A/N: This is from a part in Transformation when things go sour for a bit, and some people get killed off. I killed Inferno in a thoughtless roll of the dice, and then had guilt for MONTHS afterwards about it. Authors are sometimes murderers, too.

The Burden Hardest to Bear

"Can I do anything to help you?" Prime asked, half hoping to be given some impossible request that might help take his mind off what his Security Director was going through.

"There is nothing, and you ought to know it. Just leave me alone, Optimus."

Optimus. Before, the ever-proper Red Alert would never have addressed his Leader so familiarly. Before Inferno's spark had sputtered out, not half an orn ago.

Prime ducked his head, trying and failing to keep some semblance of emotional distance. He nodded silently to Ratchet, who had come here to make sure the bond-sundered white Autobot would shut down for a lengthy respite.

Red Alert saw the nod, and bristled. "It isn't going to help, you know. No matter how long I'm offline, he'll still be dead when I reboot!" He glared at Ratchet. "Half an orn. That's all I'll give to you. Inferno or no Inferno, I've got work to do."

Prime watched, but stayed well back as Ratchet shoved the reluctant Red Alert up onto the high berth. This wasn't how it was supposed to go! The thought thrashed in his mind. Inferno was supposed to rust away a million-million vorns from now, replete with joy and life well-lived. He wasn't meant to die in a last-gasp rebellion, after 'Bots and 'Cons had finally agreed to a ceasefire! Three mechs had been killed in this battle; and in its aftermath one had been executed, and seven put in permanent spark-containment.

Ratchet's words were gruff, but his face held sorrow and pity as he hung a drip above the berth, and slid its thin line into the main charge duct. "I'm putting in a slow-release sedative, a numbing agent to dull the pain in your spark until it heals a little more. It should last a few quartex at least." He met the white and red mech's gaze. "Non-negotiable, I'm afraid. You do him no honor if you insist on suffering for him." The Medic's optics softened. "You know he wouldn't like it if you did."

Prime's impulse, crazy though he knew it to be, was to rush across to the spark-torn mech and hold him in his arms, to somehow shield his soldier with his body and block out the unimaginable pain of a bond-brother killed in battle. And yet he wondered if his very presence here was pain to Red Alert. For after all, both of his bondmates were alive.

Prime watched, but stayed well back as Ratchet hooked the bereaved bot into the system, and thumbed the starter switch. The chargers hummed, and Red Alert's dulled optics faded into blackness. The Medic's shoulders sagged, and he placed a hand over the offline mech's unlit lenses almost as if in benediction.

"There's nothing more that you or I or anyone can do for him, Optimus. But as your doctor I'm prescribing you a quiet cycle or two yourself." He held up a hand to silence Prime's refusal. "I know there's still a lot of slag that has to be cut through. But Ironhide and Prowl and Shockwave and the others will see to it. Get out of here, and don't come back to Command for three more joors at the minimum, unless I personally call you." He pointed an uncompromising finger. "Go."

Elita came to him without a word. Subtle as a snake and twice as crafty, she unclenched his rigid fingers, slid onto his knees, and before he knew it she was wrapped around him like the strong mesh slings that Ratchet sometimes used to brace a weakened joint while he repaired its linkages. He was grateful. And so was she. He was as much her refuge as she was his. Together, they could both retreat from the convulsion of the outside world, shore up their mutual defenses, and regroup before they had to sally forth once more.

Speech was a burden, but both mech and femme ached to release the pent-up thoughts that clawed and clamored at their processors. So Elita unspooled a thin universal input/output cable from her wrist, and hooked in into Prime's. They sat and shared, unspeaking, for a time which neither bothered to measure, for they both knew it could never be enough.

Somehow, though neither noticed the transition, they ended up lying together on the single berth: Elita with her back hunched up against her bondmate, and Prime's uppermost hand running slowly over her plating in a habitual motion that was part caress, part unconscious check-up of his beloved's armament.

It was at this point that the door opened, and Megatron stopped hesitantly on the sill.

The Decepticon Commander had shot a clean hole through Razorclaw's spark-casing, and seen his lifeless shell delivered to the Recyclers with some ceremony. He'd asked the other Predacons if they wanted the engineers to see about putting some drone programming into the now-gray frame, in order to facilitate the combiner team's continued transformation into Predaking. But to a bot, the Decepticon team members had met his suggestion with undisguised revulsion. They were a unit, and they'd lost their center module. They'd lost their leader and – he presumed, despite the stone-cold reputation that the Predacons had built – their friend as well. But though he knew they must be feeling the loss deeply, he respected the fact that they would refuse to show it. With a nod that carried an almost-imperceptible salute, he'd turned away. Then he'd discharged the most pressing of his duties, turned the rest over to his underlings, and retreated into the recharge dormitories where he hoped he might find Prime.

He should have known, he supposed now as he looked down at the Autobots, that he'd find Elita here as well. He turned to go.

Prime made a strangled, wordless sound, and reached out toward his bond-brother. Elita'd tensed at seeing him; but now, slowly, she shrugged. "All right," was all she said; and Optimus relaxed.

Normally, Megatron would have despised the awkward hesitancy with which he sidled up to the charge platform, drew out its extension built for the few extra-wide bots, and slid on behind Prime. But right now he was clinging to the constancy that family was offering to him, and that was worth looking a little like a fool. He hunkered in, trying to find a place to put his lower arm (Optimus lifted his head so Megatron could tuck his elbow underneath it) and held onto his bond-brother's middle with the other. He tried, from simple courtesy, to keep from touching Elita. But she grabbed his hand and pulled it down around her too, even as Prime hooked his arm up and over the Decepticon's.

Inextricably entangled, the trio of bots listened to the clash and thunder of a distant cousin of the great energy storms that had rocked all Cybertron at the opening of the Ceasefire. Rare now, they still sprang up now and then, and all three bots could only feel that the weather outside mirrored the storms within their sparks.

It was a tribute to the top lieutenants of both factions that their leaders were left undisturbed for almost six joors. There was time enough for silence; time enough for speech, and even time enough for all three to drop gradually at last into the blessed quiet of a slow-run power-saving mode. Optics dimmed, internals idling softly, and processors finally untangled, the little family found refuge in each others arms for this one dark and stormy night.