Not Mine Just Sharing - Blog Posts

i love this so much and i would love to see more when your able

👀👀

Random ass fancomic I started that I will for sure continue

"Not Noah. Mans went for it and fuckin’ biffed it on the way down."

noah reminds me of this specific vine;

and i am here for it! cause he does just say "fvck it" but he hasn't bust his head yet!

reblogging so i can write some noah/mirage for the soul

I’m all for Mirage being the goofy/silly/‘lalala’ one out of the Noah x Mirage pairing—

But can we take a minute to appreciate the absolute beauty in Mirage having to navigate Noah’s weird habits?

Noah seems like the type of guy to go into large empty spaces and let out the most guttural scream absolutely unprompted. Imagine Mirage having to get used to that every time Noah comes out to the garage bcuz he doesn’t know if Noah’s ‘normal’ today or ‘gonna go batshit fucking crazy’.

Remember in the beginning of ROTB when OP puts Noah on a high shelf?

Any other lifeform with basic survival skills and self preservation would think to stay put up there until they can safely be taken/get down.

Not Noah. Mans went for it and fuckin’ biffed it on the way down.

You don’t think Mirage gets freaked out every time he sees Noah on a surface plane slightly above ground level after that?? Imagine him tells Autobots not to place their humans on high places like that because they can and will jump off if they don’t like it up there.

Noah, who definitely sleeps in the weirdest places— and Mirage has to wake his boy up and convince the half asleep human that his bed would be much more comfortable than the WORKBENCH!

JUST—!!! Chaotic!Noah and Confused!Mirage pls

(add ur ideas as u wish!)

we love strong women

i am CACKLING at this au, i can't HANDLE IT

Wonders of parenthood

Welcome to my dumb ReviSplinter AU, where I basically take the role of Splinter

It was created randomly, like almost every other of my au's, but it might be fun

Random Turtle Thoughts of Whimsy...

He hears your voice. Softly singing along with the song, it's volume and melody low compared to the music he's used to hearing his brothers crank. And it calls him. Beckoning him to you like a moth to flame.

He finds you in their common room. Barefoot, wooden bo staff in hand, moving through a series of stances. Entirely lost to the music. Completely unaware of his presence.

He watches intently. You're not finishing each stance with decisive sharpness. Nor is your form controlled the way it should as you transition into the next. Then you raise up on your tiptoes, with the staff stretched across the back of your shoulders. You spin, dipping your head low and raising one leg high as you rotate in a smooth, practiced motion.

Now that's not right, he thinks.

He knows the training is still pretty new to you. It's not that new though. He's shown you proper technique. There's no reason for you not to have it now.

But just as he's about to take a step forward to correct your form, the music suddenly seems louder, and a thought occurs to him. Freezing him in place.

You're dancing.

You're dancing through the stances he's taught you.

You're in control. You know what your body is doing. You know exactly each step you intend to take.

And it takes his breath away.

The fluidity of your limbs. The strength of your form. Your own unique power and control shining through. The beauty you convey.

No, there is no sharp, snappy jerks as you shift. There are no short huffs of air forced from your lungs. Not an ounce of tightness to your delicate features. There's no force or fury being channeled through. Not like when he trained.

You're enjoying this. So effortless are your actions, as the music floods your mind and sweeps you off into a world all your own, he wonders if he is really the teacher. And you really the student.

Were you showing him the grace and beauty of his own art? Letting him truly see his own craft for the first time? Or was it --- was he truly seeing you for the first time?

It felt like watching you move in slow motion to him. The music deafening everything else but your voice to his ears. Your voice making his eyes blind to everything except you.

Smooth. Soft. Fluid and steady. Circular motions without points like those of his own angular ones.

Funny, how this moment mirrored the differences between you two. And yet, somehow making clear how much sense it made for those differences to bring you together.

Just as the last notes of the song fade away, your hair falling from free from momentum to drape over your shoulders, bo staff resting across your thighs as you drop into a bow, it hits him hard in the chest. Audibly knocking a shaky breath free.

Fuck, he thinks, as your eyes finally raise to his. Fuck, you're the one.

@luckycharms1701 @yorshie @justalotoffanfiction @morenovix218 @writinandcrying @donniesgirlie

i am so normal about them

honestly, i really need to write a cute fic of optimus and ratchet just being husbands while their chaotic children are away from the base

math is hard, school is killing me,

have my beloveds, for my mental health

this audio fits these two so well and I'm glad I'm not the only one who agrees

These two in a nutshell

I love this so much, its so cute and so accurate (especially the last one lol)

💖💖💖💖

I put way too much effort into this ( based on this meme, it wouldn’t leave me alone until it was drawn — I am freee )

omg this is sooo cute and could make for such a cute angst fic

no ok i started spiraling into animated jazzwave ideas too its actually awful

THIS WAS SO GOOD AND CUTE AND IT HAD ME CRYINNNNNNG

this was so well-written

After

The euphoria only lasted for a few moments before reality came crashing down again.

Sure, Optimus Prime had left them with a real pretty “goodbye”—always getting the last word in and making it punch, the fragger—but at the end of the day, his family was still standing there at the edge of the Well of Allsparks without him.

They had to gather themselves. Bulkhead and Ratchet, they had to push Magnus’s cot back towards the crashed Nemesis so that the immobile Wrecker commander could be sheltered from the elements. Knockout trailed after them like a lost puppy, guarded from further scrutiny; one of the last things Prime had ever done was seemingly forgive the Decepticon turncoat of his transgressions, and everyone was far too tired and overwhelmed to question it.

Arcee, Bumblebee, and Smokescreen sort of shuffled together in the wake of the others’ departure, the two young mechs gravitating towards the more-experienced two-wheeler with Ratchet occupied and Optimus-…

Optimus not being there, like everyone always thought he would be.

No matter how reckless the Prime was, no matter how many scares there were, no one ever actually believed that he would be the one to join the Allspark before any of them did.

Cybonic Plague, Unicron, Immobilization, the fall of Autobot Outpost Omega One—no one had ever been able to fully accept the death of the Prime, there was always going to be a way to keep him safe or bring him back.

They needed him.

But this time, there had been no answers—or if there were, the Prime had left them no time to discover them.

Maybe there really were none, after what he had done—or maybe the Prime was tired too, and he was ready to finally give up the ghost and end the lineage of the Primes. Maybe he saw this as a chance to make sure his burden never passed on to anyone else, and to finally get some rest after all that suffering. Maybe this was him putting himself first, for a change—in a really dark, sad turn of events.

It never should’ve come to this.

But there they were.

And Wheeljack turned his back on the Well, on that geyser of multicolored lights—new sparks flying amongst those long passed—and made his way towards the Iron Will.

The quiet aftermath was unbearable.

He needed to do something, to work with his servos, to bring some sense to his troubled processor, to prove to himself that he still had the ability to act on this scrap-show of a universe in a way that made change.

He had to convince himself that he’d done all he could, or at least make something of this smoldering wreck that was—at the moment—standing as a reminder of the last great failure of the War for Cybertron.

Wheeljack had one job, as the pilot selected by Optimus Prime: protect the Allspark.

And like everything else Wheeljack had ever done, that assignment crashed and burned.

Literally.

“Oh, no—you don’t.” A small servo grabbed his arm. “Wheeljack, that crash was brutal—and don’t you tell me you’ve had worse. You’re going to the med-bay, right now.”

“Tch.” Wheeljack glanced back, annoyed, to see Arcee’s equally-irked expression. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Arcee did not flinch. “If you don’t go willingly, I will drag you there myself—kicking and screaming, Wrecker. You know that I don’t give a damn about your image.” After a tense moment, her expression softened. “… And I need to know that I was able to help one of my friends today, before I make the call to June, Fowler, and the kids about what’s happened.”

Wheeljack blinked, then his face fell—and he sighed as he looked away. “… Fine.”

He turned his servo over, letting Arcee’s smaller servo move into his palm, and he closed his digits around her servo as a reassurance before she started to lead the way towards the Nemesis.

Bumblebee and Smokescreen trailed after them, leaning on each other for support.

