got all the pieces to the puzzle but can't seem to make it fit
so I'm lost
tell me where to go
...
LIKE THE WATER FINDS THE SEA
Optimus spent the rest of the night in an armchair beside Ratchet's berth in the recovery ward. Beside him, Ratchet recharged in peace.
The ward was high up in the old Academy, high enough to make the large windows set into the walls worth it. There was a small crystal garden on the rooftop of a shorter tower between the medical center and the main bulk of the Autobot Headquarters that caught the faint predawn light and cast fantastic patterns onto the facades of the surrounding buildings. Optimus watched the shadows shrink back down into the gaps between buildings as the darkness faded and the glow of dawn stretched its electrum fingers over a cloud-streaked pink sky.
Cuirasse came back near sunrise with the charge nurse in tow. Together they unscrewed the temporary patch over Ratchet's shoulder wound, replacing the nanite gel-soaked mesh patch underneath with a fresh one and checking the formation of new oxide over his flayed protomass. Optimus watched intently though the sight made his tanks churn, unwilling to let Ratchet out of his sight.
"He's doing well," Cuirasse said, lifting Ratchet while the nurse cleaned a seeping patch of internal oils from the berth mesh beneath his shoulder. "I hope we'll be able to release him by the afternoon shift this orn, depending on preliminary psych evaluations."
"So soon?" Optimus asked. He reached out, laid his servo over Ratchet's, stroked the back of his hand though he knew Ratchet couldn't feel it. "It seems rather quick."
Cuirasse made a face. "Yes. Clearing berths, you know how it is. In any case, the wounds which will bother him the most are not ones which we can treat by keeping him in a hospital berth. Once his fluids are up a little more and his power core is full-capacity again, we're going to work on bringing him back into the real world. From then, healing will be mostly up to him. –Medical override key, primary abdominal port," she told the nurse. "Let's have a look at that newspark."
The nurse met Optimus' gaze for a short moment, quietly empathic, before she bent to open the port on Ratchet's side. Cuirasse brought a scanner over from a nearby table. She threaded a pair of plugs into Ratchet's medical ports, and the mechanism, an unassuming thing like a handheld chip computer, beeped twice as they connected.
"This is a very specific sort of deep-systems scanner," Cuirasse explained as the scanner did its job. "Gestational components are some of our oldest and most archaic components. There's a surprising amount of coding in there that isn't derived from – or even related to – very much else in our blueprints at all, which makes looking after carrying mecha an intensive specialisation. Most scanners work via one set of systems – electrical, coding, neural, or mechanical. This one combines all four. This gives us the most accurate scan we can get short of a surgical examination, which at this early stage is out of our reach anyway."
They waited in silence for a few minutes. Optimus curled his fingers around Ratchet's and held tight.
The ward nurse straightened, and left. A transmission encoded in medical frequencies went past. Cuirasse nodded shortly, her frown deepening.
"Alright," she said, resting her chin on her knuckles and scrolling through the readout on the scanner's screen. "The newspark has ignited and settled into orbit around his spark. Ratchet's gestation chamber is expanding ahead of the frame assembly period. The electrical nets in his abdomen are experiencing heightened activity and his coding is activating generative protocols. At this point, I'd say, the newspark has a 96% chance of survival on its own. I will add this information to the treatment plan; doubtless when he wakes up, Ratchet will want as much information as he can get."
She disconnected the scanner from Ratchet's systems and turned the screen to face Optimus. "It's too early to say for sure, but it's looking like the newspark will be hot-spectrae, B-Spectra perhaps."
Optimus, himself a hot-spectrae spark, leant forward, studying the thermal readouts. He bit his glossa until it bled, then spoke with a voice far more steady than it had any right to be: "I confess I know very little about kindling and carrying. What are our options?"
"For now? Not a whole lot. Early-term abortion is exceedingly dangerous; Ratchet would have to pass very stringent mental health examinations if he were to choose that option. While the newspark is attached to his own, while they occupy the same chamber, anything that happens to the newspark is likely to affect him as well. The mortality rate of such procedures is close to 60%."
Optimus' free hand, the one not holding Ratchet's, twinged. He took a deep breath and relaxed it, the overstressed cables releasing gratefully.
"His health and his choice are the two most important things to consider," he said, twining his fingers with Ratchet's. "I won't have his autonomy compromised any further. If he chooses to terminate it, I will support him. If he chooses to keep it, I could do no different."
