When he'd heard the news, it'd scared him to death. The Wreckers had gone missing, which had only been reported after a garbled transmission about an assault and then three missed check ins. But those were landmarks, things he could look forward to, and hope for.

But then, there was nothing. Nothing for a decaorn, that felt more like vorns of silence and pain than what it was.

An Autobot force was sent outside of Iacon, hoping to act as reinforcements for the weary contingent, and bring their mechs home safely, heading to their last known location.

They returned alone, with more questions than answers at the end of the ten orns.

The soldiers looked defeated, and when Hot Rod approached them, any semblance of hope in him crumbled.

"Wheeljack, Drift, anybody?" He pleaded desperately, only for those same misery filled shakes of helms and a few pats on the back.

"No. Nobody," they all said. "We're not giving up. Just don't get your hopes up too high,"

As he went about his duties, trying to stay the same old Hot Rod, it only got harder and harder to be normal. The only reward he got for trying so hard was complete radio silence for another two decaorns, and three more failed searches. The Autobot was about ready to burst, he was so anxious and afraid, and it was only a matter of time before he tipped over the edge, peering over into an abyss of hurt and darkness as he had been for the entire time.

Shifts blended together, he couldn't tell when they ended, and was surprised when he was told to leave. He could've sworn his duty shift had just begun, but the officer insisted he return to his quarters, because his shift had in fact, been over for a few breems. He still hated boring duty shifts, but if he was being kept busy, then all would be well, and he wouldn't have time to fret, wouldn't have time to worry or panic.

Recharge was scarce, but for a mech so exhausted, he couldn't find it in himself to slip into the dreamless cycles of the nights. A mech who had stared at him strangely when he'd traded off posts with him probably commed the CO overseeing both of them, Hot Rod couldn't remember his name, because the next thing he knew, he'd been ordered to go straight to his recharge pad and get a good night's rest. Something he knew wasn't going to happen, but nonetheless, he tried to comply with the mech's wishes, and laid awake on the pad for a very long time wishing his nightmares only reached his dreams, and not the waking world.

"Hey, mech!" Someone said just behind him, sending said poor mech into the air. He whirled around, his optics flaring, and Hot Rod's accusatory stare bore into Springer, who seemed as startled by his friend's response as Hot Rod, "Woah, I'm sorry; you're really jumpy! I guess they weren't kidding, something's gnawing at you bad, mech!"

"What?" Hot Rod asked, not entirely sure what to say back to his friend, "I'm not jumpy, you're just that ugly," he managed, still watching Springer and waiting for some sort of comeback. When none came, he narrowed his optics critically, "Who's 'they'?"

"Ah- no one really," The green mech responded, trying and failing to be vague in a semi-casual fashion, "It's not a big deal. You sure you're okay though?"

"Are you?" Hot Rod shot right back, avoiding the question like poison.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Springer said a little more defensively.

Roddy scoffed, giving his friend a knowing look, "You tell me,"

"I'm worried, yeah," the green mech shrugged a little, the last traces of joy slipping from his face. He looked hurting all over again, and Hot Rod felt guilty instantly. That hadn't been fair. Not to Springer.

"Hey," he said softly, putting a servo on his friend's back reassuringly, wary of the fresh welding, long streaks that made him flinch every time someone brushed too close to his wings, "It's not your fault,"

"I know it's not my fault. Things happen. It's war. I get that. But I don't want this to be the end,"

"No one said it was the end, Springs,"

"You're right. Actually, I was hoping maybe they'll let me reform the unit. Build it up again. We need mechs like them to win the-"

"Don't do that," Hot Rod snapped,

"Do what?"

"You don't know that they're gone,"

"Where else could they be?" The mech asked. But even they both didn't need to hear the answer to that question out loud. He wasn't wrong, no, but Hot Rod refused to believe he was right.

"Why are you here, Springer? Who released you from medbay?" He snapped, his processor deciding to retreat back into his emotional fortress once more.

"Ah-" a wince, "Me?"

"Yeah, right," Hot Rod snorted, taking the wrecker's arm and swinging it over his shoulders, "Let's get you back to the medics before you die,"

"I'm not dying, I'm fine! They can release me already,"

"I didn't mean from your injuries. Ratchet would be doing the killing, most likely,"

"Ah, Ratchet. What ever would we do without him?"

"Get our helm trauma from something else?" Roddy suggested, his slight grin only making the comment that much more giggle-worthy.

