Chapter Warnings - This is 60% pure angst and 40% fluff. You have been warned.
They walked together in silence, making their way through the North Quad towards the bridge. Ratchet held the towel tightly against Sam's injured hand, applying pressure while also keeping his arm elevated. The medic's expression was a study in professional control, his presence inscrutable across their bond. Bumblebee's presence was far less collected, conflicted as it was with guilt and concern. He rubbed gentle circles into the flesh of Sam's neck as they walked, as though trying to settle him.
The only sound that accompanied their tense procession was the ringing of their shoes against polished concrete and Sam's ragged breathing.
As they drew closer to the bridge, the amount of pedestrian traffic steadily increased. Sam stared resolutely at the floor, trying not to flinch under the curious glances that were directed their way. As they turned the corner towards the North Quad entrance, two Marine Corps officers approached from the opposite direction. As the two men drew nearer, each assumed an expression of concerned surprise.
"Sir," The man on the left greeted, snapping off a crisp salute, "Is everything alright?"
Sam was distantly aware, through the fog that had shrouded his mind, that the man had directed his question towards Ratchet. He knew that the fact should have embarrassed him, angered him even, but instead he just felt exhausted.
"Yes, thank-you Horowitz." Ratchet replied briskly as they walked by the two men. Sam could feel the weight of their scrutiny, of their shock, at the state of him. As they continued towards the bridge, Sam huffed a mirthless laugh. It seemed they didn't recognize him either.
Almost before the thought had crossed his mind, Ratchet's mental presence brushed it away. The gesture was quick and competent, and as the thought disappeared, so too did the surge of self-loathing that had accompanied it. Sam sighed softly, his eyes fluttering shut in acceptance. For once, he did not object to Ratchet tampering with his mind.
By the time that they had stepped onto the bridge, the pain of Sam's injuries had begun to make itself felt. His hand was throbbing, a burning agony that intensified with every beat of his heart. Ratchet helped Sam climb into his waiting alt mode, guiding him to sit on the gurney in the center of the cabin. Bumblebee's holoform appeared on the bench across from him, his forearms resting on his knees, with his hands clasped loosely together.
Sam was shivering in earnest now, shaking from head to toe. The force of his trembling caused his teeth to chatter together. As the doors of Ratchet's cabin snapped closed, the medic pulled a thick, yellow blanket from one of the compartments on the wall. He draped the fabric across Sam's back and drew it over his shoulders.
Sam looked from the blanket to Ratchet, confusion furrowing his brow.
"I'm n-not c-cold." He said softly, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice.
"I know you're not." Ratchet replied matter-of-factly, "You're in shock."
Sam stared at the holoform for a long moment, before raising his good hand to clasp the edges of the blanket together. That made sense, he decided. He certainly felt shocked.
Ratchet's holoform crouched down in front of him, re-applying pressure to the towel that bound his hand. The action caused pain to lance up his arm, and Sam grimaced in response. The medic glanced up at him immediately, eyes flitting across Sam's face, before he brushed across his mind. The touch was soothing, warm and familiar, and Sam knew a pang of remorse. They had waited for him for two years—had worried and searched and hoped—only to find him broken, after all that time.
"You're not broken, Sam." Ratchet said sternly, reaching out to grasp Sam's chin so that he was forced to meet the medic's eyes, "Damaged, perhaps, but not broken. You're still you, where it counts."
Ratchet's gaze bore into him, steel-blue eyes meeting hazel-brown. The sincerity that he saw there, reflected by the medic's mental presence, was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut, as his throat closed up with emotion. He wasn't so sure whether he was that person anymore.
"Whether you're that Sam or this Sam doesn't matter." Ratchet said, "You're still our Sam."
Sam did not reply, could not reply, around the lump in his throat. He nodded faintly, allowing himself to believe Ratchet's words, if only for a little while. He distantly became aware of the feeling of motion, and he realized in surprise that they were driving. He hadn't even heard the engine turn over. He sat there for a long moment, shivering despite the warmth of the shock blanket, before he licked his lips.
"Ratchet, I didn't—" He began, hesitantly.
"I know you didn't, Sam." The medic assured him gruffly, "It's alright."
