Part Two in my drabble set for Transformers:Dark Of The Moon. My muse decided it really enjoyed writing about Ironhide's death. The blasphemy of Michael Bay.
Once again, I own nothing. Otherwise, a certain gun-toting mech would still be alive and kicking aft.
Part Two: Ratchet's thoughts.
Ratchet gripped the smaller mech's shoulder tighter. To comfort himself; to console himself; for the loss of his friend, his greatest friend, would leave an open wound in his spark for aeons to come. To mourn the loss of a friendship, sparked in battle and fed through the dark mech's many visits to the lighter one's med-bay. He would never again need repairs. Never need a wrench thrown at his head and then the resulting dent repaired along with his numerous other injuries. There was not even a chassis left, his entire being disintegrated into rust.
Ratchet turned to the horizon, staring into nothingness as he continued to grip Bumblebee's shoulder. He should repair his Prime, he mused. Optimus had suffered the greatest injuries in the battle, and he was their leader, their hope; despite the protests that were sure to come from the tall mech, telling him to repair the others first, Ratchet knew he should repair him immediately.
But for once in his very long and very painful existence, Ratchet wanted to grieve first and repair later. He had time, he knew. Megatron and his officers were dead; the decepticons would be in disarray, they would never again attempt an attack of this scale; the war would now turn to hunting down the mechs and femmes of the decepticon ranks and bargaining with them until they accepted neutrality or off-lining them. So Ratchet took a moment for himself, to forget about the living and the injured and simply mourn the death of his closest friend. He would repair later. Throw wrenches and insult mechs and humans alike; but for now... For now, he would take a moment for himself.
For Ironhide.