"Where's the fun in that?" His green friend asked, falling back into old habits easily

"No clue. He wouldn't know either. Ratchet wouldn't know a good time if it bit him in the aft,"

"I do not envy anything that bites Ratchet in the aft,"

"Yeah," the red mech said wistfully, "Me neither," but before he could even think to keep a straight face, his snickers turned into full out roars of amusement.

Both mechs were keeling in laughter, and by the time Springer was back in his assigned berth, the two of them were having such a good time, it almost felt like nothing had happened to change it. Almost like old times.

Still, he'd felt uplifted until he remembered it all again. Much to his misery, not even Springer's cheer could keep that oppressive weight on his chassis away for too long. It always returned to crush him.

On a mission, he'd left the medbay, shuffling to collect his ration of energon and pick up on any gossip for his friend. The poor mech was dying of boredom as he was being rebuilt, relying heavily on his friend for any and all entertainment. Gossip had suddenly qualified, when sparring, the shooting range, and near-death intoxication weren't options.

Still, whenever the looks he got made their way across rooms and hallways, he knew they weren't for him. Springer had to be grateful that at least he wasn't been stared at all of the time, that unending pity sinking into his spark. The Autobots felt bad for Springer, and he knew this, but some part of him gnawed away at his innards, whispering soft lies and easy half-truths. Somehow, some way, they knew something was wrong with him.

He didn't see the twins, or Ratchet in the corner of the rec room as he entered, nor as he shuffled towards the dispenser blankly.

"Do you see that, Ratch?" Sideswipe asked, settling on one side of the medic easily, "He's not even there, he's not even in his own processor,"

"Yes, Sideswipe, I see it. Why do you think I let Springer sneak out? Primus knows the poor kid needs a friend. The both of them do,"

"What's wrong with him?" Sunstreaker asked. Anyone else would have taken the golden mech's gruff attitude and irritable demeanor as pure annoyance, but even the rougher of the twins looked worried if you knew how to read him.

Ratchet watched the numbly moving mech carefully, knowing he didn't have a cause, or at least one that made sense, but Hot Rod seemed to be suffering from some sort of impossibly strong form of depression. Every indication on every visit to his medical bay had pointed towards the mechling trying to hide it too, to avoid medical treatment and the necessary treatment at all costs. It would only make his job that much harder, too.

Forcing Hot Rod to get help would be counterproductive; it might only make things worse, but every line of medic coding within him protested most vehemently just leaving Roddy to the wolves.

Somehow, Hot Rod was staring blankly at a datapad he'd gotten only Primus knew where. Some distant part of his processor was calling for his attention, but he paid it no heed. No one else would care, so why did he? Those dark and rolling thunderstorms moved in to his processor, raining on his parade pretty insistently, enough that he didn't notice when someone had come behind him. Rather than read the datapad, he opted to stare blankly ahead, optics unfocused as he let his processor roam, sinking into one of the seats on the outskirts of any activity.

If he had been in the here and now, Hot Rod might have seen the twins arguing with Ratchet, the odd trio united in their desire to see the younger warrior back to his perky, happy self. Eventually, after three rounds of very intense rock paper scissors, Sunstreaker exited his chair in favor of treading across the rec room, casting scathing glances back at his brother and Ratchet every few paces.

The frontliner was hardly the type of mech to deal with all those touchy-feely nonsense feelings, let alone put them into some sort of tangible thing even in art, and certainly not in words. Why Sideswipe hadn't hastily volunteered to keep him from potentially mauling the mech was beyond him. Usually the red twin was more than willing to spare Sunstreaker any potential altercations lest the two of them end up in the brig with another notation on their service records, but this time, apparently, was different.

He'd been abandoned to his impulsive nature. This was all Sideswipe's fault, he decided finally, and with one almost pleading last look at his brother, he took the only support he'd gotten thus far, (two thumbs up and an overly cheery smile, to be precise) and acted.

"Hot Rod," Sunstreaker said hesitantly, already out of his element. Oh, this was so not fair. Those two old nanny bots had to have been cheating, there was no way the universe was really going to be this cruel to him.

Be nice, Sideswipe's voice suggested instantly from the recesses of his processors. Not exactly rocket science, or groundbreaking in any way, but Sideswipe was smart enough that even someone as awful with Bots as Sunstreaker could understand. Putting it into practice was a whole other feat, one that he wished he could perform as easily as his brother.

