Decisions and Revisions

"There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions…

And indeed there will be time

To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"

…Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."

(T.S. Eliot, "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" )

###

He was finished, useless…little more than scrap wielded together…

Even Jackie had run out on him, had literally left the base with less than courteous haste, and all because he didn't want to see, couldn't stand the sight of him…so damaged, so weak…

Gloomy, Bulkhead ambled down the corridor, drawing up short when he found that the hallway came to a dead end, an end capped by a solid and indomitable steel door. Familiarity surged through his spark as he looked upon that moveable wall of metal. Memories danced before his processor for a spark beat as the ghosts of voices filled his audio receptors…

"Miko! Get away from him!" His optics locked in upon Orion even as his weapons did, "Don't you touch her!" He thundered with the promise of an unspoken threat.

Miko turned, sending one last sad smile over her shoulder for Bulkhead, "I'm sorry Bulk!" She cried. Scarcely had the last syllable left her lips, before Miko ran forward reaching wildly toward Orion even as he extend one powerful arm and scooped her up.

"Trust me, I will keep you safe." His voice was soothing, close, as in one fluid motion he freed himself from the confines of the doorway and faced the waiting night beyond, "I will protect you…" he promised her, his optics darting to Bulkhead's fast approaching form before he turned and leapt forward, "Trust me as I trust you…"

So much unfolded within the space of the moment.

Miko's world went black as Orion seemingly shattered apart, folding in on himself, transforming into his terrestrial guise, keeping her sheltered in the eye of the storm of flying metal gears and bits, of shifting panels and plates as they realigned upon impossible seams. It was breathtaking. Sure, Bulkhead had transformed around her before, had held her in his palm as he slid from one form into the next. But Bulkhead's transformation was nothing like Orion's, nothing as fluid, as graceful, as grand as Orion's. Even as his tires hit the hard packed earth with a jolt, as he drove himself hard to put distance between himself and the Autobots, Miko closed her eyes, balanced upon his driver's seat. She felt secure, safe; she felt, above all else, that what she was doing, the choice she had made, was irrefutably right. Orion would need her before the end.

But as the release of relief took Miko, Bulkhead's world came to a crashing end. His spark nearly burst as he had watched Orion turn and scoop Miko up. He had taken her, had taken his Miko!

Even as Bulkhead drew himself out of his reverie, he could not escape that same swelling feeling of helplessness as he stood before that very same door, the door that Orion had carried Miko through…his Miko…

His Miko who had been so ready, so willing to accept the new recruit, to welcome his replacement; he could see it in her expression, in her eyes, how enthusiastic, how interested she was in Smokescreen…how ready she was to abandon him…And why shouldn't she? Bitterness filled him, blistered, threatened to burst at the realization. Why shouldn't Miko look to the new recruit for friendship? Why shouldn't she want to spend more time with a younger bot…a bot that was still healthy, strong, fully functioning…a bot that was not a ruin of what he once was, of what he should be…

As hurt as he was, as betrayed and abandoned as he felt, in the midst of his sorrow, of his frustration, Bulkhead still could not bring himself to be truly angry at Miko, not his Miko. She was still so young, so full of life, so energetic, she needed a guardian who could keep up with her, who could take her out on adventures, to monster truck rallies. Smokescreen could do all those things with her, for her…but Bulkhead…he, he could barely walk down a hallway without needing something to lean on, something to support him.

Weary from his abrupt trek to this outer most corridor of the base, Bulkhead let out a groan as he slowly sank to his knees, wincing as his wounded leg turned awkwardly. "Scrap…" He growled, grinding the gears in his throat together in a harsh sound of frustration and hurt as he reached for his injured leg, trying to straighten it, to lessen the pressure on it, to ease the pain. His fingers gripped the edge of his knee, trying to turn the armor platting to a more comfortable angle, but all for no avail, his knee would not turn, would not budge. "Primus…"Bulkhead swore again as the pressure increased, inciting more discomfort that throbbed with insistent signals of pain.