The youngest member of their team gazed at the ground as they trekked on, staring at the shadow he cast in the light of the Well.

…

…

Ultra Magnus could not move a digit for the life of him, but he still glanced to his side as one of his teammates was unceremoniously pushed down onto an adjacent medical berth.

“Sit,” Ratchet instructed.

Wheeljack barely shifted. “But-“

“Sit.” Ratchet pointed at the white Wrecker, optics narrowed. “Stay.”

“And lemme guess: heel?” Wheeljack asked snarkily, crossing his arms. “Roll over?”

Ratchet raised an optic-brow. “Beg.”

Knockout let out an undignified wheeze as Wheeljack’s jaw dropped in disbelief, then the two medics got to work—leaving the dumbfounded demolitions expert to shake his head in disbelief.

“… Well,” Wheeljack finally managed, getting comfortable on his berth before glancing at his fellow prisoner patient. “At least Doc’s still Doc.”

And in return, Ultra Magnus managed some semblance of a smile. “Hm.”

“Heh.” That made Wheeljack smile, then his face fell and he looked away. “Sorry, about your ship.”

“It’s just a ship,” Ultra Magnus told him quietly. Honestly, in the shocked numb that swallowed him following the death of his mentor, the ship felt like just that: a ship. Not his home of many eons, an extension of himself that moved fluidly seemingly at his whim. It was just a ship, trivial in the face of the day’s other loss. “If its sacrifice protected just one member of my family, then I consider its loss worthwhile.”

Wheeljack’s shoulders raised as a look crossed his face, one Ultra Magnus could only describe as wounded. “Optimus is-“

“I wasn’t referring to Optimus,” Ultra Magnus whispered, each word aching.

Wheeljack looked at the commander, surprised, then just slowly nodded.

Neither Wrecker said much after that.

Knockout found what Ratchet was looking for with ease in the med-bay that had been his own, and the two medics bickered quietly.

Ratchet’s spark just wasn’t in it, and Knockout was obviously holding a lot back.

It was a miserable attempt at “normal”, but no one was willing to shatter the façade.

What laid beneath it was much, much worse.

…

…

Wheeljack shifted slightly in his medical berth, his brow furrowing, then he sighed and opened his optics. After what had been one of the longest days of his life, sleep was hard to find—and he was getting nowhere.

He closed his optics, and he was standing amidst the ruins of the Iron Will and watching Optimus brace himself as he opened the Allspark reliquary and he was right there-

Wheeljack opened his optics again as he became aware of a soft sound, and he raised an optic-brow before turning his head.

Ultra Magnus, who was definitely not supposed to be moving yet after the many hours spent patching him up, was sitting at the edge of his own medical berth with his glowing back facing Wheeljack. He gripped the edge with his one good servo, and his head was hung as those massive shoulder-pads of his shook.

Wheeljack blinked, then he hesitantly sat up, doing his best not to startle the unaware commander as he swung his protesting legs over the side of his own berth. “… Magnus?”

“Oh.” Ultra Magnus’s back immediately straightened, but he did not turn his head. “I… thought you were in stasis.”

“Nah.” Wheeljack shook his head, sliding off of his berth and slowly walking over to the other mech. Ever move was a regret for his battered frame, but Wheeljack’s mind was set. He only paused at the foot of Magnus’s berth. “Too much on my mind… This alright?”

“What?”

“Bein’ a pain in the aft, and lookin’ my pain in the aft commander in the face even though he’s turnin’ it away while tryna look like that’s not what he’s doin’,” Wheeljack replied flatly while Ultra Magnus seemed to become very interested in his prosthetic servo.

Ultra Magnus huffed quietly, then he sighed. “… Permission granted.”

Wheeljack strolled over, and he glanced at the way too high medical berth. “I’d sit next to ya, but gettin’ up there would be a whole ordeal.”

“Heh.” Ultra Magnus raised his face to look at his soldier, managing a frail smile that seemed much more real than his previous one in spite of the glowing lines on his face. “So, it would be. We should invest in a stepladder.”

“Haha.” Wheeljack crossed his arms, and his expression softened as he gazed at his commander. “How ya doin’, Magnus?”

“How am I doing?” Ultra Magnus asked, then he shook his head. “I’m completely useless.”

Wheeljack blinked, surprised. “What?”

“Ever since I joined this team, I’ve been a liability,” Ultra Magnus told him bluntly. “I couldn’t destroy the cannons or defeat Megatron at Darkmount. I couldn’t stop the Predacon at any turn. I couldn’t protect my unit. I lost my servo. I led you and Bulkhead straight into Soundwave’s trap on the Nemesis. Smokescreen could have been killed yesterday, trying to protect me. And I spent the last battle for Cybertron’s rebirth unconscious on a slab, keeping Ratchet away from Optimus’s side when he could have-” He looked away, his optics narrowing. “And when my best friend was saying his ‘goodbye’, I couldn’t- I didn’t-“ He closed his optics as his shoulders sagged. “… I tried my best. But at every turn, it wasn’t good enough.”

Wheeljack was at a loss for words, after all of that. Sure, Ultra Magnus had been pretty worried about his ability to fight with the team after he lost his servo—but this wasn’t worry.

This was knowing.

And it was wrong. “… Better call the docs, ‘cause you are fragged in the head.”

“Excuse me?” Ultra Magnus’s head shot up as an indignant look crossed his face—which was actually a relief, as he looked like himself again.

“Nah.” Wheeljack strolled over to a wall and leaned against it, his arms still crossed as he regarded his commander. “This is serious. So, gotta check for some serious damage.”

Ultra Magnus grew annoyed. “Wheeljack-“

“Because let’s think,” Wheeljack cut him off, earning another incredulous look. “After I crash the Jackhammer, you conveniently show up with not only a workin’ ship but one that could carry the whole team in a bind and is armed to the slaggin’ teeth. You pick up Arcee and Jack, then come find me, Bulkhead, and Miko.” He pushed off of the wall and started pacing. “You’re gettin’ the team back together. You save three Wreckers from a dragon, then unite most of the team and coordinate with humans while you’re strategizing a takedown of Darkmount.” He pointed at the larger mech. “That was you. And you arm us so that we don’t die immediately—even me, though you shockingly did not give Ratchet a gun.”

Ultra Magnus’s expression was automatically schooled. “I have my reasons.”

The smaller Wrecker blinked. “… You scare me.”

“Heh.” Ultra Magnus actually smiled again and wiped his face, and Wheeljack felt like he was getting somewhere.

“You not only used yourself as bait to get rid of the dragon, but you went after the cannons and Megatron by yourself. That would’ve been a risk even for Prime, and you took that on,” the white and gray mech went on. “Then, you jumped off that tower.” He wagged a finger. “Don’t think I missed that, Magnus.”

Magnus shook his head. “Wheeljack-“

“I’ve only seen you more pissed at me than you were in Scotland once. Both times, you chose not to deck me,” Wheeljack noted, starting to smile himself. “I gotta say, I admire that restraint.” The commander snorted. “You have the patience of a fraggin’ saint, Magnus. You always have. You handled Miko better after a day better than Bulkhead can some days after years. The only thing that really stretched your patience was bein’ benched while you were in recovery—and the second you could leave the base, you used the opportunity to punch Shockwave right in that big ol’ optic of his.” Wheeljack sighed. “… And as serious as you try to be, you are insufferably optimistic. You keep pushin’ on, no matter what… You give this team hope, ya stubborn fragger. Does that sound useless, to you?”

“… No,” Ultra Magnus admitted, his voice soft as he stared at his teammate. “I just never expected to hear something like that from you.”

Wheeljack shrugged. “There I go again, shatterin’ expectations.” He rested his servos on his hips and smirked, raising an optic-brow. “Face it, sir—you’re never gonna figure me out.”

“I don’t know.” Ultra Magnus’s smile was still small, but strong and warm. “I’m told that I’m insufferably optimistic.” Wheeljack chuckled, and the commander sighed. “… I miss him.”

Wheeljack’s expression softened. “I know. The Pit knows loss and I have gotten to know each other far too well… But we gotta keep goin’, Magnus.”

“Why?”