He shifted uncomfortably when the red and orange mech didn't respond, "Mech, Sideswipe and I were wondering, do you want to play a game or something? Go a couple rounds in the training rooms? Maybe pull a prank or something? I feel like we haven't hung out in a while, you know?"

When Hot Rod still didn't respond, Sunstreaker's self-confidence took a dive off the deep end, and started to drown. Frowning, he reached for the younger solider, his frustration beginning to bubble up and boil over, "Hey, I'm talking to you, frag it," the golden mech snapped frustratedly, yanking a little too hard on the joint, realizing his mistake a little too late. Hot Rod whipped around, staring up at him in something akin to horror, chassis heaving and optics wide lifting shaking servos to shield himself from his assailant, almost as if snapping out of some sort of deep trance.

Panic, it was running rampant throughout his processor, unrestrained and unbidden. Sunstreaker, of all mechs, had placed one servo on his shoulder, looking less than happy. While he couldn't come up with any real reason why the twin terror might be upset with him, his processor happily supplied about a dozen.

Hot Rod completely flipped and sent the datapad flying as he tore away from the golden twin. His clumsiness sent himself hurtling to the ground, getting away from the mech; the mech had his energon and oppressive thoughts But for some reason, the panic didn't stop, it kept rising and he realized he'd accosted Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker, the mech who was known to kill mechs with a look, shortly before they met his fists. A horrified noise of some kind, something of terror, and he backed away, crawling and unable to bring himself to his peds once again.

The whole world stretched, and all he could see was the twin staring at him with an expression he couldn't quite make out, and his processor couldn't help it. His longtime habits refused to die. Once Sunstreaker's done beating the slag out of me, Magnus is going to be so pissed.

Magnus..? Some other part of him wondered faintly. And for his crumbling mind, that was all it took for him to snap. As if repeating a mantra, a horrifying, terrifying, inescapable mantra, his logic circuits were thrown out the window and all he could think of was how much it hurt to think, let alone feel what he was enduring.

Someone was fighting him, but he would be slagged before he went down without a fight, and so he was thrashing, screaming, kicking and punching and hitting anything he could with whatever feeble strength he had, each strike that met nothing but air terrifying him all the more. It seemed that same chant was coming back, deafeningly loud.

Every sort of tremble wracked his frame, but he couldn't keep it together, he felt his sanity slipping out from between his digits. He couldn't stop fighting. Someone was screaming, he could hear it, a sort of broken wail, anguish rippling through the room, but before he could break himself free- and he was so close to it too -something sharp and painful shot through his neck, and he knew nothing but darkness.

When Hot Rod woke up, he hadn't expected Springer to be there, waiting, abrasive green armor hurting his optics much more than the overhead medbay lights.

"You know," He began almost thoughtfully, "Most gossip doesn't end up with you in the intensive care unit. Which, I personally thought might have been overkill, since you weren't dying really all that much, but the boss made the right call," the wrecker said, looking almost pitifully with his friend.

Weakly, his red-orange servos rose to cover his optics, shielding him in more ways than he'd care to admit, "Spring, what're you talking about. I feel… hungover, ow. What did we do last night, mech? How overcharged were we?" Hot Rod grimaced, a muffled whine of misery sneaking from his voicebox, "Why is it so bright? And shiny, and ooh… loud,"

"I guess you are slightly hungover, but not because we went out and had a good time. Roddy, what in the pits could you have been thinking, hiding something like this?"

"Hiding what? You're talking like I almost died, Springer, calm down,"

"I am trying, but you dealing with this on your own is the worst idea you've ever had in your life, Hot Rod. Ratchet scared the slag out of me when he told you were sick. I mean," the green mech looked hurt, as if having been scorned by his best friend, "You could've told me. I'm with you until the end, buddy. I thought you knew that,"

"I do know that. But I'm not dying, Spring,"

"Hot Rod, please. Please don't lie to me. Not anymore. You can get help, we can help you. Rung, Smokescreen, Ratchet, all of these mechs, they want to help you. They can help you, Roddy, if you just tell us what's wrong,"

"Spring, I'm fine. Really."

