Author's Note:

Ah, thank you for all the lovely reviews! Love is reviews, and reviews are inspiration, and thank you! Most of this chapter was inspired by Daft Punk's Father and Son so you may get a more emotional read if you read this chapter while listening to it.


A finger stroked his cheek. Gently. Patiently. Lovingly. It was a slow, languid stroke that spoke of millennia of impossible wait. Soft. Tainted with agonized amour.

With the sweet feeling of those knuckles tracing his cheek came pain. So much pain. He shifted, as if to get away from the pain, and all he received for his movement was searing lances of agony. Everywhere. It all hurt. He gave a weak moan, and the comforting hand jerked away from him.

His servos shook as he lifted his palms to press them flat against the table he was on. His movements caused fire to blaze two hideous paths down his back, and he moaned louder, gritting his dentures. He tried to move his wings from their position that was hurting so much, but nothing happened to ease it. If anything, it only siphoned the pain into pinpoint accuracy, splitting him apart from the inside out. A new hand rested on top of his before he could try to get up.

"Easy. You don't need to be moving yet."

Finally, it occurred to him that he needed to online his optics. Nightflier's vision slowly recalibrated, and he found himself staring into the face of a red and white mech with a red chevron on his helm. He swallowed and cracked his jaw open, rasping, "You must be Ratchet."

He had a healer's optics. He could tell by that alone, but also because he had clearly woken up on a medical berth. Never mind the description he had been given by Smokescreen.

He nodded. "Yes. And you must be . . . Nightfall Prime."

Nightflier's brows puckered a moment. "No, I'm Nightfli—Oh . . . Y-Yes, that's me." Slowly, the cogs of his mind were catching up with his outside environment. With that knowledge, he realized he had been stripped of all his armor above his waist. He felt naked, ashamed, and he tried to move his wings again to cover up the old wound he knew would be showing. His wings didn't respond. Only pain.

Ratchet blinked at him, something dark around his optics. "How are you feeling?"

What would be the right word to suit how broken he felt? "Awful," was the first word to come out of his mouth before he thought more on it. He shuddered in a shaky cycle. "I . . . Help me sit up. Please."

"You—"

"Please."

Though Ratchet's lips pressed, he acquiesced to his request. Gentle hands took him, and Nightflier bit back a sound of pain, seizing and gasping slightly when he was lifted to an upright position. His jaw locked tightly, and he braced a hand against the berth, his other hand gripping Ratchet's arm. "Smokescreen?"

He looked up, seeing Smokescreen jump around the tallest mech, and he hurried to his side. Six pairs of crystal blue optics stared at him, and Nightflier tried not to squirm at the unwanted attention. Smokescreen hurried to his side, crouching in front of him. "Yeah?"

Nightflier swallowed. "I . . . need you to go get Optimus. Take someone with you to . . . help you carry him. A-And the Forge."

Smokescreen nodded. "Yes, sir."

He shifted uncomfortably at the "sir" but watched as Smokescreen went up and traded a few words with the tallest mech, the same mech Nightflier had found beneath the brunt of Megatron's power at the top of Darkmount. After a moment, he looked at Nightflier, pressed his lips together, and said something to Smokescreen. Smokescreen and the green Autobot left.

Nightflier felt his hand tighten on Ratchet's arm. He dropped his helm. "R-Ratchet . . ." He took a tight breath, shivering. "M-My wings . . . Are they . . ." He couldn't finish the sentence. He looked up, and he witnessed the mech's throat work.

It was all the answer he needed. Something slowly began to break inside, and he felt hot tears sting his optics. He bowed his head, pressing his face into Ratchet's forearm as he struggled to hold back his weeping. Faintly, over his bond and millions of light years away, he felt First Aid trying to soothe his distress. It did nothing to touch it.

My wings. BOTH of them. They're gone . . . What am I supposed to do?