They hadn't thought about having children for a long time. It had never so much as been discussed; the war had taken up so much of their time that in the rare moments in which they had time enough to be together as partners and lovers rather than Prime and medic, the distant future had been the furthest thing from their minds. The present was all they could afford to worry about, or so Optimus had felt.
Optimus shook his head at his own foolishness. He cupped Ratchet's hand in both of his own and raised it to his mouth, brushing his lips over the knuckles. I'm sorry, he thought.
It hurt, it hurt to think that the chance of that future had been taken away from them. And the idea that Ratchet might spend the next few vorn raising a child born of his rape, that burned like molten steel. Try as he might, Optimus could not see within himself the strength that it might take to assist. There was little pride or selfishness left in him but for where Ratchet was concerned. The old medic was Optimus' solid rock, the core of his world. The small part of him that was still unbridled Orion Pax, young and strong but very much alone, cried out to be allowed this one person to love and cherish and protect. Orion Pax worked very much in ideals: he wanted to share with and share in Ratchet, in this and all things. The idea that he could not share in Ratchet's children was anathema.
The alternative, though, was unthinkable. To leave Ratchet on his own… shame curled through his spark at the very idea.
The vows he had made in bonding to Ratchet echoed through the back of his processor, memory files replaying unbidden. Optimus vented hard. He was afraid to the very core of his spark, terrified that he might not be strong enough, of trying and failing and letting Ratchet down— what if my best is not good enough, what if I can't be what he needs, what if I hurt him again even as I try to help?
He stopped, staring wide-opticked at the glyphs in the thoughts. At the pronouns: I. Me. My.
Optimus buried his face in his hands.
If Ratchet chose to terminate the sparkling, Optimus would be whatever support and safetynet he needed. If Ratchet chose to keep it, then he would do his best to be that sparkling's sire regardless.
It was the only thing – and everything – he could do.
If that effort was, or wasn't, enough? That was not his judgement to make.
Cuirasse watched him with empathy glowing in her field. She was silent until he raised his optics to hers again, wordlessly asking that she continue.
"Likely the course of action most prudent, should he choose it, would be to wait until the newspark separates from his own, between three and four quartexes from now. Late-term abortions are a great deal safer, although not without their own dangers." She put the scanner down. "The time frame concerns me most. The longer he waits, the more his coding invests in the newspark."
On the berth, Ratchet's internal fans whirred quietly. Optimus' sensitive audials picked up faint stuttering noise, a sleepy little sneeze.
He smiled despite himself, clutching tight to Ratchet's hand. Six orns ago he'd woken with their positions reversed, Optimus prone on the big berth in his own suite with Ratchet sitting on the edge, swinging his pedes like a mech a fraction of his age as the rising sun streamed in through the window, as bright and hot as the bond still settling in their sparks. He didn't think they'd let go of each other's servos for the entire morning.
"And if he decides to carry it to term?"
"Adoption is always an option. Not one that I think he is very likely to choose, but with my limited acquaintance to him I can hardly make an informed judgement there." She stood, fiddling for a moment with the IV line. "You should get a little rest before he wakes up, Prime, sir. You're probably going to need it."
The sun rose.
It took another three joor for Ratchet's vitals to come up to a level which satisfied Cuirasse. Having attempted to follow the medic's advice and failed on several counts, Optimus passed the time doing what little work he could manage from the chair beside his bondmate's berth. This was slow going; he couldn't concentrate for much more than a few breem at a time.
(If he had been able to, he might have noticed that the amount of paperwork being sent to his inbox was considerably less than usual. Prowl sent his regard in nonverbal ways.)
He was beginning to feel the exhaustion of the past orn in every reach of his systems. His optics kept closing halfway, his damper systems shutting down to preserve energy. He nursed a cube of midgrade smuggled into the ward by an uncharacteristically apologetic Mirage, who possessed a healthy respect for the medical staff only surpassed by his regard for the health and wellbeing of his Prime. The energon kept the darkness from the edges of his visual field, but it would only be a stopgap measure. Sooner or later, he'd have to shut down for real, or else risk dropping into stasis where he sat.
When Cuirasse next came back, flanked by First Aid and a little orange minibot whom she introduced as Rung, he drained the last of the cube and set down his datapad. Work was suddenly the last thing on his priority queue.
Rung walked around the berth and took up a place beside Optimus' chair as the two medics removed the monitoring equipment. For a moment Optimus found himself staring: the little mech's optical array was almost entirely obscured by a beaky mask, his optics glowing huge and wide beneath a pair of thick scholarly goggles. He held out a friendly servo in an unmistakeably upper-class greeting. Optimus' returning grip swallowed both servo and stick-thin wrist.