"Really? Really, Hot Rod? You need to stop lying. Stop lying to me, to yourself, to whoever it is you're trying to trick. If you were fine, you wouldn't be having panic attacks in the middle of the rec room badly enough that Ratchet had to sedate you,"

"Springer," the red and yellow mech said pleadingly, meeting his friend's optics with pleading blue ones. "It was just a one-time thing. You know I get worked up sometimes, I get sick, and purge my tanks and worry a little bit too much,"

"Yeah. And that's on me, for not telling somebody about it. Roddy, you're sick, and it's my fault you got this bad. If I'd just been a better friend, maybe you might have-" Whatever Springer might have done was soon lost, thoughts scattered from his processor in a million directions the moment Ratchet's aim rang true for all to hear, a smidgen of a dent forming in the green mech's helm as the grumpy mech marched in. Silent scolding took place between the two mechs, a miserably apologetic wrecker watching the genius of a medic frown at him.

Clearly, this was something his missed out on. Since when had Ratchet and Springer just up and bonded? There was no other explanation for the nonverbal chastising that took place between the two of them, a sheepish Springer unwilling to meet Ratchet's gaze for more than a few astroseconds at a time.

"Ultra Magnus was my friend, Hot Rod,"

"Is," he corrected miserably,

"Excuse me?"

"Is. He is your friend. He's not dead. None of them are. They just haven't found them yet,"

"Roddy," Springer began exasperatedly, "You have to start being realistic,"

"No, he's right. Ultra Magnus is my friend. And because he is my friend, I would never think of betraying him. Which is why, I am telling you this. I only want to help you,"

"And Magnus?"

"Magnus too," Ratchet nodded seriously. "We're going to talk to some mechs, help you out some. But first, let's get some energon in you," the medic said as cheerily as he could manage, the mech just being him stepping forward with a full cube of energon.

Hot Rod flinched, almost jerking away, "That's way more than my ration. It's too much. Are you sure that's okay?"

"I'm more than sure," the medic said gently, and turned around with the cube offered out to the slightly trembling warrior, "You haven't been consuming your rations. Military-grade rations are already abysmal enough without you cutting them yourself. You need energon to function on the most basic of levels, let alone fight off some of our best soldiers,"

He felt his whole frame tense more, if that was possible, but watched as Ratchet patiently offered the cube to him, "I just- it doesn't seem fair,"

"No, no it doesn't. I'm sorry this has happened to you, but we'll work your way through it, together. Won't we, Springer?" The red and white mech asked. His unusual gentle nature incited some sort of uneasiness in Hot Rod, but all he could do was nod and go along with whatever the doctor of doom had planned. Besides, just going through the motions was a lot different from actually trusting him.

That same medic, the one with the energon from before, looked hesitant to shatter the moment, but the motions he made indicated Ratchet had something to deal with besides just him, "It's okay," faceplates split into a weak smile as he watched Ratchet war with himself, "It's alright, I'll be okay. Just, come back when you can, I guess?"

There was that hesitation, something he might have sworn he'd imagined, before Ratchet darted out, with instructions for Springer to make sure his patient took in all of the energon, not just skimming off the top.

After several moments, Hot Rod snorted, watching the closed door the medic had darted out of, "Well, hello there, ye old grandsire. You going to make sure I get my low grade energon in me and all tucked up in thermal blankets for nap time?" he teased, waiting for that laugh some part of me hoped would come.

It did, albeit weakly, and Springer chuckled at him, "Not quite. But I am going to sit here until you finish this. I'll tuck you in if you want afterwards, you goof,"

True to his work, Springer sat and watched had Hot Rod slowly nursed the cube, looking mildly uncomfortable about halfway through it, and downright miserable when Springer insisted that he intake more of the fuel. His tanks nearly rebelled, but his best friend, living up to the title, didn't force him to choke down any more of the cube, offering comforting words and a less rough and tough pat on the back than he'd expected.

Springer was a good mech, no doubt about it, but the whole coddling had gotten old, and it had been not even a joor since Ratchet had left. Still, Ratchet was worse than Springer. They were all acting so weird. "This is weird, right?" He asked disbelievingly, "Right, this is ridiculous. Total role reversal. I'm just as stubborn as you, and twice as restless,"

"I can keep you company," the wrecker shrugged, acting nonchalant, consistent with this new and not so improved Springer 2.0, "You did it for me,"

"Yeah, and I cut my shifts to make sure I did. I won't let you get into any more trouble, Spring. You've done enough for me already. I know you can't stay," Roddy said dismissively, "Come on buddy, as much as of a troublemaker as you are, you know that you

"I don't think I should go…" The Wrecker trailed off, "Roddy, I'm gonna bunk here for the night, just to be here if you need me,"

"Springer," Hot Rod protested meekly, but the flier shook his helm.