For a moment, he allowed himself to grieve and wept quietly, unable to process how he was supposed to manage without them. Without one had been hard enough until First Aid had managed to jerry rig an unorthodox fix. But both? And without First Aid? He was grounded. Possibly for good. They didn't have the resources the Protectobots had found, bought, stolen on Cybertron, and there was no way to get that kind of equipment here on Earth.

He rocked, shuddering in agony of the body and mind. He didn't know how he would manage. Sure, it had taken First Aid a long, long time to fix him, but during that time so long without flight . . . It was at times like that that he would have given anything NOT to be a seeker. He tried to flutter his wings only to find he couldn't. Vorns upon vorns without a flight . . . He couldn't imagine a worse torture. Something that had stretched his mental stability to its limit.

Taking a ragged vent, Nightflier tried to control his trembling. Wiping his optics, he lifted his helm, swallowing and looking back up to the others just watching. Ratchet backed away a little once he released him, unnerved by him crying on him. "Arcee . . . Where's my sister?"

Instead of answering, Arcee looked back to a red mech with horns on his head. He watched the mech's lips pull a little as he turned behind him—and then he whirled.

"Nights?"

Arcee's jaw dropped. "Cliffjumper!"

Nightflier looked harder at the red mech in question as he spun in a circle before sputtering at Arcee. "W-What? She was right here!"

Arcee threw her hands up. "Okay. So FIND HER."

He jumped before turning and bolting from the room. "Nights! Nights, where'd you go? Nights!"

Nightflier's lip pulled a little that he caved so quickly to Arcee bossing him. Instead, he let out a vent, struggling not to wince in pain as he looked around the open shelter they were in and—

He saw who sat next to him. He blinked, and he felt his spark hit the pits of his stomach. Red optics blinked from the berth next to him, longing and wary. Nightflier felt his throat bob.

"Dad?"

Relief seemed to pour into Dreadwing's optics, as if he hadn't expected him to remember him. But he did. That same hulking form. That same blue. That same helm. Those same optics. Dreadwing scooted closer, some semblance of a smile touching the edges of his mouth as he reached his hand out to him. "Nightflier."

He moved back. Dreadwing froze. Nightflier blinked at him, optics wide but brow furrowed as he stared at the mech that had been absent from his life for so long. "Where were you?"

The happiness in his optics faded. His hand dropped. His bottom lip twitched inward before he cleared his vocalizer and managed, "Nightflier, I—"

"Where were you!" Nightflier snapped. His throat worked again, and he scooted farther away until he was on the opposite edge of his own berth. Tears stung his optics before he could stop them.

Dreadwing wetted his lips, spark thundering erratically in his chassis. "Nightflier, please, don't. I was trying—"

"Where were you!" he shouted. He felt his body reel up defensively, and he choked on a sob before glaring as much as he could with his blue optics. "Where you were! When I was growing up, when Mom was sick and died, when we were on the streets, when the Decepticons invaded, ALL MY LIFE—where were you? Where were you!"

A stricken look crossed the great seeker's features. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He cleared his vocalizer again, rasping quietly, "Nightflier . . . I'm sorry . . . I—"

"Well I'm sorry doesn't cut it!" Nightflier cut in angrily. He sniffed back the tears, scrubbing them away with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry doesn't help a slagging thing! S-So what was it? Too busy killing people to stop and take care of your family!"

Dreadwing winced as if it was a physical blow. His wings drooped, knowing it was worse than that. "I . . . I tried to find you when Megatron ordered the routing of femmes and sparklings," he managed tightly. He lifted pleading optics to his son. "I tried to find you, I swear I did, I just—"

"Just what?" Nightflier interrupted bitterly. His lips trembled. "That was the only time we were important enough to you to look for us?"

"No!" Dreadwing burst, feeling smaller every second that passed as his son ground him down and the looks from the Autobots became even more condescending by the moment. "Nightflier, I—"

"So what was it then!" he exploded. Nightflier felt his hands fist, and his optics cut into his squirming father. "What was it? Why didn't you come back?"