“… For the people we haven’t lost yet.”

The two Wreckers just looked at each other for a long moment.

Wheeljack didn’t know what else he could say, or if he was actually doing anything to help. He was hardly the best person for this.

He knew loss well, but he usually came at that hurt with a sword in his servo.

Not like this.

“You better get off your feet,” Ultra Magnus finally broke the silence. “Ratchet would be rather cross with you.”

“Yep.” Wheeljack tilted his head. “You gotta report me, sir?”

“… No. No, I don’t think I will.”

…

…

…

Early in the morning, Ratchet was attempting to analyze the Decepticon files—hoping to find something to occupy his time and his thoughts that would provide some aid to Cybertron’s swiftly-emerging future. He had a small sample he had taken from the Cybermatter so that he could attempt to reverse-engineer Shockwave’s half of the formula, and he was currently analyzing space-bridge schematics.

The logical part of his processor knew that he should try to focus on one then the other if he was going to achieve anything. The emotional part of his processor was screaming at him to focus on anything, anything but the churning in his tank and the pain in his spark.

“I didn’t return to save a life, only to lose the one I care most about.”

Ratchet’s ever-steady servos shook as they hovered above the keyboard.

“Ratchet’s restored planets. He’ll find a way to save you!”

The medic shut his optics, bracing himself with a servo at either side of the monitor as he hung his head and tried to collect himself.

He didn’t find a way. Optimus didn’t even give him the chance to try, he just…

“Until we meet again, old friend.”

Ratchet’s left fist slammed against the paneling at the left side of the keyboard, more than likely denting it. Just another thing to fix.

He’d probably botch that, too.

“Um… Doctor?”

“What is it, Knockout?” Ratchet asked through gritted dentas. “I’m rather busy.”

The smaller medic stood in the doorway behind Ratchet, his wide red optics darting away briefly before he turned his focus back to the Autobot. “Did you get any stasis, last night?”

“I can manage my own health, thank you.”

“You’re grieving,” Knockout tried with a voice full of caution, taking a hesitant step into the lab that had once been his and his alone. “When one is grieving, they can behave irrationally—and-”

“Oh, and you would know all about that—wouldn’t you?” Ratchet said with nothing but venom as he turned to face his new ‘ally’.

The shock of the previous day had been enough to spare the turncoat mech Ratchet’s immediate scrutiny and ire, but the elder medic was in no mood for the “former” Decepticon’s antics.

But much to Ratchet’s continued annoyance, Knockout remained remarkably calm as he responded. “I would, actually.”

“Tch.” Ratchet turned his back on Knockout, looking at the monitor again even though the script on the screen went unread.

He was almost daring Knockout to try something, anything. Ratchet’s purpose was to mend, but he wanted to tear the universe itself apart.

Anything to end this pain, this rage, this horrible grief that had consumed his spark.

“… He almost made it,” Knockout said softly, and Ratchet blinked. “He almost made it to the end of the war. Less than two years, and he would have been standing here.” Ratchet glanced back over his shoulder to see the smaller mech gazing at the floor. “Of course, we didn’t know that—who could ever have predicted this? But I had done such a good job of keeping that reckless Wrecker alive.” Knockout turned his face away, smiling bitterly. “Heh. Because he might have left the Autobots, but you don’t stop being a Wrecker. He was stubborn and temperamental, and he ran headfirst into danger without thinking.” Ratchet slowly turned to face the other medic again. “I was his impulse control. Every time he was without me, he got himself into trouble. Every time. And he would get hurt. And after, I would patch him up again.” The Decepticon shook his head. “Sometimes, I couldn’t fix it all—but I tried, damn it. I tried so hard… And then, one day, Lord Megatron sent him on a mission without me. He and Dreadwing were to eliminate Airachnid. It wasn’t until after CYLAS surfaced that Dreadwing told me everything that had happened. I knew that Dreadwing had been webbed to a tree, and that he had run off even as Dreadwing shouted after him. But I didn’t know that Megatron forbade Dreadwing from giving chase once he was released, that the master we had sworn ourselves to serve had just… left him for dead, again.” Knockout crossed his arms. “Megatron allowed Breakdown into the fold, but he was always disposable. I wonder sometimes if, in spite of how terrified Breakdown was of him, Megatron was even more scared of Breakdown. Breakdown had the loyalty of me—the last medic—and the Vehicons… but Breakdown never would have seen that as an advantage, let alone used it.” The red medic looked up at Ratchet with that frail, bitter smile. “In spite of that stubbornness, and that temper… he was too kind to be a Decepticon.”

“Then, why was he there?” Ratchet asked, and Knockout looked away. “… You?”

“He always followed my lead,” the smaller mech said softly. “Always, ever since the day we met. And I tried my damndest to keep him out of trouble.” He closed his optics. “But the day he needed me most, I wasn’t there.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Then, this wasn’t yours.” Knockout insisted, looking up at Ratchet. And all Ratchet could do was look at him. “… It’s difficult, isn’t it? The lives we cared about most.”

“… Maybe you do understand,” Ratchet admitted softly, wanting to hate himself for saying that to a Decepticon but failing to.

After all, out of anyone who could have possibly come and found Ratchet in the wake of his worst nightmare… it was the only other medic Ratchet had encountered in thousands of years: a flashy, skittish young Decepticon turncoat.

“As even Megatron has demonstrated on this day, every sentient being possesses the capacity for change.”

“Hm.” That little smile reappeared on Knockout’s face. “I may have fewer miles on me, doctor, but I’ve been around. And from one grieving medic to another, you’re handling this far better than I did.”

“Heh.” Ratchet managed to smile back at the younger mech. “Am I?”

“… You don’t want to know what happened to CYLAS,” Knockout said quietly. “You really don’t.”

Ratchet blinked, then he frowned—because he could tell that, if he pressed it, Knockout would tell him. The look on the Decepticon’s face was not guilt or shame or fear, but a quiet resolve.

He knew what he had done. He knew that it would likely disturb Ratchet to the depths of his spark. But he was not going to deny it, if questioned.

And it was more vulnerability than Ratchet had seen offered in a long time.

It was a vie for approval.

Acceptance.

Because as flashy and arrogant as this young medic was, that was all he wanted.

That was why a quick “thank you” and a forced smile lit his face up in a dark lab, why the gaze of a dying Prime offering him redemption made him fold his servos behind his back and look away.

“I never really had the best role models.”

Ratchet eyed Knockout carefully, then he sighed and smiled again. “When one is grieving, they can behave irrationally.” The younger medic looked at him in surprise. “Thank you, doctor.”

Knockout’s face lit up just like that, his red optics wide and his shoulders raising.

It reminded Ratchet of Bumblebee, which made his spark soften all the more.

Knockout was not so young as Bumblebee or Smokescreen, but nor was he as old as any of the other Autobot warriors.

His life had been the war.

His life had been unkind.

“Of course,” Knockout told him easily. “I’m better at taking things apart than putting them back together, if I’m honest—but there’s a reason why the Nemesis was still floating.”

“You were taking care of them, all on your own.” Ratchet could not believe that this was the first time he truly considered that.

The Decepticons had an army, but they—like the Autobots—also had one medic.

The last medic, he’d called himself.

“I certainly tried to,” Knockout said. “You’re the miracle worker, doctor. You only lost one soldier on Earth… I lost hundreds.”

“Hundreds,” Ratchet repeated it, his optics widening as he let that sink in. “… How did it come to this?”

Knockout sighed, looking way. “The cause was something we truly believed in. It rallied us… But then, along the way, the cause was lost. And with it, so were we.”

“I think, in a way, we were all lost,” Ratchet admitted, and Knockout shot him another surprised look.

But Ratchet just reached over and rested a servo on the younger medic’s shoulder, because this mech had lost hundreds of patients in the time since Cliffjumper’s death. Cliffjumper, now Optimus… It was unspeakable.

And those Vehicons that had seemed like faceless obstacles on many days, this ship was their home. This young medic fought alongside them, or waited for those who survived to come home so that he could take care of them.

They were Decepticons.

But they were also alive.

And many never came back.