Once again, there was that too gentle, treating-him like glass touch, "Hot Rod, don't try and tell me not to, because that'll just make me that much more determined. You're my friend. Let me be that friend for you when you need it. Like now,"

"I just-"

"Don't try to tell me differently. I need to be here for you, Hots. It's not going to change, so just build a bridge and get over it. I'll help you,"

Ultra Magnus was thinking. Thinking very deeply. They'd been lucky to have stumbled across the Iacon forces patrolling the outskirts of the destroyed city. Soundwave had fried their comms, and the many mechs were hurting badly, so the army of medics waiting to swamp them upon their arrival in Iacon was a welcome sight.

He tried not to be disappointed when he saw Ratchet wasn't with them, although they seemed to be perfectly confident in their own abilities, each tending to each of his mechs and treating injuries as they moved, trudging towards the fortress of the Autobot Capitol.

he medics themselves, whether they were in training or fully fledged healers themselves, seemed to be held together by some invisible force. All of them moved together like a cohesive unit, some pairing off, others on their own choosing to attend to soldiers by themselves. Each was filled with kind words of support, offering relief to many anguished warriors.

His mechs were in good servos, some part of him realized that. But his battle protocols would not be so easily silenced, nor would his spark cease its angry clenching and seizing every time a word or movement set him on edge. It was not the fault of the medics that they had spent so long without a proper home. It wasn't the fault of anyone but the Decepticons, but the journey had been long, and full of anguish, not to mention all the loss they faced.

The names still bore down like heavy weights in his processor, the hurt and bitter taste of failure pushed and pulled in his guilt. He would have been in some sort of trance if not for the need his whole frame had for him to be in control, some kind of control at least. Searching the crowd of mechs and some femmes, he saw the familiar frame of First Aid tending to Seaspray. The warrior looked miserable, but whatever the young medical apprentice was saying to him brought a weak smile and a laugh of sorts to the mech.

In fact, many of his soldiers disheartened faces were melting, if only a little bit, that easy camaraderie finding its place within them. The bond between the Wreckers was strong, there was no denying that, truth, but the medics were blessings from Primus himself. They continued their trek into the city, passing through war ravaged buildings.

Maybe a few vorns before, Iacon might have seen some civilians roaming its streets, but the only mechs that greeted them were the Autobot sentries moving in groups of five or more, patrolling the outskirts of the one glorious city-state. It had been many more vorns since it had resembled a living, breathing people, and longer still since it had first seen the war.

Officers saluted respectfully at him, and many of the disciplined soldiers tasked with guarding their stronghold looked hopeful at the return of the ragged unit. They continued onwards for some time, their steady movement towards their home maintained only by the fact that this would be their last march for some time.

Magnus continued to exude as much of the collected, powerful commander as he could muster. Still, that limp he could not hide, and he knew as soon as the medics got a closer look at him, he would have many more things to endure. Their unit moved through the gates, giant metal doors cast open in an embrace for those weary soldiers.

On the other side, Magnus was surprised to see Autobots trickling out of the base's buildings, some throwing their arms around his mechs, some standing in awe, and some particularly notable displays of affection he very clearly did not see and would not be writing them up for.

In fact, he didn't truly see it, optics searching the swarms of relieved mechs welcoming their loved ones. Bluestreak, he noted, was welcomed by Smokescreen, and he might have been surprised by the sight of Prowl if he hadn't known the tactician as well as he did. The slightly smiling Praxian mech could hardly be blamed for coming to see his brother the moment he'd realized he was alive and well.

Something told him nobody cared anyways. The mech, infallible as he might have seemed, was mortal, and some part of him was glad to see the Prime's second reunited with his brother. Some other part felt guilty for commandeering Bluestreak to begin with, but he had been an essential part of the Wreckers getting home. A commendation, and some leave time would be in order, things Prime would happily grant the valued sniper.

But as much as Magnus hoped, as much as he waited and prayed and searched, no flash of red and orange, no mischievous blue optics, and no cry of the nickname he'd grown fond of came to him. He was tired, in need of refueling, but he hadn't been beaten yet. At least, not until he realized Hot Rod wasn't coming.

