're okay, son." My voice sounds unnaturally gruff in my own ears. Does he hear the same? "We're home. Go get yourself set up on the couch, all right? I'll be right there."
"M'kay." Spike toddles off, sweat slicking his hair to the back of his neck. I sigh and rotate my shoulder, trying to erase some of the kinks, then head down to the kitchen for medicine and orange juice.
Spike's one of those kids who gets colds every year - he's healthy enough, but it's like his immune system needs a good practice run every so often. This fall's sickness is more virulent - kid's been wearing himself out lately - but he'll be all right. Spike's tough as any Autobot, hands down.
The Autobots were - well, I guess they don't really get sick, 'cause Spike's condition really seemed to upset them. Bumblebee, poor kid, wouldn't leave Spike alone until I snapped at him, and Ratchet kept talking about a "systems flush," which I was not about to stand around for. Don't get me wrong, I trust the Autobots with my life - I trust them with Spike's life - but sometimes a guy has to draw the line.
Optimus Prime himself wound up accompanying us to my old pickup truck wryly dubbed "Autobot Y," parked like a sentry outside the Ark's main entrance. "Are you sure you'll be all right by yourselves?" he'd asked as I helped Spike into the passenger seat.
"We'll be fine!" I had grumbled. "It's just a cold, for Chrissake. It's nothing to get worked up over."
"Worked... " Prime's voice had trailed off and I could almost see the gears turning in his head as he worked out the meaning of that particular phrase. "All right. You know how to contact us if you need anything. Be safe, Sparkplug, Spike."
"Sure." I waved him off.
Spike, bless the little anklebiter's heart, had chosen that moment to stick his head out the window to grin back at the big mechanoid. "Prob'ly see you tomorrow, Optimus," he managed out of his swollen throat.
Optimus had nodded at that, but hadn't said anything; he was still standing there silently as I fired the engine and started off down the mountain. Only when we were almost out of sight did I see him finally turn back to the Ark in my rearview mirror.
Spike hadn't said anything after that until we were almost back home, just stared out the window like he was thinking something deep and profound. I didn't ask him what he was thinking. I figure if there's something I need to know, he'll tell me - and he does, most of the time. His mother probably would have asked... but, well. "Dad?" he croaked as I pulled into our subdivision.
I glanced at him. "Yeah?"
"You ever think about... what it's like for them? Stuck on the wrong planet, I mean."
Surprised a chuckle out of me, that did. "I was stuck on the wrong planet for a while, remember? With a stupid brainwash-chip on my neck no less." Spike ducked his head with an embarrassed grin and I ruffled his hair. "Don't worry about it. They've got us to hang out with, they're fine."
"Us," Spike mumbled sleepily, "and Chip, and Carly sometimes..."
He was still going when I pulled into our drive. My heart jumped as I shut the engine off and slid out to stand on our own lawn - badly in need of mowing - for the first time in what seemed like years. Spike didn't seem to notice.
He's resting in the living room now, propped up on pillows, gazing at the ceiling listlessly while the TV blares. It sounds like some old monster movie, or maybe the evening news; hard to tell these days. Giant rubber monsters or giant metal ones stomping around.
Not that the Autobots stomp, generally. Except for the Dinobots, and they were sorta built that way. Wheeljack really took the whole "brain the size of a walnut" thing to heart. I told him it was all conjecture anyway, and wouldn't he feel silly if dinosaurs turned out to be smarter than we think they were? Well, anyway, I think the Dinobots are happy the way they are. Even if nobody else is.
By the time I find something to drink that isn't rancid - tap water is good for you, right? - and some pills, he's fallen asleep. I don't want to touch him. He looks... well, he looks like hell, poor kid, with his hair plastered to his forehead by sweat and his body clenched up tight under the sheet... I want to hold him. That's the long and short of it. I want to hold him, like I did before he got to be too much of a big boy to let me anymore, and protect him from the whole damnable universe if I have to. Nothing's messing with my boy. No human, no Decepticon, nothing. On my life I swear it.
But I can't do that. He'd wake up.
I put Spike's water and pills on the end table for when he wakes up and needs them, and settle into the recliner nearby. It is an old monster movie on television, black and white version even. Did I ever find these scary as a kid? I think it was just entertaining. Wanton destruction and big lizards, the stuff of every kid's dreams...
I must've dozed off, 'cause the next thing I know the television's gone on to some infomercial and Spike's whimpering. I'm out of the recliner faster than I knew I could move. "Spike?"
Spike's eyes are shut tight, and there's a bead of sweat on his forehead that glistens in the light of the television. "So hot," he mumbles, and kicks weakly at the sheet. I try to draw it back for him and he grabs at it, clutches it for dear life. He's asleep, I realize as he whimpers.
I kneel next to him - not easy with my creaky old knee - and wipe the sweat away, resting my hand on his cheek. His skin is damp and too hot. "Spike," I murmur. "Come on, wake up. It's me. It's your dad."
The boy turns his face away spasmodically. "Help me," he pleads. "Optimus."
His voice goes through me like a bullet. "For Chrissake, son," I snap. "I'm right here!"
His eyes fly open and I jerk back guiltily. "Dad?" he rasps. I go to take my hand away and he reaches up and just holds it where it is.
"You were having a nightmare," I offer weakly. "Sounded like a bad one."
"Yeah." The little rugrat manages a smile, his eyes bright with sickness and something more tender. "Is there something to drink?"
"Yeah, here." I gently pull my hand away and go to get the water and medicine while he tries and finally manages to sit up. "Think you can get some Tylenol down too?"
"I guess." He gives me a brave, crooked grin, the kind he no doubt wears when he's about to go off and do something that neither me or Optimus would approve of. I shake my head and sit with him while he swallows the pills and keeps them down.
He takes another swallow of the water, his eyes cast deep into it. "Dad?"
"Yeah, son?"
He doesn't look at me as he speaks. "Stay with me?"
God strike me down I think, and put a hand on his hot, bony back, pulling him gently down so he's resting on my shoulder. I feel him nestle closer and sigh against my ear. "I'm right here, Spike," I promise him. "I'll always be right here."