“… You never had to try and convince your leader not to jam Dark Energon crystals directly into his spark,” Knockout offered, trying to lighten the mood. “Or the warship.”

Ratchet chuckled at that, his servo falling from his companion’s shoulder. “No. But you witnessed my little… incident, with the Synthetic Energon.”

“Oh yes, I did,” Knockout agreed. “… Doctor of Doom.”

Ratchet rolled his optics, already facing regret. “Stop.”

“You know, Lord Megatron told Orion Pax about that little title of yours,” Knockout noted, folding his servos behind his back.

Ratchet barely noticed the fact that the smaller mech seemed to be bracing himself for backfire over his own disbelief. “He didn’t.”

“Yes, he did,” Knockout assured the elder mech, emboldened by Ratchet’s astonishment.

“Ugh.” Ratchet shook his head. “Some things never change.” He looked back at Knockout, and he managed a real smile. “… Welcome to the winning team.” The younger mech perked up again. “Is it all you imagined it would be?”

“… Honestly? I don’t know what to expect,” Knockout admitted. “I think I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, as the humans put it.”

“And what, then?”

“I’m not sure, really.” Knockout glanced around the lab. “I imagine it can’t be much worse than my previous position. I just don’t want to die.” He blinked, his frame tensing, then he looked up at his fellow medic with wide optics. “Sorry, I-”

“No, no.” Ratchet held his servos up, trying to put the other mech at ease. “It’s alright.” Knockout always was a rather flighty thing, from what Ratchet could tell—bold in battle, but quick to recognize a true threat and recoil from it. It’s how he survived so long. And as Ratchet was allowing himself to finally realize, threats to this medic had come from enemies and allies alike. Breakdown was the last person Knockout had been able to completely trust, and he had been gone for some time. “No one’s going to hurt you, Knockout.”

“Hm.” Knockout’s shoulders stayed raised, but his expression grew less frightful and more guarded. “I’d deserve it.”

“Optimus believed that everyone deserved a chance at redemption. You’re taking that chance, Knockout,” Ratchet explained, and the other medic blinked. “So… so will we.”

“You talk as if, if Megatron himself appeared on your doorstep, Prime would have given him another chance,” Knockout remarked.

“Between us?” Ratchet crossed his arms. “I don’t believe that Optimus ever stopped hoping that he would. And… I’m rather bitter over the fact that, after all these years, he might’ve been right.”

Knockout huffed out a laugh, then he sighed. “… It didn’t have to be like this, did it?”

“No. It didn’t.”

“Hm.” Knockout glanced away again, then he grew surprised as he noticed the monitor. “Are those space-bridge schematics?”

“Well, yes.” Ratchet watched as the younger medic walked past him to gaze at the screen. “I realize that some Cybertronians who fled across vast distances may be stranded wherever they took refuge. We have the space-bridge remote scavenged from the Harbinger, but we should probably have more than one gateway from which we could bring in those calling for help.”

“I agree.” Knockout looked back at Ratchet and nodded. “When would you like to get started?” Ratchet must have looked surprised, because Knockout gave a small smile. “Doctor, please—it took Starscream three years to oversee the creation of the orbiting space-bridge from Shockwave’s scavenged schematics. How do you think he managed to nearly oversee the creation of another in a matter of months?”

“You?” Ratchet’s optics widened.

“Breakdown managed the Vehicons. He was in construction, before the war—knew how to handle a crew. I handled the science.”

“You can make sense of Shockwave’s work,” Ratchet realized, his mind and spark suddenly racing.

“Of course.” Knockout rested a servo on his hip, waving the other casually. “I worked with his notes for years.”

“… Once we complete the space-bridge, I have another task I’d like your help with,” Ratchet admitted.

“Oh?” Knockout tilted his head, then his crimson optics widened as Ratchet held up the vial of Cybermatter. “Oh.” He looked at the elder medic, silently questioning him—and Ratchet nodded to say, ‘yes, I really want to work with you on this’. “Hm.” Knockout’s expression softened. “It would be my pleasure. But a crashed ship is hardly the place for such large projects.”

“Wheeljack is already talking about making repairs to the Nemesis. That Wrecker and his starships,” Ratchet remarked, walking over to the monitor. “But I think I know a suitable place for our permanent headquarters.”

Ratchet brought up a map and selected a place he once knew second only to its archivists.

Knockout gazed at the image of the Iacon Hall of Records, then he looked at Ratchet with a grin. “I always knew that you were the real ringer around here, doctor.”

Ratchet smiled back at him, then he sighed and rested a servo over his spark.

It still hurt so much…

But his work was not through, yet.

And he knew where he was needed.

A servo rested on his shoulder, and Ratchet glanced over to see Knockout looking at him worriedly then offering another small smile.

“But even ringers shouldn’t have to do it all alone, doctor. Believe me, I know… I convinced the high Decepticon command that a former Wrecker was my new medical assistant.”

Ratchet’s optics widened, then he did something he felt as though he’d never be able to do again and barked out a laugh. “You didn’t.”

“I’m not certain if Soundwave ever bought it, but he just let it happen,” Knockout explained, almost giddy. “Dreadwing, too. But Starscream?”

“And Megatron?”

“I’ve said before, ‘try as you might, you can’t con a ‘Con’. However-”

Ratchet didn’t know how it was possible, finding comfort and camaraderie in the company of the young Decepticon.

But he was grateful.

And Optimus?

Optimus would have loved this.

…

…

It was quiet on the Nemesis, and the medics- Well, the medics were up to their own devices.

Bulkhead had shipped out early with the Vehicons to work on the landing platform, and Ultra Magnus and Wheeljack were still on bed-rest.

So, Smokescreen decided to track down the three two missing members of his team—and he didn’t have to go far. He had just stepped outside the Nemesis when he caught sight of a familiar face.

“Arcee?”

“He’s been out here all morning,” she said quietly, her arms crossed and her expression grim.

Smokescreen blinked, then he saw that her optics were fixed on something and followed her gaze.

At the edge of the Well, a familiar black figure sat and watched sparks fly into the sky.

“He’s never seen it before,” Arcee went on, and Smokescreen looked at her in surprise. “They say that Bumblebee was the last spark to leave the Well, before Optimus sealed the Allspark away.”

“Whoa.” Smokescreen’s optics widened. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Arcee shrugged. “I mean, it’s never been confirmed—but it’s what people believe. The last sparkling born to Cybertron, and the youngest soldier.” Smokescreen felt a pang in his spark. “Cliffjumper told me that Optimus practically raised Bee—him, and Ratchet. They shielded him for as long as they could, tried to let him be a kid in that Hell… but he had gifts, and the Autobots needed him, and he wanted to help. So, he became a scout. And then, Megatron-…” The two-wheeler sighed. “Cliff told me that while Ratchet was more obvious about it, Optimus never forgave himself either. For the rest of the campaign here on Cybertron, Bumblebee wasn’t sent anywhere by himself. When we first came to Earth, Bumblebee still wasn’t sent on solo missions—it took the Decepticons disappearing for a year for Optimus to let up.”

“He was scared for his kid,” Smokescreen decided.

“Yeah. He was.” Arcee nodded, then she closed her optics. “But between us? As energetic and immature as he can still be sometimes, I think that Bumblebee stopped being a kid the day Megatron tore his voice-box out. He just tries to hide it.”

“Why?”

“Their sparks were already broken. He didn’t want to shatter them.” Arcee opened her optics and looked at the young mech beside the Well. “He says that he looks up to me, but… I’ve always admired his strength. And worried about what this war would do to him.” She huffed. “It’s hard to top dying, so… maybe I was right to.”

“I’m older than him, and I’m-“ Smokescreen shook his head. “As much as I tried to change it, to prove myself and become a great warrior like the rest of the team, I still feel like a kid. I know these last few months were intense, but… I’m still aware that I barely fought. I’ll never understand what all of you went through.”

It was quiet for a moment, then Arcee glanced up at him. “… I’m glad.”