Silence blanketed the room. Dreadwing felt his vents thin as two optics he had missed most in all the world stared out passionately, judgmentally, hating him. He opened his mouth, but nothing but a crack came out. Nightflier made an impatient and angry face as he waited on his answer. Finally, Dreadwing dropped his helm, rasping, "Nightflier . . . I'm sorry, I . . . It was me. All me. After that fight with your mother, I . . . I couldn't let go of my pride. And when I was ready to come back . . . it was too late . . ."

Nightflier stared. His words cut. They cut like a knife, and they went deep, paralyzing his soul. It took him a moment, but he slowly realized tears were slipping down his cheeks. The same cheeks Dreadwing had been stroking before he woke up. The betrayal ate through him, disintegrating his spark like a virulent rust.

Dreadwing looked up into his silence. He reached out to him again, "Nightflier, I—"

"No." The hollow ring of his voice hurt. Dreadwing's hand slowly fell away again as betrayal lanced across Nightflier's spark. He shook, shaking his head at him. "D-Don't speak to me," he rasped.

Dreadwing winced when he turned away from him, bearing his ugly wounds toward him. He felt his spark slowly splitting in two, breaking apart under the strain of spark break.

So close. He was right there, after all those years having believed he was dead. He wanted to throw himself in his arms; he wanted to bundle him up into his chassis. Dreadwing's throat worked as he stared in horror at his son choosing to shut him out. He leaned forward, reaching out to him again. "Nightflier, I'm sorry, I—"

He winced away at his words. Dreadwing recoiled again, something tearing inside of him, a part of his soul fading. His hand dropped. He turned away, unable to bear the sight of the grisly wounds marring his son. He scooted across his medical berth to face the wall away from the bots, taking the same exact position his son had; sitting, hands gripping the edge, helm low to hide his face, and wings drooped low.

"Does anyone know where my sister is?"

It was as if his words broke the tense atmosphere of the room. Immediately, every bot in the room looked around for him, no one finding the culprit of hide and seek. Finally, the tallest mech nodded towards him. "We will find your sister," he told him.

Nightflier nodded weakly. "Thank you."

The Autobots immediately filed out, even before proper introductions, all leaving the hangar to search for Nightstalker. They immediately began calling her name, and Nightflier was left with Ratchet until a small pair of peds came up to him.

"Nightflier? Are you okay?"

He looked up to find Arcee standing in worry above him. Her eyes cut over his head to Ratchet, but when the medical officer didn't throw her out of his area, she looked back down to Nightflier. Something in her optics . . . the concern there . . . It made his spark bleed. That she wasn't afraid to show real, empathetic concern despite him being Prime made something break inside, and he shook his head, telling her the truth in a raspy whisper.

"No. No, I'm not."

There was a pause, and then she sat next to him. Before she had a chance to say anything more, he turned to her shaking in pain, and he grabbed one of her hands for support. He pressed his forehead to her shoulder without thinking, shuddering as he held back another wave of overwhelmed tears. She shifted, uncomfortable with him so close.

"I'm separated from my brothers-in-arms," his deep voice whispered quietly to her, listing it all. "My spark brother is so far away I can barely feel him. I come face-to-face with the mech that tried to kill me so long ago. I hear my sister is still alive. My father is suddenly here. My wings—my wings are gone." He trembled, shaking his head. "And on top of all of that, I'm supposed to be Prime. So no, I'm not okay. It's just . . . too much to take in at once . . ."

After a moment of struggling to contain himself, he felt the hand in his tighten supportively. His lips tipped up weakly as he realized he was crying on her again, and he pulled back tiredly, still keeping holding her hand. "Thanks," he grumbled quietly, wiping his optics again.

Her throat moved before she abruptly stood to her peds. "I, uh, I really should go help look for Nightstalker."

He let her go, nodding with another quiet, "Thanks." She hesitantly moved away before turning and heading out of the room.

There was a pause of quiet as Nightflier was left with Ratchet and Dreadwing alone in the room. Finally, quietly, he heard, "I don't understand."

Nightflier's helm tipped in tired indifference to the medic. "Understand what?"

Ratchet turned towards him, a cinch in his brow. "You haven't turned off your pain receptors."