Sam lapsed back into silence, letting his eyes fall closed. Ratchet's mental presence was unwavering, like a calm harbor in a storm, and he was grateful for it.
"Brace yourself." Ratchet warned, and his tone made Sam open his eyes in confusion. A moment later, both his holoform and Bumblebee's holoform disappeared, and the cabin exploded into motion. Metal panels angled out around him, sliding over one another with seamless grace. The gurney folded almost in half, pressing Sam's knees close to his chest, before it broke apart and joined with the metal surrounding him. In just a few seconds, Sam found himself sitting in Ratchet's large servo as the medic finished transforming.
A flicker of wry amusement made itself felt through the fog of his apathy.
"Thanks for the heads-up."
Ratchet ex-vented a snort as he settled Sam on the edge of the berth. Sam stepped forward, grasping the heavy rail of the bed with his good hand, before climbing up onto the mattress. Bumblebee's holoform was there in an instant, reaching out a hand to steady him. Sam smiled wanly at his bonded.
"Thanks, Bee." He murmured.
Ratchet helped Sam scoot into the center of the bed, before he pulled the overbed table closer. Sam could see that there was a large assortment of medical supplies already prepared for him.
"Alright, Sam. Let me take a look at you." Ratchet said. Sam let himself be maneuvered without protest, pulling the yellow blanket more tightly around his shoulders. Ratchet carefully unwrapped the towel, which was soaked with blood. Sam could see that his hand was heavily lacerated, with numerous nicks and cuts along his fingers and knuckles. Several lacerations were shockingly deep—one was along his pointer finger, from nailbed to knuckle, while another split the flesh between two knuckles so deeply that Sam could see bone.
At the grisly sight, Sam's stomach twisted and his mouth flooded with saliva. Ratchet looked up sharply, immediately grabbing a kidney dish and pushing it towards him. Sam only just managed to take it from him before he threw up. His entire body heaved with the force of it, his wet retching loud in the silence of the medical bay. It took a long while for his stomach to settle down—when at last he stopped gagging, Ratchet took the kidney dish away. Bumblebee was there then, hands smoothing up and down Sam's back, as he murmured at him in Cybertronian. His voice was soft and sincere, washing over him like a metronome.
When Ratchet returned, he handed Sam another kidney dish.
"Sorry." Sam rasped, accepting the plastic basin, "I'm not usually squeamish."
"That's alright." Ratchet said, "I'm going to clean the glass out of your wounds and then start suturing. I would prefer to administer an analgesic before I begin."
Sam glanced up at him in confusion, before he realized that the medic was asking for his permission.
"Yeah, thanks."
Ratchet nodded, picking up a long, thin syringe filled with a cloudy liquid. He pushed up the sleeve of Sam's shirt, swabbing the crook of his arm, before sliding the bevel into the vein. As the holoform depressed the plunger, Sam could feel the medication working its way up his arm, leaving a pleasant warmth in its wake. Ratchet set the needle aside, gesturing for Sam to lay back against the mattress. The medic spread a sterile pad on the gurney beside him, before arranging his tools to his liking and retrieving a pair of medical-grade tweezers.
The holoform glanced in his direction, meeting his wide-eyed stare. Something softened on Ratchet's face, and he reached out a hand to clasp Sam's chin. With gentle pressure, he turned his head to the side, until Sam was unable to see his injuries. He understood at once that Ratchet didn't want him to watch.
"I'll talk you through it." Ratchet promised in his usual gruff manner, "Let me know if your nausea returns."
He nodded faintly, and then the medic began to work. True to his word, Ratchet described each step of what he was doing with an air of clinical professionalism. Other than Ratchet's voice, the only other noise in the hangar was the clink of metal on metal and the soft rustle of fabric. Despite the extent of his injuries, Sam felt no pain—only an occasional feeling of wetness or a firm tugging sensation. The whole while, Bumblebee stood by his side, his fingers carding through his hair. Sam sighed softly, pressing into the familiar touch. It was not long before his eyes started to droop, exhaustion and pain medication combining to blur the edges of his consciousness.