He waited, trying to pass the time, but every astrosecond took its moment to sink its blade into his spark. He tried to be patient, to search and hope, but the only red mech he saw was a medic, ushering the commander into the base. Hot Rod was not there.

It was no big deal, he tried to tell himself. The younger warrior had his responsibilities, as did he. But Magnus's hurt was beyond what he could truly explain. Medics talked to him in gentle tones, attaching monitors and asking him questions he answered out of habit, and more honestly than future bored Magnus may have preferred, but he was number than the pain suppressors themselves.

He didn't come.

"Magnus," a pair of digits snapped in front of his optics and he jumped, turning to positively glower at the mech who dared to address him in such a coarse manner.

An only slightly annoyed chief medical officer greeted him. "Hello, Ratchet," he said warily, watching the mech who was equally as all-business, no-lollygagging as he was, with narrowing optics. He might have been blunt, gotten things done right and immediately, but Ratchet had a bit of a sly streak that had managed to irritate Magnus more often than not. He only hoped that it wasn't in play here.

"What? No asking what took me so long, or why I haven't bombarded you with medical procedures and curses?" The white and red mech asked, giving the blue commander a look he knew came hand in hand with trouble,

"Well, I suppose not. You know what you have to do. You are in charge of medical operations here for a reason, you know,"

Ratchet snorted, "Yeah, I know, and it isn't for my pretty face. Now, sit still, and stop moping. You won't be here long, unless you tried to mislead my medics earlier,"

"Just the opposite," Ultra Magnus winced to himself, "I may have over shared,"

"I doubt that," Ratchet scoffed, falling into an easy rhythm of work, and making note of everything he needed to do. Easy enough to fall into a comfortable silence then and there. Still, it only lasted so long.

"Magnus, I need you to be honest with me,"

"Of course. I will do my best to answer your questions with integrity, Doctor,"

"I'm asking not just as his medic, I'm asking as your friend, Magnus,"

"Ratchet, out with it already. I cannot answer a question I have not yet heard," Ultra Magnus said tersely,

"Are you keeping something from me?"

There was nothing but silence for at least a full moment, Magnus positively gaping at his longtime friend, staring at him in something of a mix between horror and panic, "Ratchet," he said, voice strained to its near limit as he fought back his raging emotions, "Ratchet, why would you ask me such a thing?"

"Because I need answers, Magnus." The Autobot's chief medical officer retorted angrily, "Whether you like it or not, I'm trying to help. It's not as if I'm developing some nefarious plot to put dents in all your helms, no matter what mechs who think about skipping their checkups say,"

"Even if I was, why would you need to know what it is?"

"Magnus, you are my friend. That is unconditional, no matter what you may believe you have to hide from me, from Optimus, from Prowl, or any of your other companions,"

"I keep a great many things from you, Ratchet,"

"How about something pertaining to a lover?" The red and white mech asked, and found himself crestfallen, at least on the inside, when Magnus' EM field recoiled abruptly, "Subtly," Ratchet snorted, a hint of anger surfacing, "This isn't just about you, Magnus, as much as you might be convinced mechs would like to see you cast aside, and do just about anything to achieve that end. This is about someone else,"

"My business is my own, Ratchet, and I would appreciate it if you reminded yourself of this fact every once in a while," Ultra Magnus snapped coolly,

"I have a patient suffering from survivor's guilt, a patient who refused to seek medical help, and spiraled out of control following his friend's injury. Which would make sense, if not for the fact that he is asking every search team sent after the Wreckers whether or not they've found something; anything really, because of how desperate he is."

The blue commander's spark sunk in its casing abruptly, "Ratchet, this doesn't mean what you think it does,"

"Maybe no, but what about the fact that he's been written up for poor performance on several instances for failing to complete his duties in the face of improper rest and refueling? He has taken maybe half of his ration in the last several decaorns, withdrawn himself from almost all of his friends, and you know the strange thing about all of this?" The towering mech could barely bring himself to look his friend in the optic, "He seemed to have been spending an uncanny amount of time with you before you left and he's been falling apart at the seams, since your whole unit went missing, Magnus,"

The commander of the Wreckers stood deathly still, "What are you telling me Ratchet?" he finally murmured. "That I need to write myself up, to resign myself to the fact that I am not above the rules and regulations I enforce so vehemently, to take the punishment and suffer through the ridicule and hatred and death threats?