Ah, it was an expected inquiry. Though every movement was laced in agony, Nightflier tried to straighten his back a little. "If I'm gonna have any hope of getting them reattached, they've got to stay on."

"I know that," Ratchet stated. He pensively flicked his finger over a datapad, searching it for answers he didn't have. "But I'm out of my domain here. I do not have near enough experience in repairing seekers as a Decepticon medic would have, and our supplies are limited. I have no surgical tools, nor the proper equipment, and what I do have is even more rudimentary than before." Finally, he set aside the datapad and crossed his arms. He arched a brow at his stubborn patient, intelligence not to be belied. "As far as things go, it doesn't look like you have any chance to get your wings reattached unless the medic who repaired you the first time was here to help me and brought with him the equipment needed."

It was an invitation. Nightflier hung his helm, fighting a losing war inside at the thought. He was offering him to turn off his pain receptors. If he did, he wouldn't be living in this agony. But if he did, he would never have the chance of reattaching his wings. He would be grounded. For life. If he turned them off, there was no going back.

On the other hand, if he kept them on, he would live his every waking moment in agony. Pain would shadow him wherever he went, and every movement would hurt; his strength would be taxed. And there was no hope for a miracle that they would be able to attach his wings anyways. Either choice was a crippling handicap, and he was forced between a rock and a hard place.

Finally, an unsteady vent shook out of him. "No." He struggled to lift his helm, and he stared past the medic and to the far wall. "I . . . I'll keep them on."

For what, he couldn't say. He just . . . had to trust somehow all hope wasn't gone, as foolhardy as it seemed. In response to his choice, he heard Ratchet grunt slightly. "Very well. I'll dilute your energon with pain killer."

Nightflier nodded, weighted down by his choice. "Thank you."

Ratchet took a step to the side. Sensing he was still sitting motionlessly, Ratchet said, "You need your rest."

"I want to meet my sister," was all he could say back. His tone of voice sounded a bit petulant because he was so exhausted, but his spark was filled with longing. He fought to keep his optics open.

He heard Ratchet give a perturbed mumble. "I'm sure you know as well as I do that if Nightstalker doesn't want to be found, she won't be."

That made him give a sigh of defeat. Nightflier turned on his hip before easing himself down to lie on his stomach, wincing and shuddering in uneven breaths at the movement. "She couldn't hide from me," he whispered softly. He knew he could find her. He had always been better at hide and seek than she had.


When her brother finally reluctantly fell into a recharge, Nightstalker finally shifted from her uncomfortable position. Dreadwing brooded on the edge of his medical berth, and Ratchet poured over a datapad, presumably the one containing information on Nightflier's condition.

Finally, Nightstalker stretched her legs out and slipped from one of the beams holding up the ceiling. She landed with a light thump, and Ratchet started, whirling with his datapad in hand.

"Nightstalker? Wh—Where have you been?" But he answered his own question, because he looked up to the ceiling and her apparent hiding spot. He frowned at her. "Why didn't you come down?"

She approached slowly, cautiously. Her orange optics darted over the inert form of her brother, and she swallowed around the shame clotting up her throat. He was Prime. Her big brother was . . . Prime. Chosen. Sacred. Her lips quivered as she looked up to Ratchet.

"Why do you think I hid?" she whispered. She trembled and crossed her arms against the cold that stole over her, sagging wings fluttering with anxiety. "I'm—Ratchet, I'm . . . I'm DISGUSTING compared to him . . ."

Ratchet clicked in irritation before he scooped her up into his arms in the quaint quiet of the new base, emptied of bots as they searched for her. "Nightstalker, don't say things like that."

"But they're true," she husked back, voice thickening with tears. She curled up her legs, burying herself into his chassis. "You know it as well as I do. What Megatron's done to me . . ." Her claws gripped his chest, almost cutting through the paint. Her voice rasped in pain. "What I've done with my own hands . . ."