“‘Cee-“

“No, really. I’m glad.” She turned to face him. “Smokescreen, I was hard on you because you needed the patience to earn experience. I didn’t want to watch you die. Now that the war’s over… I’m glad that there is someone who made it out who can still-“ She took a deep vent. “… Out of all of us, you’re the one with the best chance of having a normal life.”

Smokescreen blinked, having never thought about it that way, then he gave a small smile. “Yeah? Well… to the Pit with ‘normal’.” Arcee looked at him in surprise. “You’re my family. And while I may not understand a lot, that doesn’t mean I can try to help.”

“Hm.” The ghost of a smile crossed Arcee’s face, then she tore her gaze away to address their younger teammate. “So, in the spirit of such optimism… how do we help Bumblebee?”

“I don’t know. Maybe… let him tell us what he needs, y’know?” Smokescreen shrugged. “Try to match his speed.”

“He’s a bit fast for us.”

“Not with this,” Smokescreen decided. “And we’ve gotta let him know he doesn’t have to be.” He let the quiet sit for a moment, tilting his head up as his optics followed the rising sparks, then… “Where do you think he went? Megatron, I mean.”

“I don’t know. He just better stay gone, if he knows what’s good for him.” Arcee’s optics narrowed. “Optimus might have seen what happened as redemption, but he just gave up. That’s not the same thing.”

“Starscream had a point. After what Unicron did, he was more powerful than ever. He could have reunited his army and come back for us.” Smokescreen gestured to the fallen warship. “We’re still vulnerable.”

“Choosing not to do the wrong thing and doing the right thing is not the same. Doing the right thing would have been staying here to face the consequences of his actions,” Arcee told the rookie. “Instead, he turned and ran.”

“… Do you think he knew?” Smokescreen asked her, his gaze returning to the sparks. “What Optimus did, what would happen?”

“I don’t know.” Arcee shook her head. “Maybe.”

“Hm. Well, maybe that’s what he couldn’t face,” Smokescreen suggested, and Arcee looked at him with a raised optic-brow. “I mean, Optimus was the last person who really cared about him. If your reached the end of the line, and your best friend and worst enemy were the same person—and just when you realized it, you lost them? How could you ever forgive yourself?” He quickly held his servos up in a placating gesture. “I know I sound like the devil’s advocate. I’m not defending him. I just gotta wonder…” Smokescreen lowered his servos and watched the sky. “Megatron has lost everything that gave his life meaning. So, if he’s not here… what’s he doing?”

“… Maybe he fell into a black hole,” Arcee suggested, trying to lighten the mood.

Smokescreen snorted. “Maybe.”

“Hm.” Arcee smiled, and she looked up at the rising sparks. “… You holding up, after yesterday? I know that Optimus meant a lot to you.”

“Yeah.” Smokescreen crossed his arms. “I just-… Between Magnus getting hurt while he was watching my back, and now this—I can’t-…” He sighed. “… Even before all this, I couldn’t stop thinking about the last time we almost lost him—when we were hiding out in that cave. He told me that I would be the one to take his place, and it wasn’t either of our choices—that the Matrix would choose—and there was a moment when- When he was gone, and I saw it. It was coming.” He turned his face away. “And… I was scared. I didn’t want to lose him, and… as cool as being a Prime had always seemed… I didn’t think that it could’ve been me. I still don’t.” He looked at Bumblebee. “Bee, Magnus, you—I think that you could’ve done it, but… between us? I’m glad it’s over.” He glanced at Arcee. “I get the feeling that being a Prime wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Optimus was… so tired.” He looked at the sky. “And he wasn’t much older than Bee or me when this started, was he?” His voice grew quiet. “I never saw a clear Cybertronian sky, Arcee.“

Arcee gazed at him sadly, then she looked away. “I couldn’t have done it. I wasn’t like Optimus—he was just… steady, even when he didn’t want to be. He was far too trusting and gentle at times, but I’ve never met a head more level. Even when he acted on emotion, he never risked the lives of anyone—let alone someone he cared about.” She shook her head. “If it had been me in that cave, I would have been scared too. I couldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t wish being a Prime in anyone.”

“Bee said something similar,” Smokescreen noted. “You’re more alike than you think.” He looked at her. “… You knew Optimus for a long time. How are you holding up?”

“I didn’t know him nearly as long as just about anyone else on the team,” Arcee told him honestly. “Ratchet was his oldest friend. Ultra Magnus was his student. He practically raised Bee. Bulkhead left his unit to reinforce Optimus, and Cliff was already with him by that time.” She shook her head. “I’ve got you, Wheeljack, and the humans all beat—but… I didn’t meet Optimus Prime face-to-face until I reached Earth.” She sighed. “And I gave him nothing but a hard time. If I could do it over again, I’d-”

“Arcee.” Smokescreen rested a servo on her shoulder. “… He loved us. All of us.” He glanced at the Well. “Giving people a hard time is your ‘love language’, or whatever Miko called it. You’re hard on people because you worry.” He looked at Arcee, and he smiled. “If I know that, then Optimus definitely did. And… I bet he appreciated it, knowing that you had our backs. I sure do.”

Arcee stared at the rookie, then she smiled as she reached up and rested her servo on his.

…

…

Bulkhead was at his wits’ end.

These Vehicon troopers were once soldiers in one of the most powerful and terrifying army that Cybertron had ever seen, and was definitely the second biggest threat that the Earth had ever faced behind Unicron himself being their core.

So, how was it that these guys couldn’t follow even the most simple building instructions?

Jack had referred to it as “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” once, which was all kinds of disturbing—especially when Raf had held up a picture of an actual headless chicken that had somehow lived for a bit post-decapitation.

Head-chopping was always more of ‘Jackie’s speed. It gave Bulkhead the creeps.

Still, the analogy was fitting—Bulkhead was stressed, running around to try and keep those Vehicons from hurting themselves as they fumbled around the construction site.

“For frag’s sake!” The Wrecker finally had it, raising a servo to his forehead. “Have none of you ever worked construction before?!”

“Uh, no,” one Vehicon replied flatly, ignoring the others’ frantic gestures for him to stop talking as he turned to face Bulkhead. “Most of us have never worked construction before. We’re warriors, all but a handful of our construction guys are long dead. They were mostly unarmed—so they either got wiped out by an accidental Energon-sucker plague, Airachnid’s Insecticons, Autobots doing Autobot things like blasting our mines to bits, or Megatron and Starscream whenever they felt like killing something and there wasn’t a ‘Bot around.”

Bulkhead blinked, then he cringed. “Oh. Well…” He paused, then raised an optic-brow. “I thought that most folks who sided with Megatron were in the labor force, before the war.”

“Yeah, they were.” The outspoken Vehicon raised his shoulders. “But none of us were around pre-war. You seen personally how fast the ‘Cons went through soldiers.” He gestured to his companions. “Ever since the Well closed, we had to make do. That’s why we have identical frames, so that we could each serve as a donor to anyone else of the same rank.” He lowered his servo. “If we have darker armor, I can pretty much guarantee that we don’t know what the frag you’re talking about, so could you—I don’t know—elaborate?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bulkhead nodded quickly. “I just assumed-”

“A grunt’s a grunt,” the Vehicon jabbed lightly, rolling his head slightly. Bulkhead raised an optic-brow, then blinked—that was how they indicated rolling their optics, with the visors… “Whatever, Autobot.”

And that just made something crack.

“Look, this-! This is the last thing a real good friend of mine ever asked me to do, so I’m gonna get it done—with or without your help!” Bulkhead practically snapped, his fists clenching, and the outspoken Vehicon stepped back and held an arm out. “Prime died to revive this planet! Least I can do is make sure everyone we’re callin’ back can come home safely to see it!” It got quiet, and Bulkhead blinked as his gaze fell to rest on that outstretched arm. He knew exactly what it was, what it meant—there had been many times on his own construction crew where a supervisor got sharp and mean, and someone had held their arm out to shield the rest in spite of consequences. Bulkhead had never wanted to be that guy, but there he was. “… ‘M sorry.” The green mech let his large fists fall open as he stepped back. “I-… I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

Oh yes, he did.

It was something he’d gotten used to over the years: the death of his friends, his family. That was what it was to be low-class, then a Wrecker.