Roughly, impatiently Bulkhead clawed at his leg with enough force that made his servos whine, nearly made him topple backwards…but something stopped him, held him firm, held him in place, and kept him from falling further. Pausing, Bulkhead turned his head, just a slight movement, but it was enough to see the strong arms that gripped him. One hand grasping firmly upon his left shoulder, the other supporting his right arm, wrist panels of red and blue contrasting unmistakably against the olive green of Bulkhead's arm. Wordlessly, the other mech drew Bulkhead to his feet, supporting his weight long enough for Bulkhead to once more stand up on his own.

"Bulkhead…" The mournful notes rolled toward Bulkhead, inescapable and unable to be ignored, it was with no little reluctance that he acknowledged that velveteen voice.

"Come to ask for my resignation?" Bulkhead couldn't help the resentment from filling him even as he stepped away from his leader, turning just enough to face the Prime even as his memory continued to toy and tease with him, Optimus…it whispered…Orion…it sighed.

Optimus' timber descended, became bone rattling with conviction, "No," he intoned, "No, my friend..." He stepped towards Bulkhead only to find that the Wreaker shifted away from him, the movement subtle and slight, but undeniable. Hurt reflected in Optimus' optics, but he did not utter a word of dissent, offered no rebuke, did not ask for an explanation; instead, Optimus chose to continue forwards, to walk past Bulkhead. Without hesitation he reached out, placing his palm against the door—familiarity shivered through Bulkhead as he looked on mutely—and pushed, opening it to the waiting night without. He didn't look back at Bulkhead, but rather stepped over the threshold with the clear expectation that the other would follow.

Beyond, the night was surprisingly bright, the moon round as it hung low, stars scattered around it in an infinite number of patterns. Optimus only ventured a handful of long strides away from the door, only far enough so as to put them irrevocably outside of the boundaries of the base. With rasps, Bulkhead limped after, hovering slightly past the threshold before stopping. He wrapped the thick fingers of one hand around the side of the door to balance himself. A wave of helplessness fueled his frustration…his frustration with himself, with the new recruit, with even Miko…and with Optimus…For the second time in over a handful of weeks, Bulkhead found himself at that very same doorway, looking out at Optimus; though of course this time, the red and blue mech was not running from him, was not carrying Miko away from him.

"Bulkhead—"

"There is nothing to talk about, boss bot." His answer was sharp, cutting, just like the spasms of pain that leeched up from his still damaged leg.

"Please, old friend…hear me…"

But the very last thing that Bulkhead was in the mood for was one of Optimus' would be sagacious lectures, " C'mon, Optimus you don't need to give me empty words, just the truth. No trying to make me feel better, to hold out quiet platitudes, just give it to me straight."

Optimus' keen optics narrowed, his expression become harsh, almost severe, "I would never endeavor to give you anything less than the truth, Bulkhead."

"Ok then," Bulkhead huffed, "In that case, it looks like you don't have to waste whatever pep talk you were planning—"

"Bulkhead, please—"

"C'mon, Prime, part of the team or not I'm useless, you know it, I know it, scrap, even the whole team knows it. We need that rookie…you need that rookie…and what you don't need is anybot that is going to slow the team down, that'll be a weak link…you don't need me anymore."

"You could not be father from the truth, my friend."

Bitterness swelled suddenly, rose and burst within Bulkhead's voice, "Yeah, well friend or not we both know you came out here to dismiss me, to send me packing or, worse, confine me permanently to the base. And for what? To play the part of Ratchet's assistant? To—"

"Enough!"

The volume of emotion with which that one cutting word was delivered smothered Bulkhead into silence, made him start with surprise. With ease, Optimus stepped up to the green mech, gripped him by both of his shoulders in an effort to not just secure Bulkhead's attention, but to also ease the other mech's pain. Holding him in such a way, Optimus was supporting his weight, easing the strain on Bulkhead's weak leg, "Never could I just dismiss anyone, no more than I could leave a bot behind—" Bulkhead rolled his optics in disbelief, but found his gaze snapping straight back up to Optimus' countenance when the Prime gave him a less than gentle shake, "I know what you sacrificed when you made your choice to follow me and to leave the Wreakers…and for that gift, I am honored Bulkhead, honored as I am in your debt—"