A soft vent puffed over her head, and Ratchet took her to the side, sitting down. She curled up in his lap, helm tucked beneath his chin. His strong arms swallowed her up, a haven of protection and solace. "Nightstalker, please," he said quietly. "Do not blame yourself for your upbringing. You had no one to teach you the difference between right and wrong, and the Decepticons' influence on you only made things worse."

"That doesn't excuse my actions," she murmured back. She pressed her helm into the front of his chassis, feeling the vibrating thump of his spark. It was a soothing sound, a tickling feel, and it washed over her embroiled conscience like a balm. "I'm . . . trying to make it better, I'm just . . . I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

She shivered when his servo passed over her wings, sending sweet prickles down her struts. The tears began to slip out. She hadn't even realized they were bubbling up.

"I'm afraid . . . he'll hate me . . . He'll hate who I am, what I've done . . ."

Solid footfalls alerted them to company. Ratchet looked up to find Ultra Magnus halting in the doorway of the room, optics pinning to Nightstalker. Ratchet gave a small gesture for a minute. The commander pursed his lips, nodded respectfully, and left.

A troubled grumble rumbled from him. His arms tightened, and his hands soothed down her back, kneading away the negative emotions. His lips pressed to the side of her helm. "Don't speak like that," he reprimanded her softly. "He's going to love you. He wanted so much to see you again."

She felt herself growing even smaller. Every time she thought she could see the surface and some light, the guilt wore her down again. To top of her mountain of woe, another dash of remorse covered the top. He wanted to see her, and she had hid from him. What kind of sister was she? After millennia of missing him, and she couldn't even bring herself to meet him.

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"Trust me," Ratchet murmured. "Family doesn't give up on one another so easily. They're the one thing you can always count on to be there, to pull you up when you're weak. It doesn't matter about the past, because they can forgive you of anything. Family doesn't give up on each other, even if the other turns their back on them."

For a quiet minute, Nightstalker absorbed his words, cuddled close and loved. Then, she lifted her helm, blinking back suspicious wetness. Wordlessly, she looked over to the alienated Dreadwing.

Ratchet made a sound unable to be placed, but Nightstalker gently disentangled herself from his arms. She passed her brother, and she halted by his helm. Uncertainly, her hand reached out, shaking in indecision, and the desire to touch his cheek, to stroke there comfortingly the way he had done for her on lonely nights in Kaon almost overpowered her. With a sharp intake, she jerked her hand away, unable to touch him, as if he were sacred and her mere touch would corrupt what he was chosen to be. Instead, she forced herself to bypass him, and she sat gingerly next to Dreadwing.

His optics flickered, his only recognition of her. "Leave me," he rasped quietly.

She shook her head. "No." Nightstalker shrugged a shoulder in Ratchet's general direction. "I know you heard us. I know you heard what he said. And he's right."

"Perhaps," Dreadwing acquiesced softly. "But I am not worthy. I do not deserve it for the crimes I have committed, and I have paid the price by losing Nightflier. I have nothing left. My soul is shattering, and no one cares. I am beginning to think I should let myself fade away."

"No," Nightstalker said. She shook her head, and she reached to take his hand. "Don't talk like that. Nightflier needs you."

His hand jerked away. "He does not want me."

"That's what he thinks," Nightstalker muttered. "Look. Nightflier will come around. I promise. He can't hold a grudge, especially to family. And if you think no one cares about you, you're going to have a scrapping epiphany when you realize how stubborn I'm going to be about letting you throw your life away."

When she said that, he winced slightly. She watched pain flicker across his face, and his optics shuttered. He looked away.

"You sound so much like your mother when you say things like that."

The sweet words were bitter from his mouth. Laced with agony and longing for the days long past. To that, Nightstalker bit her lip and dropped her head, not knowing what to say. Dreadwing shifted finally, and he looked at her, red optics smoldering.

"You are the product of my sins," he admitted on a lost breath. "A constant reminder of my failings, a living ghost of your mother, the salt on a raw wound. I agonize every time I see you, and my grief is self-inflicted. And it is for this that I hate you.