"I am Rung," he said, sharp Iaconian words articulated with a velvety Petrexi accent. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Optimus Prime, although not under such circumstances. How are you feeling?"
His field was calm and still, and he was old beneath it, perhaps one of the oldest mecha Optimus had ever met. He glanced back to Ratchet, and made the split-second decision to trust Rung.
"I feel tired," he said. It came out with a heartfelt flicker of his field. "Large parts of me keep hoping that it is just a particularly cruel recharge flux, and that if I fall asleep I will wake up in the morning with Ratchet beside me and that life will continue on as usual. It is the same part of me that hopes the war can be ended tomorrow with no further loss of life, however, and I find that conjunction irrationally angering."
There was a groan from the berth as Ratchet shook off the last of the stasis codes. His optics flickered online, and almost immediately he sought out Optimus.
Unlike the previous night there was little confusion, and no hesitation. He was pushing himself upright as soon as he had movement in his limbs, pain rippling through his field as he stopped barely long enough to look down at himself.
"Ratchet," Optimus said, offering his servo. It was caught in a death grip, borne to the medical berth as Ratchet doubled over, wrapping his field close around his frame. He opened his mouth, closed it again, shuttered his optics and exvented hard.
He hadn't yet been repainted, and suddenly Optimus wished they'd done it first. The foreign paint transfers had been scrubbed away, but Ratchet's own coat still bore several deep scratches, right down to the metal. He looked away from Ratchet for a microsecond, composing a silent databurst to Cuirasse.
Ratchet chose that moment to find his voice.
"I'm sorry," he croaked, in Protihexi, his servo tightening around Optimus'. "You were right – I never should have taken that mission, I'm sorry." He repeated it, "I'm sorry," over and over again until his vocaliser lapsed into silence.
Optimus stared dumbly, physically unable to foment a response for so long that Ratchet's grip on his servo loosened, hesitant.
"It's not your fault," Optimus made his vocaliser work by pure force of will, cupping both hands around Ratchet's. "You have nothing to apologise for—not to me, nor to anyone."
Ratchet stared down at their hands, his dente bared in an anguished half-snarl. "You were right, and I'm sorry I didn't listen to you— I just, I wanted to help and I thought I could do it but I couldn't run fast enough and Cutlass died because of me." His vents juddered, a choked sob. "I thought I was going to die as well, and you with me – they just, they killed him and they came after me and I couldn't think, I just did and I thought if I could just stay alive then someone would find me. Anything was worth that, I thought, Optimus. I'm so sorry."
"There is nothing to apologise for," Optimus repeated, numb. "You're alive, and that's what matters the most. To me, and to everyone here." Had he really heard that right? Had Ratchet just implied that violent rape had been a bargain, a price he'd willingly paid for survival? Primus below. He opened his end of the bond as far as it would go and reached through with love and hope and strength, offering himself. Ratchet clung to him with starving thoughts, the brilliant reaches of his mind desolate. Used-up, Ratchet thought.
/ You are not used / Optimus thought, as hard as he dared. / You have been beaten and attacked and invaded in the most cruel of ways, but you are not used. You survived. You did what you could, and I love you so much. /
Ratchet's vocaliser crackled. / I'm sorry. / The bond echoed with residual pain, sharp and tearing. / I still feel like I'm going to die. It hurts, in my spark. /
The sparkling. Optimus tamped down a fresh wellspring of grief before Ratchet could feel it. Conceived from rape. He hurt – for Ratchet, for himself, and for the little newspark too. Black ice encased his spark.
/ Ratchet / he said, fighting it off, / there is something you need to know. You're carrying. /
Ratchet looked straight at him for the first time since he'd woken up. Cyan optics widened impossibly. / I—what? When? Did we kindle? / His field whirled, nebulous and unreadable.
Optimus shook his helm. / We didn't. It's not— I'm not the sire. /
"Impossible," Ratchet said out loud. "My core locks, my spark, they never touched that. It must be ours."
Optimus looked to Cuirasse for help, but the doctors had retreated, giving them a moment of privacy. "It's not; it's too young."
"How young?" Ratchet all but snarled. He felt like he was on the verge of panic, all fizzing energy and sharp-edged fear. Optimus bent down, fished the datapad containing his medical records out from where he'd put it underneath his chair last night. Ratchet snatched it from Optimus' servos, turned it on, and found he had no free hand with which to scroll. He glanced at his missing shoulder and the microplates of his face drew tight in remembered agony.