"Lift up, Sam." Ratchet instructed, cutting through the comfortable fog of endorphins and hydrocodone that had enveloped him. Sam blinked his eyes open, surprised to see that his right hand was heavily bandaged and all of the medical supplies had been cleaned away. It took him a minute to realize that he must have fallen asleep.
"Come on." Ratchet prompted again, although there was no impatience in his voice, "You can go back to sleep in a moment."
Sam realized that the medic was trying to help him out of his clothes. With a grunt, Sam lifted his hips off the mattress, allowing Ratchet to pull off his jeans. The medic folded his pants, tossing them onto the foot of the bed, before pulling the blankets up to Sam's chest. Sam glanced to the side, noticing all at once that Bumblebee's holoform was gone. The realization sent a spear of anxiety through him in an instant.
"I sent him to recharge." Ratchet said, answering Sam's unspoken thoughts, "He was long overdue."
Sam frowned faintly before turning his attention inwards. The familiar warmth of their bond-space was still present, but it was muted and tranquil. As soon as he realized that he wasn't separated from Bumblebee, the anxious knot in his stomach began to slowly relax.
He wasn't alone, not anymore.
As his anxiety ebbed away, he became aware of the weight of Ratchet's regard. He turned his head, glancing up at the holoform in confusion. He stood a short distance away, his expression inscrutable, as he stared down at Sam. The intensity of his expression made Sam shift uncertainly, but before he could say anything, the mental blocks that separated them fell away. Sam's eyes widened in surprise as the full weight of Ratchet's mental presence filled his mind. The undulating glow was the same as it ever was—ancient and beautiful—but it was tinged with something else.
Regret.
/I am sorry, Sam. I did not realize the extent that my reticence would affect you./ Ratchet murmured.
The medic's words did nothing to assuage his confusion. Sam frowned faintly, opening his mouth to ask for clarification, when Ratchet pulled his mental presence towards him. He suddenly found himself tucked closely against the medic's spark—it was a sensation that Sam had not felt since he had first on-lined, floating in the darkness of stasis. It was comfort and reassurance and affection, all at once. Sam didn't realize that he was crying until Ratchet gathered him in his arms. The medic hugged him close, bringing one hand to clasp the back of Sam's head. His fingers gripped him tightly, brushing against his scalp. It was a tender gesture, one of unwavering support.
It was, Sam realized all at once, the way that a father would hug a son.
He raised his arms, wrapping them around the holoform's midsection, hugging him back. They stayed like that for an interminable time, neither of them speaking but both fully aware of what the other was feeling, before Ratchet pulled away slightly.
"You should really get some rest." He said gruffly, as though in apology.
Sam smiled faintly, his tears long since abated, "Yeah, sure."
Ratchet squeezed his shoulders, before helping him to lie back against the mattress. The holoform rearranged the blankets, tucking them around his body, and then he moved the overbed table aside. Sam watched him with half-lidded eyes, contemplative and quiet. When Ratchet had finished, he glanced towards him.
"Do you need anything?"
Sam shook his head minutely, "No, I'm good. Thanks Ratch."
The holoform stilled at the familiar epithet, his expression doing something complicated, before he nodded curtly. A moment later, the holoform flickered and disappeared. Sam could hear Ratchet moving around the medical bay a short distance away, and then the overhead lights dimmed to their lowest setting. Sam sighed softly, pulling the blankets up to his shoulders as he rolled onto his side. It was no time at all before Sam felt himself drifting off, warm and comfortable in that full-bodied way that only narcotics could achieve.
His last thought before he slipped under was that he felt peaceful, for perhaps the first time in over two years.
Sam slept deeply, completely undisturbed by the comings and goings of the medical bay. Although he dreamed vividly, never once did those dreams turn ugly. As a result, when Sam finally awoke, it was because he was well and truly rested.
He shifted against the mattress, surfacing slowly. Although he was warm, it was far to say that he was comfortable. His hand burned painfully, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Sam squinted his eyes open, blinking blearily in the bright light of the medical bay. He could hear someone bustling around behind him, but when he reached instinctively for Ratchet's presence, he was surprised to find that their bond-space was quiet and still. Confused, although not yet alarmed, Sam pushed himself into a sitting position.
"Good afternoon, Sam!" First Aid chirped merrily, "How did you sleep?"