"—So what? You feel duty bound to let me stay? Feeling guilted into keeping me around—"

Optimus' voice surged, amplified, crested over Bulkhead's, "You are family, Bulkhead, never could I abandon you." The sincerity of those words, the conviction and vehemence that drove them, caught Bulkhead off guard just as it lanced his feelings of fear, of doubt, washing away any traces of resentment. In that moment, so sudden, so unexpectedly, Bulkhead felt hollow, completely cleansed of such darker sentiments that had gripped him before. Gone was his insecurity, his all too real fear that Optimus would dismiss him, all vanquished, all faded away slowly just at the sound of the Prime's voice.

"You will heal…you will mend and recover but only if you let yourself do so…and until you do, please Bulkhead, know that my faith in you will never be shaken, will not—"

"—Heeeey, Bulkhead…?"

The tentative tones of the new recruit's voice shattered the moment; burst the feelings of comfort, of security that Optimus had talked into Bulkhead. Falling so easily back into the embrace of resentment, the green mech stepped back, away, out of Optimus' reassuring grasp, only to round on the newest Autobot, "What do you want, rookie?"

"I…I just…"cowed, Smokescreen's lighter optics flitted from first Bulkhead and then to the Prime who lingered just paces behind the other, "I…was just hoping to talk with you…tell you that there is no hard feelings and…"

The panels in Bulkhead's frame began to rattle as he clenched his jaw, every note in Smokescreen's voice resounding sour and grating to his audio receptors, "No hard feelings? Who do you think you are, my replacement?"

"Bulkhead—" But Smokescreen let his affronted pride take the reins, let it drown out and over Optimus' deep basso.

"I was just gonna say that I feel honored to temporarily fill your place on the front lines." Smokescreen shrugged his shoulders dismissively, knowing in that moment that his words would go unheard.

"Fill my place on the front lines!? You impertinent sparkling! You—"

"Smokescreen." There was no ignoring the command in Optimus' tone now as it rose in volume, loud enough to drown out Bulkhead's tirade, "Come here."

Ever eager to impress, the younger Autobot responded quickly, speeding over to stand directly before the Prime, snapping a salute, "Yes, sir, what is it sir?"

"I am willing to overlook the fact that you should be on patrol with Bumblebee—"

"Oh no, Prime, sir! I didn't ditch patrol duty! I wouldn't disobey your command! Arcee radioed and said that it was her turn to pull a patrol shift, she called Bee and I back to base, said it was an order and that she out ranked the both of us."

Optimus ex-vented, pushing away a growing frustration at Arcee's decision, knowing that now was not the time to address such feelings, though he had every intention of having words with her later. Instead, Optimus took one careful step back from Smokescreen, who looked puzzled and perhaps a little hurt, at the Prime's movement. Knowing that Bulkhead was scrutinizing his every word, his every gesture, Optimus transformed his right hand into a gleaming sword, the weapon unsheathing with a sweet ringing note as it reflected beads of light cast off from the moon with a cold clarity. He let the tip drop, let it hit the earth, and with an easy swing, drew a clean line in the dirt, dividing the space between himself and Smokescreen. Only when he had finished carving the dust, did he sheath his wrist blade, focusing once again upon Smokescreen.

"That you have had success in the field with this team, I will admit and do not deny you credit." Optimus began thoughtfully as he studied the younger bot, who shivered under the unlooked for praise, "Just as your training with Cybertron's Elite Guard does indeed hold merit…" A disgruntled groan from Bulkhead echoed over to Optimus, "But if you are to become a fighting member of this team, you still have much to learn."

Sensing a challenge, Smokescreen squared his shoulders, "Give me any duty, any task, and I'll prove to you I'm ready!"

"I expected nothing less from you, "Optimus dipped his head in a nod of acknowledgement, "So be it…" Calmly, Optimus let his battle mask slide into place, "Here, here is your task. So, come then, Smokescreen, come and face me. All you must do is cross this line I have drawn..."