"But I also know I have no right to hate you." He glanced away, looking at the ground. "You have done nothing to deserve my cruel treatment, and yet I keep you beneath my peds. You have done nothing but help me, support me, and all I can do is shun you . . . both over the thought that I do not deserve it, and also because it only reminds me of the mate I lost."

Nightstalker shifted at his words, and she looked warily up at him. The hulking remains of the Decepticon air commander turned his helm down to her, optics glowing brightly with smothered passions. He briefly glanced to Nightflier before he focused back down on Nightstalker.

"Did you ever wonder why I was named Nightstalker?"

He blinked once at her, a short-lived surprise flickering across his features. "No . . . I did not."

Nightstalker fluttered her wings nervously. "Well . . . I don't think she meant to have me. You know, just drunk and all . . . but I do think she tried to honor you with my name." He didn't say anything, but she felt him physically still next to her. Nightstalker nodded. "Yeah. She kept the night part of my name. She still named me after the night, after the time where you guys found solace . . . when you fell in love." His vents hitched imperceptibly. "A-and, stalker? Who in the world was there to stalk her nights but a lost love?"

His intakes lurched audibly. "Don't say things like that!" he rasped. His hands tightened on the edge of the berth, and he cringed visibly, almost unable to take the impact of what she was suggesting. "Don't say things like that, please . . ."

Nightstalker shrugged slightly, and she bent her legs so she could hug her knees close to her chassis. "It just . . . made sense to me," she murmured. "That's all."

His chest heaved a little. He shook his head, and he looked at her. Nightstalker shifted positions nervously, feeling like his optics were seeing right through to her.

"Nightstalker . . . I . . ."

When he looked back down and gasped back tears, Nightstalker jumped to her peds, collecting the broken remains of her step-father. "Shh, it's gonna be all right. Just give Fli-Ni a little time to come around, I promise he will . . . shh . . ."

He didn't cry. But his shoulders shook, and he trembled. A reluctant hand wrapped around her, seeking her comfort despite all that told him otherwise. An uneven breath shivered from him.

"I do not deserve you . . ."

A sad smile touched Nightstalker's lips. She let him bury his helm in her chassis, and she rested her chin on his helm. "That's all right," she murmured. "I know that better than anyone . . . And I find that, even though we don't deserve the people we are blessed with, it's not our choice. It's theirs." She gave a weak laugh. "And they're gonna make your life miserable with happiness."


"Nights?"

Cliffjumper's question was barely a breath in the night. Due to space issues, their berth rooms were all conjoined into one spacious hangar. The others were in a steady recharge, soft vents filling the air. She could hear a small dust bunny kicking around in Bumblebee's airways, but it would dislodge after a few more cycles.

She blinked several times, and then she shifted, turning around in his arms so she could face him. "Yeah?"

He arched a brow at her. "You were crying," he whispered softly. His tired optics blinked at her. "Talk to me."

Nightstalker shook her head. The feeling weighed her down, made a part of her feel sick. "Just . . . thinking about Optimus," she admitted quietly.

Something cracked in the back of Cliffjumper's optics. He bunched her up tight to his chassis, whispering tightly, "Yeah. Me too . . ."

They alternately cried quietly on each other. Nightstalker more so than Cliffjumper. She wasn't quite sure why. Her entire relationship with the Prime had been estranged. Confused. Full of sinful passion and lust. Strife. Disobedience. But she grieved. She couldn't fathom why, but it could have been because of his compassion. His willingness to grant her second chances. She doubted anyone else in the world would have. Because for all her imperfections, he had still managed to care about her just as much as any of the others, and that hit her the hardest.

Even after Cliffjumper fell into a recharge, she found she couldn't. She was restless, agitated, and something just felt off. She gently tried to detangle herself from Cliffjumper's arms without waking him, but he stirred anyways. She put a finger to her lips, motioning that she'd be back soon, and his optics darkened a little in worry. After pressing a kiss to her hand, he let her go, trusting her with whatever she was doing before he lapsed back into recharge.