Optimus took the pad from his nerveless hand. "Cuirasse believes it is less than an orn old." He found the relevant section and passed it back. Ratchet took it silently, scanning the text with feverish optics. "She has also speculated that it was budded rather than kindled. I apologise, the details have escaped me."
Ratchet braced the pad against his knee and scrolled downwards. "It's impossible, the odds are more than a million to one." He looked up, and his optics met Optimus', wide and horrified. "I overloaded. They—they did that to me and I came so many times. I can't – help me, Optimus; I don't know what to do!"
Optimus reached out with arms and thoughts, unthinking. Ratchet's spark reached back, but his body hesitated. A second: one, two. Their servos met. A moment later, their optics. Ratchet's lips parted, the beginning of a question on the tip of his glossa.
Can I?
Optimus nodded.
His chair rocked back on two legs, his arms suddenly full of his bondmate. Ratchet gave a choked cry of pain and latched on with servo so tight it scraped curls of paint from Optimus' back and shoulders. Their sparks throbbed in twain, the closeness a relief so intense it hurt after orns of separation.
He wrapped his arms around Ratchet, holding fast, secure but not overly tight. The chemical smell of the nangel patch filled the air, so much it stank. The morning sunlight gleamed against Ratchet's white and orange plating.
Wretched sobs, one after the other. Ratchet's vents shrilled, overworked. He buried his face in the curve of Optimus' neck between clavicular strut and shoulder armor, gasping through his mouth.
/ What can I do? / he asked through comms, his mental voice halting and miserable. / I'm sorry. /
Optimus rested his chin against the crown of Ratchet's helm. / As I said before, there is nothing here you need to apologise for. It is not your fault this happened. /
Ratchet wailed. / But I said they could! I was so afraid that they were going to kill me that I gave them the idea and I sat down and I spread my legs for them and— and I felt them come inside me and I overloaded, Optimus! / He spat the words like weapons, throwing them at Optimus even as he clawed at Optimus' back and pressed himself so close it seemed he was trying to worm beneath Optimus' plating. / I as good as asked for it! I was thinking of you the whole time. I didn't want to die. /
/ Very few people truly do / Optimus replied, stroking one hand over the small of Ratchet's back. Ratchet shuddered, heaving in a deep breath. / Ratchet, the only person who needs to forgive you is yourself. However, if you cannot do that at this moment in time – that is okay. Neither do you need to know what to do with yourself right now. You are still severely injured and in shock. Your arm will be repaired, but the rest will take far longer. You don't have to make up your mind on anything right now. And I want you to know that I am, and always will be, here for you. /
Ratchet was silent for a long while. His ventilations slowed, the frenzied whining of his internal fans dying down. When he eventually spoke, it was with a quiet question.
"Where's that datapad?"
Optimus scanned the bay, craning his neck to see over Ratchet's shoulder. "On the floor behind you. Shall I get it?"
Ratchet gave a minute shake of his helm. "No. Just— let me stay for a bit."
"For as long as you like." Optimus leant against the padded back of the chair, settling Ratchet's weight against his chassis. "You and I have both been relieved of our duties for the remainder of the quartex. Cuirasse and First Aid hope to discharge you by this afternoon, but there is no need to hurry."
Ratchet made a little raspy cough. It took Optimus a moment to realise it had been intended as a wry laugh.
He looked down at Ratchet, taking in the tired twist of his field. The rush of sudden emotion had drained away and now it left them both on the verge of shutdown. Black spots danced in and out of focus at the edges of his vision, details pixelating on his HUD.
"I'm going to keep the newspark," Ratchet mumbled into Optimus' neck. "I— I understand if you don't want anything to do with it, but I'm going to keep it."
"You don't have to decide yet," Optimus said, as neutrally as he could manage. Primus. Could he do it? Take care of a child, or Ratchet's child? Even knowing the circumstances which had given it life?
"Well, I have," Ratchet said shortly. "Don't try to talk me out of it—please."
Why? Optimus wanted to ask, so very badly. He tried to pretend for a moment that he didn't know the answer, that the sympathy wending through his spark was for Ratchet and Ratchet alone. It was that sympathy for which Primus had found him worthy of the Primacy, the Matrix. The Creator's regard pressed down upon him, support and responsibility in one.
He tightened his arms around Ratchet's frame, kissing the crown of his helm.
"I won't," he said. "And I won't make you do this alone. Never, never."
His only answer was a whispered, "Thank you."