Sam scrubbed his good hand over his mouth, surprised to see that an IV had been placed while he slept. He looked from the cannula taped to the back of his hand to First Aid, a question written all over his face.
"Ah, yes, I see." The medic said as he approached, "Your potassium and magnesium dropped while you slept, likely as a result of purging your fuel tanks. Ratchet placed the intravenous line to rehydrate you."
"Uh, okay." Sam said, squinting at the medic, "Where is he?"
"He is in re-charge, by orders of our Prime."
Sam huffed a soft laugh, "I can't imagine that went over well."
"Oh, no. No, it did not," First Aid agreed cheerfully, "but Prime was insistent. Ratchet asked me to watch over you, in case you woke up before he completed his cycle."
"How long was I asleep?"
"Approximately eleven hours, fourteen minutes, thirty seconds." He replied, "It is just after noon, local time."
Genuine amusement quirked the corner of Sam's lips, "Can't you be any more precise?"
First Aid worried his servos together, chirping contritely, "No, I am sorry, but I cannot."
"I was joking." Sam said reassuringly, "Don't mind me."
"Ah, yes. I see. Your bonded has explained that you are prone to good-natured teasing."
There was something about his tone, which was friendly and accepting, that warmed Sam to his core. He liked the Autobot instantly, in a way that had only been true of Bumblebee and Wheeljack.
"How do you feel?" First Aid asked. Before he could reply, a soft, blue light emanated from a sensor set into the medic's optics, sweeping Sam from head to toe.
Sam's lips thinned in a grimace, "I've felt better. My hand hurts and my mouth tastes terrible."
"Well, I can certainly help with the former." First Aid said, reaching out his digits to gingerly grasp Sam's wrist. A small, metallic syringe folded out of his servo, sliding into the cannula taped to the back of Sam's hand in a strangely serpentine fashion. There was a soft snap-hiss, and then Sam could feel the medication working its way through his veins. The medic placed his hand back on his lap with the same care that an auctioneer would use to handle a Ming vase.
"Thanks." Sam said softly.
"You're welcome, Sam." First Aid replied, "You should refuel. Do you need to void your bladder or your bowels first?"
Sam openly winced at the medic's phrasing, but his physical needs prompted him to reply, "Yeah, I do."
First Aid nodded his head understandingly, before disconnecting the IV and helping Sam climb off the gurney. He waited, patient as a saint, as Sam awkwardly pulled on his jeans—a challenging feat with his right hand heavily bandaged as it was. Sam didn't bother with his shoes, well aware that he would be coming right back to bed. Instead, he stepped onto First Aid's proffered servo without another word. The red and white medic strode across the hangar, humming quietly to himself, before depositing Sam in front of the bathroom door.
Sam took his time in the privacy of the washroom. First, he brushed his teeth and then he used the toilet. After he finished, he glanced at the shower in contemplation. He was sweaty and grimy, but he was unsure whether he was allowed to get his bandages wet. Sam frowned faintly in consternation, before he felt the brush of an unfamiliar presence across his mind. He startled in surprise, a full-bodied jerk that made his heart leap into his throat.
/My apologies, Sam. I did not mean to alarm you./ First Aid said contritely, /You may shower if you wish. I must change your bandages either way./
Sam's eyebrows flew to his hairline in disbelief. He turned his attention inwards to find that he was still wrapped securely within the Creator bond.
/Ratchet has given me the means of monitoring you. Perhaps I should have mentioned this earlier./
Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. Of course he did.
Without another word to First Aid, Sam shucked his clothes and stepped into the shower. He turned the gauge to high, standing under the blistering stream of water for a long while. He let the heat soak into the muscles of his back, his mind drifting thoughtlessly. It was only after he felt a swell of concern from the medic that he grudgingly turned down the heat and got to washing himself. As he scrubbed his nails over his scalp, he made the decision to get a haircut as soon as possible. That afternoon, preferably.
Eventually, Sam got out of the shower. The process of dying off and getting dressed was just as clumsy and awkward as he had expected. By the time that he opened the door, toweling dry his hair, his stomach had started to pang. All thoughts of lunch disappeared, however, as he stepped out of the bathroom to see Optimus Prime standing in the medical bay. The sight of the Autobot leader rocked Sam to his core. He was blindsided by the swell of his conflicting emotions—happiness and anger, appreciation and resentment, comfort and shame. The force of it took his breath away.