Ratchet wasn't in his berth. It was him keeping her up. As she crept silently from the berth rooms and out into the night air, she tiptoed her way back to the main hangar where only Nightflier and Dreadwing were still forced to recharge at, the lack of berths being one thing but their wounds being another. Dreadwing was almost fully healed at this point, but she doubted he would want to leave Nightflier's side anyways.

She peeked inside. The room was dim, quiet, and she saw Dreadwing knelt at Nightflier's side. His helm was bowed over him, and his hands hovered over his back stripped of his wings, desperately wanting to touch him and deterred by his disavowing and wounds. She shrank. Soft weeping met her audios.

Troubled, she left. The chill of the night air blew over her, and she sneaked around the base, trying not to make any sounds so she wouldn't wake anyone. Not finding anything, she wandered aimlessly back, weaving uncertainly between the hangars. Finally, she tiptoed her way between the berth barracks and the main hangar.

Behind the main hangar, she found him. He sat on the ground with his back resting against the wall, legs crooked slightly, and elbows resting on his knees. His palms pressed against his optics.

Nightstalker swallowed, feeling something detach as she saw him suffering alone. She took a wary step, just heavy enough to alert him of her presence. "Ratchet?"

He still jumped. He quickly stood to his peds, all tears gone with a subtle wipe of his optics. "Nightstalker? Are you all right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine," and she came up to him, orange optics flickering uncertainly in the night. "Are you?"

The depth of her statement caused him slight pause, but he covered it up swiftly with a nod. "Yes, of course. I'm fine."

Concern overshadowed her optics. Reaching out to him, she took his hand, and she felt his fingers twitch at the touch. His hand slowly covered hers. "Ratchet . . ." she murmured, "you don't have to hide anything. It's just us."

A crack ran down the fine line of his control. He cupped her cheek gently and shook his head. "I'm fine, Nightstalker," he persisted softly. "Go back to sleep."

She covered that hand with her other servo. She blinked up knowingly at him, whispering, "He was your best friend."

A sharp intake briefly cut the silence, and Ratchet knelt down to her eyelevel. He looked her in her optics. "Nightstalker, I will be fine," he stressed gently. "Go ahead and get some rest."

"No!" She took her hands angrily from him, frustrated he was trying to lock her out. "So you can what?" she said, gesturing indefinitely to the ground. "Cry all by yourself again?"

Something in her tone of voice brought his helm back down. His blue optics flicked up to her, and the raw pain behind them made her still. "Nights . . ." He cleared his voice, but it still husked. He knelt down, and she felt his hands take her elbows, and he chafed up and down her arms before he squeezed her shoulders. His throat worked, and a film of lubricant made his optics sheen in the moonlight.

"Nightstalker . . ."

She hit his chassis suddenly as he enveloped her in a massive hug, a hand holding her helm to his shoulder. He pressed his face into her, vents staggering in grief. "H-He was my best friend . . ."

Her throat tightened. Wrapping her arms around him, Nightstalker pressed a tender kiss to the side of his helm, and she held him close, spark hurting. She didn't want to see him like this. Didn't want to . . . have to be the one to soothe his tears. He was her father; her rock; her comfort. To see him so broken down . . . It scared her. But it also reminded her of the fact that he had no one else. No one else he could turn to for comfort. Optimus had been the mech he could lean on if he needed consoled. Now?

There was only her.

She shushed him quietly, petting the back of his helm. She didn't say anything. She . . . didn't HAVE anything to say. While she had lost family before, Nightflier had been the only person she'd cared about. But friends? It was a different, pain, one she didn't quite know until they'd lost Optimus. And even that was confusing for her. But she could be here for him. It was all he needed, to know he wasn't alone. She didn't have to say anything because he took comfort in her presence alone.

His vents shuddered out irregularly. Soft, choking sobs escaped his vocalizer here and there. It was a quiet cry, as if he were ashamed he had to cry for him at all. Broken. Hidden. Unwilling to let the others see his pain. The sound of him struggling to be silent almost hurt more than any sound he could have made.

She could feel his tears trickle down into her armor.