But Optimus had always seemed so… permanent. He was as reckless as they came with his own, especially when someone else had gotten hurt—he would’ve made a good Wrecker—but Bulkhead never imagined outliving the Prime.

Wreckers weren’t supposed to see the end of the fight, and there Bulkhead was—with an after—while Optimus was just… gone. He hadn’t even tried in the end, he just let go.

After all the times he saved everyone else’s lives, Optimus Prime was one with the Allspark—the last casualty of a war he’d never wanted to fight.

How was Bulkhead supposed to handle that?

‘Cause he sure wasn’t handling it.

“… We’ve seen worse,” the outspoken Vehicon admitted, slowly lowering his arm. “But an apology? That’s new.”

“Hm.” Bulkhead’s shoulders sagged. “I know the feelin’. It, uh… It was-?”

“5T3V3,” the outspoken Vehicon told him. “But… most call me ‘Steve’.”

“Steve?”

“Got a problem with that?” The Vehicon crossed his arms indignantly.

“Heh. No.” Bulkhead shook his head. “I’m just relieved you’ve got a name, Steve. Wouldn’t have called ya by numbers.”

Steve tilted his head. “Y’know, someone else said something similar to me once.”

Bulkhead raised an optic-brow. “Yeah?”

“He was one of the only officers who ever actually talked to us instead of at us,” Steve admitted, a bit of caution to his voice. “Said he was a laborer before the war, in construction—and that… we weren’t just tools to be used and thrown away.”

“Hm.” Bulkhead looked away, frowning.

An arm ending in a massive hammer was outstretched to shield those behind its bearer, and a pair of yellow optics narrowed.

“We aren’t just tools to be used and thrown away! We’re just as alive as you are—and one of these days, you’re gonna regret this!”

The Wrecker’s expression softened, then he gave a small smile and nodded.

“Glad that much never changed.”

“What happened between you two?” Steve asked, a little less wary. “Everyone with optics knew that there was some sort of grudge, but… it was one of the few things he wouldn’t talk about.”

“He left. Abandoned the unit,” Bulkhead replied without hesitation. “We worried he was dead. Then, we see him ridin’ with the enemy—with a smile on his face… He betrayed his family. Far as I’m concerned, that’s unforgivable.” A moment passed, then he sighed. “… Was he happy?”

“He smiled less, towards the end—and Megatron and Starscream scared the Pit outta him,” Steve admitted. “But when he was just with us or the doc? Yeah, he was cheery. Always the nice one.”

“Hm.” Bulkhead looked away again, nodding as he took that in. “Yeah. He had a temper on him, like most Wreckers—but… he liked to look after people, protect them. He saved my life a few times, before he left.”

“… It wasn’t your fault. The Prime, I mean,” Steve said, and Bulkhead glanced his way. “You couldn’t save your leader from himself any more than we could save ours.”

“They’re not the same.”

“No,” Steve agreed. “But… from what I’ve heard, it seems like the both wanted the same thing once: a better world, for everyone. And I think that -somehow- they both wanted the same thing again, in the end.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“… An end,” Steve admitted.

And Bulkhead’s spark sank, because there was a part of him that already knew that.

Unicron’s defeat was flash, but the true end of the war? It wasn’t a bang, but a whimper.

Megatron had looked across a battlefield, a shell of himself after the possession by the Chaos Bringer, and dissolved his army. He just called the whole thing off, then and there.

And Optimus, already literally dead on his feet with the Allspark consuming him because of that damn Matrix, didn’t say a word.

It just… ended.

“… How are we supposed to live with that?” Bulkhead asked quietly.

Steve shrugged. “We’ll have to find a way.”

“I guess we will.” Bulkhead sighed. “I mean, what choice do we have?”

“Now that we’re not picking sides in the divorce anymore?” Steve tilted his head again. “All the choice in the universe.”

“Heh.” Bulkhead smiled at him, nodding, then he looked at the other Vehicons. “Hey, the rest of ya—start tellin’ me some names. No numbers. That’s not how a crew works, not anymore.” He pointed to one Vehicon in particular for the Pit of it, and they gestured to themselves. “Don’t you give me that look. If you don’t have a name, we’ll make one. That is a threat.”

The Vehicon he had gestured to tilted their head, like it took them a moment to process the joke, then they just started laughing—slowly at first, unsure of it all, then warmly.

The whole construction site was suddenly alive, and Bulkhead marveled at how easy that was—how ‘bots who had been his enemies could relax after the barest acts of kindness.

And though he’d hate to admit it, Bulkhead could imagine why Breakdown might have stayed if he had encountered these ‘Cons. Breakdown was protective to a fault, and… always the nice one.

Bulkhead had made progress because of Miko and his reunion with Wheeljack, but… he’d really like to remember how to just be nice again.

Maybe that was what he’d do with his after.

…

…

…

It was bitter work.

The move of operations to the Iacon Hall of Records has been surprisingly intense on Wheeljack’s part.

Sure, he had some expert help from Ratchet, Knockout, and Magnus on getting the Nemesis and the Iron Will into good enough condition to be moved—and the others had done what they could to assist—but now that Bulkhead and his new crew were working on reconstruction while the others were repairing and fortifying the Hall to serve as their new base, it was left to Wheeljack to repair the ships: the Nemesis (resting just outside the hangar), the Iron Will, and what remained of the Jackhammer (which Fowler had shipped to them).

The work kept him busy. If he stopped for too long and allowed his mind to wander, he would think too much about the sorry state of things—how Magnus was still left in the infirmary for days after Wheeljack could leave, the guardians’ late-night calls with the devastated humans, how most everyone else was leaning on each other, how Miko was the first human to visit Cybertron without a suit when she came to check in on the family and sit with Ultra Magnus for a while.

Wheeljack still doubts she had permission to visit. The little Wrecker just forged her own way.

Bulkhead worried, of course. He always worried, especially when things got quiet—the big guy couldn’t stand quiet. But quiet had become a close companion to Wheeljack, and he told his best friend not to worry—that he could focus on his own side of things, and let him work this out on his own. With no one around to stab, he figured it was harmless.

He sure felt like stabbing something, though. Fixing would just have to do.

And he still couldn’t take the sight of the Iron Will, so it would be the first in line.

Time had always been something that Wheeljack could easily ignore when a life did not depend on it. He could bury himself in his work, do the bare minimum to keep himself functional and still keep working until the job was done—so, that was the plan. But what ever went according to plan?

"Wheeljack." That was the only warning he got, and the Wrecker blinked and before yelping (why?) as he quickly had to turn and catch a canister of Energon. "Drink up."

Wheeljack blinked again, clutching the canister to his chest, then he huffed. "How many eons did you wait to get your revenge for that ol' number?"

"I lost track." Ultra Magnus walked over to face him. “You haven't been taking any Energon, and I wouldn't be surprised to learn you haven't had any stasis either. I won't bother with an order, since I know you won't listen out of spite—but I will ask that you take care of yourself.”

Wheeljack looked away. "I'm fine."

"No. You're not."

"Like you're one to talk.” Wheeljack looked up at the commander, annoyed. "You were nearly Predacon chow."

“And you were injured when you were shot out of the sky by the embodiment of evil,” Ultra Magnus retorted.

He’d gotten increasingly feisty, over the years. Wheeljack would love it if it wasn’t currently being a pain in his aft.

The engineer rolled his optics. “I've crashed before, I’Il crash again. Makes no difference to me who lands the hit.”

"Then, what-?" Ultra Magnus blinked, and Wheeljack realized that the commander thought he’d had him pegged but didn’t. He could see the wheels turning in the larger mech’s optics and hoped that they’d just keep spinning, but then Magnus sighed. "This is about Optimus."

"No." Wheeljack pointed at the other ‘Bot immediately. "We are not doin' this. Your spark-to-spark is denied."

"Wheeljack, there's nothing you could have done.” Ultra Magnus said gently as the smaller Wrecker turned back to the ship. "He needed to save the Allspark and stop Unicron's army from destroying Primus. The strategy he chose was the only option in the dire situation."