"No, Magnus, I'm asking that you file a CR form, and take the mech out on a proper date, after you smother him with cheesy one-liners and hand-holding and convince him to see a psychiatrist, so he can learn to work through his hurt, and the other pressures he's clearly been feeling," Ratchet seemed almost exasperated at this point, "He's a good mech, Magnus, this has been hard on him too,"

"If I file a form with CR-"

"Prowl will take the necessary measures to ensure he is protected, Magnus. Red Alert, your friends; everyone will defend him as you would. Officers are allowed to date, commander. You are allowed to love somebody. Just file the form,"

"Hot Rod…" Ultra Magnus began hesitantly, "Is… is he alright?"

"No. But he'll get there," Ratchet said confidently

"File the form. After you go and kiss your boyfriend, Magnus. Take care of him so I can take care of both of you,"

A sound of horror escaped him, and he stared disbelievingly at the medic before him, "Ratchet, I would never-"

"Break formation sometime, Magnus. Posterity be slagged, I don't care if he shows you that he's happy you're still alive, and neither should other bots,"

"Hey," Hot Rod said weakly, watching the much larger blue mech come into the room. One shuddering sigh left him and he realized that he would have to explain what had happened to Magnus.

Before his lover could even get out so much as a word, Roddy cracked, the emotions flooding any dams he'd put up in place to hold them back, "Mags, I'm so sorry," he croaked brokenly, "I know you told me no, I know that. But I didn't think I'd ever see you again, and Ratchet said there was something wrong, and-" he choked, unable to continue speaking to the commander through his grief.

"Roddy," the larger mech sighed, one servo reaching out to cradle his faceplate. To his surprise, Hot Rod jerked away, looking extremely remorseful, "Darling, Hot Rod, please listen to me,"

"Listen to you what?" He choked out, voice hoarse and fading in and out. Those tears threatened to resurface, "Listen to you do what? Scold me? Tell me off? Break up with me? I'm sorry. I know I messed up. I really did, and I know sorry won't fix it, but I am sorry, and I don't know what to with that but just tell you,"

"No. I 'messed up.' You are not some bot of no value. You are of great value to me and I should have let you know that. I have told you that I adore you, but I haven't told you that this war does not mean you don't deserve the proper adoration,"

"I don't understand," Red and orange armor bristled as he moved, clearly uncomfortable, "What do you mean, Magnus?"

"With your permission, before we tell anyone publicly, I would like to file a CR form,"

"Cybertronian Relations- are you serious?"

"Completely serious. You are so important to me. My spark went still when I thought something had happened to you, and I realized I did not care what others mechs thought. I think you are more than worth it. I worry about you all of the time anyways. At least there will be bots protecting you when I can't,"

"And Cons targeting me to hurt you, because I'm selfish!"

"You are cybertronian. And so am I. And if that makes us selfish, I guess not all of us are as noble as Primes. But let me reassure you that me loving you is not a flaw, or a mistake," he said sternly, "And yes, Hot Rod, I do love you. Very much so,

"You?" The mech squeaked, gaping at the commander with optics wide open, "You love me?"

"Deeply so. And I should have told you decaorns ago. Now I won't have that regret,"

"Mags, I don't know what to say,"

"You don't have to say it back. Just say you'll fill out the form with me,"

"You have it with you, don't you?" Magnus nodded slightly sheepishly, "Commander prepared as always,"

"Do you expect anything less?"

"No. What's the first question, then?"

"Name," he supplied with ease, "Rank, security clearance,"

"Mine or yours?"

"Mine,"

"Oh,"

"Name of complicit party- Primus, it sounds like we're committing a crime or some sort," Magnus said, and Roddy laughed, sitting up a little straighter to lean in closer and try to look at the datapad. Two sets of blue optics met, and Hot Rod was rewarded with a smile. A real, honest to God smile, "What is it?"

"Nothing!" but Roddy couldn't help but smile back, looking awfully pleased with himself.

"Roddy," the mech tried to take on a serious expression, only to fail miserably.

"Mags," Hot Rod replied, smiling smugly.

"What is it?" Ultra Magnus asked, watching the bemused mech positively cackle to himself, "What is so funny?"

"I lost the bet!" Red and orange limbs curled around his chassis, and Hot Rod was still laughing.

Typical Hot Rod, he could only shake his helm, a small smile appearing on his own faceplate. As odd as the mech might have been, it was good to hear him laugh again, no matter how bizarre and nonsensical his amusement was.