Optimus' optics were impossibly bright, his entire countenance one of stoic calm.
"Hello Sam."
Sam flinched at the familiar, rumbling baritone.
"Hello Optimus."
The Autobot leader lowered to one knee, regarding him with a sort of patient expectation. Sam shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly deeply uncomfortable.
"Where's First Aid?" Sam asked, unable to look him in the optics.
Optimus was silent for a moment, likely well aware that First Aid's whereabouts was not actually the issue on the forefront of Sam's mind, before he replied.
"I asked First Aid to attend to your meal preparations. I wished to speak with you in private."
Sam exhaled softly, feeling a flush spread across his face. He tried desperately to think of something to say, something that would break the mounting tension that he felt between them.
"How are you feeling?" Optimus asked, before Sam could speak. Sam stared at him incredulously for the space a heartbeat, before he gestured vaguely with his bandaged hand.
"Just peachy, Optimus."
Optimus' optics flicked to his hand for a nanosecond—so quickly that Sam would have missed it, if he hadn't been paying close attention—before moving back to Sam's face.
All at once, Sam felt profoundly, deeply exhausted.
"Look Optimus," He said, a weary lilt to his words, "Thanks for coming by, but it's not a good time."
"On the contrary," Optimus rumbled, "I believe the time for this discussion is far past due."
Sam stiffened from head to toe, irritation flashing through him in an instant.
"Well, tough luck." Sam replied, trying for assertiveness and landing somewhere closer to petulance instead.
"Sam—" Optimus began, his voice soft and sincere. His tone inflamed something within Sam, who narrowed his eyes in anger.
"Don't." He ground out, "Don't you dare apologize."
Sam couldn't bear it, not if he wanted to maintain his composure. He knew that an apology from the Autobot leader, delivered with his usual god-like empathy and understanding, would break something in him.
"You deserve more than an apology, Sam." Optimus replied, as though Sam had not spoken, "And you certainly deserve better than you've received."
Sam felt himself go cold all over. His temper, frayed and overwrought as it was, reached its breaking point.
"Oh, for fuck sakes!" Sam snapped, rounding on the Autobot leader, "Take the goddamn hint, Optimus. I don't want to talk about this with you—not now, not ever."
Optimus did not move, his expression unaffected by the vitriol in Sam's voice. Sam stared at him, waiting for the quiet acquiescence that Optimus usually displayed in the face of Sam's temper, but it did not come. After the silence between them had stretched to the length of several moments, Sam narrowed his eyes warningly.
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Sam's eyes widened in surprised disbelief, but the expression was gone a moment later, incinerated by the sudden rage that burned through him.
"Oh, you sonofabitch!" Sam screamed at him, "What is your problem, Optimus?"
Optimus did not respond to the abuse that Sam hurled at him. Instead, he stared down at him, composed and silent, as though waiting for him to continue.
Sam was only too happy to oblige him.
"Fine, you want to talk? Let's talk!" He hissed, his face flushed crimson, "If you want to apologize, then I have to know what it is that you're apologizing for first. Are you sorry for leaving when I told you that the attack on the power plant was a feint? For taking Ratchet and Bumblebee away from me? Or are you sorry that I was at the mercy of that psychopath for two fucking years?"
Sam took a ragged breath, ignoring the way that Optimus' optics shone with barely restrained emotion as he continued.
"Or maybe it's you who wants the apology. I can understand that. After all, I disobeyed orders and made Jack leave me in the forest. That was pretty dumb, lesson learned." Sam's voice grew harsher, becoming self-deprecating, "Or did you want an apology for what happened on the Nemesis? I can't imagine your senior officers will be thrilled to learn that I fraternized with the enemy. Not just Knock Out, either. Ravage and Thundercracker and Skywarp too. They were kind to me, and I appreciated it."