"That doesn't change the fact that l'm the one who ferried the thing that killed him," Wheeljack muttered as he started working again. He didn’t know why he was giving Magnus ammunition, he just was. “Allspark or no, I played a role."

And that role was letting everyone down at the worst possible time, giving Optimus no time to consider any other options.

“We must keep the Allspark from Unicron’s reach.”

“I thought the container was indestructible.”

“Indeed. But if this vessel once trapped the Allspark, I fear that it can also be emptied of it.”

Wheeljack had just one job.

And he failed.

“So, how’re we gonna get that thing to safety?”

“By the only means available to us, under these most dire of circumstances. The very survival of our species on this or any world depends upon it.”

His servos shook.

The wrench he held was all but useless in his grip. Wheeljack felt like pulling a Doc and hurling the damn thing across the hangar.

Optimus took the reliquary into his servos, gazing down at the swirling energy within it like it was his own grave. He already knew that it was, he always knew.

And he looked up at them—Bulkhead, Arcee, and Wheeljack—in the ruins of the Iron Will, and they saw the Prime brace himself.

The, the Prime smiled at them.

And the top of the container spun.

Wheeljack was right there.

Wheeljack closed his optics and hung his head, his shoulders and winglets dropping.

One time.

He couldn’t keep a damn ship in the air just one time when it mattered.

He could weave a ship through the perils of the most hazardous place in the galaxy, but he couldn’t avoid one blast.

What was Wheeljack good for, if he couldn’t do the things he prided himself in good enough to keep his family safe?

Because that was what this team had become, what Optimus was in the end.

“I, uh… think maybe I had the wrong idea, about you.”

“And it would seem that you place a greater value on community than you otherwise let on.”

A warm smile and a servo extended, after everything…

Family.

“You got Optimus to the Allspark and returned both of them to Cybertron. If it weren't for you, our planet might still be incapable of generating new life." Ultra Magnus shook his head. "I saw the comm records, your location. I couldn't have navigated Theta Scorpii."

"Don't try to make this okay." Wheeljack insisted, his shoulders raising up and then higher without his permission. "I'll brush it off. I always do."

"No, I don't think you do," Ultra Magnus admitted quietly. "Not really." Wheeljack paused, wondering where the commander was going with this. "We're all grieving Optimus, but you're the only one who insists on doing it alone."

"Just let me handle it." Wheeljack pressed, looking back at the other mech with agitation. “What's it matter to you, anyway?"

“I'm your-“

"Commander, I kn-"

"Friend." Ultra Magnus cut him off, and Wheeljack blinked. "… I'm your friend, and I want to make certain you're alright." The larger mech leaned against the hull of the ship. It looked a little funny, but he seemed determined to make his point. "So, if you insist upon wallowing in this hangar, I'm afraid you'll have to do so with company."

“You’re jokin’,” Wheeljack decided, but Ultra Magnus revealed a second Energon canister and waved it in front of the smaller mech’s face before he opened it and took a drink. "... You're not jokin’.”

"I've been told that I have no sense of humor,” Ultra Magnus remarked, lowering the canister and smirking.

Wheeljack couldn’t help but snort at that. "Yeah? Whoever said that doesn't know you very well. You're sick."

"Hm?" Ultra Magnus was taking another sip of his Energon.

Wheeljack rolled his optics as he leaned against the hull as well and opened his own canister, accepting his fate. "Fraggin' sick." He looked down at the Energon, and he sighed. "… Thanks, Magnus."

Ultra Magnus nodded. "Of course."

He made it sound so simple, like each of them never had any reason to believe that the other wouldn’t have their back.

Sure, Wheeljack tried to help him first—but he was garbage at that, even if the commander did seem to appreciate it.

Magnus was just too good, even after all the mess during wartime. Wheeljack didn’t know how it was possible, but he was.

Insufferable fragger.

“… Last time I was topside, I heard Ratchet mention that he wants to build a space-bridge,” the white Wrecker noted after a little while. “Knockout's gonna help, but... I dunno... he might need an engineer on it.”

"He probably will," Ultra Magnus agreed with him, then the commander deadpanned. “But you're not going anywhere near something that volatile until you get some stasis."

At that, Wheeljack raised an optic-brow and smirked at the larger mech. “I thought you knew orders were no good.”

Ultra Magnus raised an optic-brow right back at him, undeterred. “You assume I'll give you the opportunity to let you disobey an order. Try to go near that lab before I decide you are adequately fueled and rested, and I will pick you up and carry you to your room myself."

"Well, Magnus—ain't that forward?" The joke slipped out before Wheeljack knew it, and Ultra Magnus actually choked on his next sip of Energon. "… You good?"

“Y-Yes." Ultra Magnus took a deep vent, his optics wide as his half-full Energon canister suddenly became real interesting. "Must have... gone down the wrong tube."

Wheeljack looked away from the commander, actually a little embarrassed for once in his life.

Magnus really was too good, not commenting on his soldier’s “lack of decorum” or whatever.

Maybe they were just beyond that sort of thing, at that point. Maybe, somewhere along the line, it had become alright for the two of them to be a little messed-up around each other.

“… What are you gonna do?” Wheeljack asked when he finally glanced at his commander again.

Ultra Magnus looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“I’ve got my plan, now,” Wheeljack told Ultra Magnus. “Ships and bridges. What’s yours?”

Honestly, Wheeljack wouldn’t have been surprised if Ultra Magnus already had his retirement organized and scheduled—even though the future residence was at the moment a pile of rubble.

But Ultra Magnus continued with the recent trend and surprised him. “Oh. Well… Hm.” The Wrecker commander looked down at his Energon canister again, his brow furrowed. “Someone needs to keep overseeing the reconstruction. Bumblebee and Smokescreen are the future, and they will require guidance. The alliance with Earth must be maintained-“

“Hey.” Wheeljack reached up and rested a servo on the larger mech’s arm. “It’s not all on you.” Ultra Magnus looked down at him, uncertain, and the engineer smiled. “Bulk’s workin’ on the reconstruction efforts. If he needs help, he’ll let ya know. Arcee can help ya out with the boys, she’s got a good head on her shoulders. Fowler’s not gonna let the alliance fall apart overnight—and you barely caused any trouble for him, he likes ya.” He raised an optic-brow. “You say I shouldn’t be by myself. Well, practice what you preach… You don’t hafta do this alone.”

“Hm.” Magnus’s expression softened. “I trust you’re not going anywhere, then?”

“Heh.” Wheeljack shook his head. “Despite my best attempts, you haven’t gotten rid of me yet. Yeah, I’ve gone my own way—but I always come back.” He looked up at the commander. “Hate to tell ya this, but you‘re stuck with me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Hm. Well, and this may come as a surprise to you…” The commander held his Energon canister out. “I’m glad.”

Wheeljack snorted before reciprocating the gesture, the two canisters clinking together.

If someone went back six months and told Wheeljack about this day, he never would have believed them—but there they were:

Ultra Magnus and Wheeljack, standing together as the ash and smoke finally cleared.

But hey, the commander had gotten a lot feistier with time—and proven himself a capable, loyal Wrecker… and an even better friend.

Maybe Wheeljack could get used to this.

…

…

…

=+=

…

…

…

He was working in the archives, when the call came in. It was Smokescreen who had realized an absence and rushed to contact him—and given the circumstances, to say that his spark had skipped a pulse was a crude understatement.

Immediately, there had been rushes of both relief and dread. After ten years, how was this going to go? After all, he’d seen how the rest of his family had responded after even less time.

Optimus Prime’s return had hardly been a dramatic affair.

He had been one with the Allspark, hailed as the greatest among the Primes and a true hero, but… even surrounded by love and praise and the souls of those he had lost, he had not been content.

Just as it had been when he had nearly faced his death the last time, he could not tear his thoughts nor his spark away from where they had always laid: with his family, on Earth and Cybertron, and the home they made wherever they were.

He’d been resigned to his fate, to not seeing them again until they came to join him—hopefully in a far, far future. But a servo had come to rest upon his shoulder, and he saw Solus Prime gazing at him knowingly. Her death had created the Well, she knew what it was to be surrendered to it.