Sam's voice wavered precariously, but he narrowed his eyes, daring Optimus to contradict him, "Or should I apologize for not fighting harder? I followed Megatron around that ship like a dog, for fuck sakes. I ate with him, and talked with him, and slept by his side. I didn't even mind the attention after a while—it was better than the alternative.
So is that what you want, Optimus? An apology? Just say something, for fuck sakes!"
Sam realized, too little too late, that his voice had become pained and pleading. Optimus' optics were fathomless and intense as he reached out a servo to curl around Sam's thin body.
"No, Sam. That is not what I want." The Autobot leader intoned softly, sincerity in his every word, "What I want is to protect you from the ramifications of my mistakes—to make it so that you need never suffer the ugliness of what was done to you."
Optimus paused, his voice deepening to a dark rumble, "Not even I could have foreseen the depths of Megatron's cruelty."
He flinched slightly, unable to look up at the Autobot leader. He was uncertain whether Optimus knew the full extent of what Megatron had done to him, but he couldn't bear to see the pity in the other's optics if that were the case.
"They aren't all like him, Optimus. They aren't all bad." He murmured instead.
There was a moment of protracted silence, and then the Autobot leader brushed his thumb gently down Sam's back.
"I know." Optimus said simply, causing Sam to glance up in surprise. Prime's expression was sincere—and deeply saddened, "Tell me about them."
Sam hesitated, unsure what to say. Optimus did not prompt him, letting Sam turn the words over in his mind before he eventually spoke.
"Ravage was with me the most. She's loyal to Soundwave, but not because of Megatron. She has a dry sense of humor." Sam said softly, remembering the cyber cat, "She kept me warm, when Megatron left me in the cargo bay."
Optimus shifted closer, so that the bulk of his frame bracketed Sam's smaller body. He said nothing, encouraging Sam to continue with his silence.
"Thundercracker is maybe the most human mechanoid I've ever met. He's serious and stern and loyal to his trine—but he's kind. He brought me candy, to get me to eat, and he tried to stop me from—"
Sam cut himself off, grief and shame twisting his words. He couldn't say it—couldn't face Optimus' disappointment at what he had done. He bit his lip so hard that the taste of blood bloomed in his mouth, metallic and warm. Optimus ex-vented softly, his digits curling tighter around him.
"I know about Blitzwing." Optimus said gently, "Knock Out has shared his memory files with us."
Sam frowned faintly, taken aback by the Autobot leader's calm acceptance.
"I didn't just attack him, Optimus. I tried to kill him." Sam tried to explain.
"I know."
Sam's frown deepened, frustrated by his inability to articulate himself clearly.
"No, you don't. I wanted to kill him—I would have enjoyed it."
Optimus ex-vented softly, lowering his helm until it rested gently against the top of Sam's head.
"I know, Sam. Blitzwing attacked your bonded—he would have inflicted your suffering upon him. Of course you reacted as you did. Any bonded would have done the same."
Sam's breath hitched in his throat, his eyes stinging with sudden unshed tears.
"I don't understand." He whispered, voice wavering, "I would have murdered him in cold blood. Why aren't you angry?"
Optimus pulled back slightly, his gaze suddenly intense.
"Megatron told you that I would be angry." Optimus said, as though in realization.
Sam did not reply. He did not need to.
Something softened in Optimus' countenance, "I am not angry, Sam. You did what you had to do to avenge your bonded. In our society, your actions were sacrosanct—as Megatron well knows."
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, confusion and grief and shame and relief twisting in upon one another. Optimus did not press him to continue, instead stroking his digits down the length of Sam's back. It was a grounding gesture, gentle and calm, but Sam barely felt it over the whirlwind of his thoughts. Abruptly, Sam pulled away in order to look up into Optimus' optics.
"I want to see Knock Out."
Optimus shuttered his optics, regarding him in silence for a long moment.
"Knock Out has not renounced the Decepticon cause, Sam. I cannot be certain that he is no longer a threat to you."
Sam could not keep the look of irritation off his face, "Ripcord swore himself to the Autobot cause and he killed me. The measure of a person is not the emblem soldered to their chassis, Optimus."
The Autobot leader stared down at him, the weight of his regard heavy against Sam's conscience. Eventually, Optimus shuttered his optics, inclining his helm in acquiescence.
"Very well. Let us go together."