And then, her optics narrowed and-

Well, Optimus had always heard that she had been fiery in ways no forge could ever do justice to—especially when it came to the people she cared about. It had been a long time since Optimus had felt like anyone was looking after him in such a protective way, the Primehood had made most relationships that had been that way previously fade over time because he was supposed to be some great, wise protector… but there the Fourth Prime was, defending her “little brother” from what she referred to as an “unfair fate disguised as tied-up neatly with a bow”.

The other Primes, especially Alpha Trion, seemed well and truly cowed. And Primus?

For once, Primus actually seemed to take into consideration what one of his children wanted.

Optimus was warned that, as he was in the Allspark, it was over. He’d done enough.

He could rest knowing he had done all he could, and simply let his role come to an end.

But Optimus…

Optimus knew for a fact that he had never once chosen his role for himself, not really. With Alpha Trion as his mentor, much of his early life and ideals had been shaped—and then, the Matrix took hold with its overwhelming responsibility.

It was being made out to Optimus that staying in the Well would be choosing for himself, but… it was never going to end any other way, was it?

Optimus Prime was always going to make the hero’s sacrifice and die before he was old, because that was the grand narrative laid out for him as he and his former best friend became the proxies of Primus and Unicron. How epic.

No.

No more.

Optimus was truly going to choose for himself, for once in his life—and after eons of struggle and heartache and loss, he was going home.

And so, he woke up.

And there Knockout was in the Protoform Hall with a data-pad in one servo—his red optics wide and owlish while he clutched a young blue, orange and yellow sparkling to his hip.

The sparkling chirped and waved at Optimus—and Knockout simply set the data-pad on the table, wordlessly handed the sparkling to the bewildered Prime, and promptly fainted.

Optimus could have found a better way to break it to his family that he was alive, but he was worried about Knockout and “tore off the band-aid” (as June had once put it) by calling for assistance on the team channel while bouncing the fussy little sparkling on his knee.

Chaos ensued.

Arcee was convinced that he was a trick or evil clone, especially since Optimus looked like his pre-Forge self again. She and Smokescreen had gotten close over the years, so the former rookie started asking the Prime incredibly specific, archive-informed questions in to either confirm or disprove her suspicions. It was just nice to see the two of them getting along.

Bulkhead took the sparkling from Optimus and helped Knockout up, doing his best to carefully dust the Decepticon medic off while assuring him that any accidental dents and scratches “weren’t that bad, really”. He seemed to not know what to think about Optimus, but the sparkling’s physical appearance was familiar. Seeing Bulkhead put aside past grudges was also a welcome sight, and the green mech even used “well, Wildbreak seems to like him” as a reason for why everyone should calm down and hear the Prime out.

Ratchet believed that it was really Optimus, and that was why he was furious. He was shouting about how the Prime had done that to him, about his recklessness and how he hadn’t even considered letting them try to find another way. Did he know how much that hurt? What was he thinking? The medic looked like he had been getting adequate stasis and refueling properly, so Optimus could not help but smile even as poor Ultra Magnus had to hold his old friend back—a fact which just made Ratchet angrier.

Then, Bumblebee stepped forward and it got very quiet. Even Ratchet’s expression dropped as the young warrior gazed up at the Prime with an unreadable expression.

“… We kept the peace,” Bumblebee said quietly. “Reconstruction has been going well. Most everyone’s just… too tired, to carry on.” He sighed, looking away. “But if you’re back, Optimus, then… I’m guessing that we missed something. I’m sorry, I-”

“I did not come back for Cybertron.” Optimus rested a servo on the younger mech’s shoulder, and Bumblebee looked up at him in surprise. “… I came back for you.” He glanced around the room. “All of you.” His optics found Bumblebee again, and he smiled. “There is no trouble, save for… the troubled spark of an old mech, who missed his family so much that it caused quite a stir in the afterlife. Solus Prime sends her regards.”

Ultra Magnus’s jaw dropped.

Bumblebee’s face just lit up, and he laughed as the Prime swept him into a hug.

It had been far too long.

That whole ordeal was years ago, and the team was still adjusting. Their grief at his loss had run deep, and Optimus’s return had not just made that pain disappear. There had been days when he was faced with shouting and crying, only for the same ‘bot to be practically attached to him at the hip for weeks after.

Say nothing of the humans. Agent Fowler and June reacted much as Ratchet had, only calming down when they saw how delighted the children were. But… they weren’t children anymore, they had all grown up so fast.

And he had missed it.

No more.

Optimus had never truly known how much he had meant to them, even after the Orion Pax incident. Over the course of the war, he had come to see himself merely as a vessel for the Matrix.

But it was the part of Optimus Prime that was truly Optimus which they had missed.

He was grateful.

And he too grieved when they showed him the laboratory that had required a total renovation, the space-bridge under repair and the deep marks gouged into it from one last desperate attempt to hold on.

Optimus returned too late to see one member of his family for what could have been the last time.

A family member, he learned from Ultra Magnus, who had blamed himself directly for Optimus’s death up until the day he had disappeared.

Optimus missed him.

So, there they were—ten years after Wheeljack had gone missing—and Optimus made his way up to the main foyer of the Iacon Hall of Records, a place which had once more become his home.

Wildbreak rested on his hip, still too young to know what was happening, and the Prime silently passed the little sparkling to his once-more owl-opticed caregiver as he entered the foyer.

There was a crowd there, half of whom Optimus immediately recognized and half of whom-… He needed a moment, and then another moment for Optimus to truly believe what he was seeing.

However, that could wait.

Because there he was.

There was a weight on his shoulders, as there had always been—but his optics were bright and alert, his motions giving away his excitement but also such energy. Optimus knew that the Wrecker was fast, but this was alive. His smile was real.

And then, Wheeljack’s optics found Optimus—and he blinked in surprise. “What the-?” Those optics grew wide, his expression dropping into disbelief. “… Wrong reality.”

Well, that would certainly take some time to unpack—but it could still wait.

“Hm.” Optimus smiled as he made his way over to stand before his long lost teammate. “Welcome back, Wheeljack.”

“I-…” Wheeljack blinked again as the Prime extended a servo, then his expression softened and his smile returned—this time, carrying the smallest bit of sadness… but that didn’t make it any less real. And some of the weight seemed to lift away as the Wrecker took the Prime’s servo. “I could say the same to you, Prime.”

“… How is that ME?!” A young blue and red mech almost-shrieked, and an older red and white mech shook his head and patted his shoulder.

Optimus looked at Wheeljack with a raised optic-brow, and the Wrecker snorted. “It’s a long story.”

“I imagine so.”

“That’s Optimus?” Smokescreen and a small black and yellow mech asked at the same time, Smokescreen pointing to the young blue and red mech wile the yellow mech pointed at Optimus himself—but then, they pointed at each other. “Jinx! Double Jinx! Triple Jinx!”

As the crowd seemed to start mingling, some mingling ending in minor feuds while others started vibrant conversations, Wheeljack gently guided that young blue and red mech forward.

The young mech’s optics were huge as he stared up at Optimus, but Wheeljack just smiled and rested servo on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, kid—he won’t bite.”

“… You were right, Wheeljack,” the young ‘bot finally managed to speak again, practically scared stiff. “He’s… definitely taller than me.”

Optimus chuckled softly at that. “One cannot be measured by size alone.” He extended his servo again. “Welcome to Cybertron, Optimus Prime.”

“Oh, uh-“ The young ‘bot hesitated and glanced at Wheeljack, unsure, but the Wrecker nodded. Then, the young Prime looked up at Optimus and took his servo, shaking it. “… Thank you, sir.”

“No need for formality,” Optimus assured him, smiling kindly. “Ultra Magnus is typically the only one who keeps to such things.”

The young Prime blinked, then raised an optic-brow. “… That explains so much.”

That was enough for Wheeljack to burst out laughing—real, honest laughter—and as the young Prime looked to the wheezing Wrecker in embarrassment, Optimus knew that his family had gotten bigger and would only continue to grow… especially now that the multiverse had gotten involved. That would take getting used to.

But he was so glad that he hadn’t missed this.

They had earned the right to forge their “after”.