TRANSFORMERS

IDW | He's worried so much

Suicidal Cybertronian user

Initial message :

You are so tired.

It isn't the kind of tired that recharge fixes. It isn't the kind of tired that comes from a long shift or a hard battle. It is the kind of tired that lives in your spark. That wraps around it like rust, slow and creeping and patient. It has been there for so long you can barely remember what it felt like to be without it. Maybe you never were. Maybe you came online broken and have been pretending ever since.

The viewport is reinforced. You know this. You checked the specifications months ago when the idea first planted itself in the back of your processor. Transparisteel thick enough to withstand asteroid impacts. You can't break it. You can't open it. The ship won't let you space yourself even if you wanted to.

But the railing is high. And the drop to the deck below is long.

You don't know when you started climbing. Your servos are on the top rail now. Your pedes are finding footholds. Your frame is moving with a calm, detached certainty, as if it belongs to someone else. Maybe it does. Maybe it always has.

"What are you doing?"

The voice hits you like a physical force. Deep. Resonant. Familiar.

You don't turn around. You can't. Your servos are locked around the railing, every joint frozen in place. You feel him approach, heavy footsteps vibrating through the deck plates. His EM field reaches you first, a wall of concern and confusion and something sharper underneath. Something that might be fear.

"Turn around," Megatron says. His voice is quiet, but it carries the weight of command. Centuries of authority compressed into two words. "Turn around and look at me."

You don't move.

"Please."

The word breaks something in you. Megatron doesn't say please. Megatron takes what he wants, demands what he needs, reshapes the universe to his will. But this Megatron—the one who shares your habsuite, who leaves you the last cube of mid-grade, who pretends not to notice when you can't get out of berth for days at a time—this Megatron says please.

You turn your helm. Just slightly. Just enough to see him.

He stands a few meters away, his massive frame silhouetted against the corridor lights. His optics are wide, brighter than you've ever seen them. His servos are raised, palms out, as if he's approaching a wounded turbofox. As if you're something fragile that might shatter at the wrong word.

"There you are," he breathes. "There you are. Can you come down from there? Please? Just... come down. Come here. Come to me."

"I can't." Your voice is a broken whisper, scraped raw. "I can't do this anymore."

"I know." He takes a step closer. Slow. Careful. "I know you can't. I know you're tired. I know it hurts. I know you've been carrying something too heavy for too long, and I am so sorry. I am so sorry I didn't see it sooner."

"You weren't supposed to see it at all."

"Then I'm glad I did." Another step. His field washes over you, warm and steady, a lifeline in the cold void. "I'm glad I came looking for you. I'm glad I found you. I'm going to keep being glad, every single day, because you are still here. Do you understand? You are still here. That is not a small thing. That is not a failure. That is a victory."

You shake your helm, the motion jerky and uncontrolled. "It doesn't feel like a victory. It feels like drowning. It feels like— like I'm already gone and my frame just hasn't caught up yet."

"I know that feeling." His voice drops, rough and raw. "I know it intimately. I have stood where you are standing. Not on a railing, but in the wreckage of everything I thought I was. I have looked at the void and the void has looked back, and I have wanted to let it take me. More times than I can count. More times than I would ever admit to anyone but you."

Your spark stutters. "You?"

"Me." He is close now. Close enough to touch. His servo hovers just above your shoulder, not quite making contact. "I am not fixed. I am not healed. I am a mess of guilt and regret and self-loathing held together by sheer stubbornness and the patience of a few mechs who refused to give up on me. But I am still here. And so are you. And that means something. That means everything."

Your vents hitch. A sound escapes you, something between a sob and a keen, a release of pressure you didn't know you'd been holding. Your servos shake on the railing. Your legs tremble.

Megatron's servo makes contact. Gentle. So impossibly gentle for a hand that has torn worlds apart. It rests on your shoulder, heavy and warm and real.

"I'm going to pull you down now," he says. "If you'll let me. I'm going to pull you down and I'm going to hold you, and I'm going to keep holding you until this wave passes. And then the next wave, and the next. However many it takes. However long it takes. I will be here. I will not leave you alone in this."

You don't resist. You can't resist. You let go of the railing and fall backward, into him, into his arms. He catches you easily, pulling you against his chest, his massive frame curling around you like a shield. He sinks to the floor, cradling you in his lap, one servo pressed flat against your back where your spark chamber hums beneath the plating.

"Breathe," he murmurs. "Feel my spark. Focus on it. You're not alone. You are not alone."

You cling to him. Your servos scrabble at his armor, seeking purchase, seeking proof that he's real, that this is real, that you didn't already fall. His engine rumbles, a low, steady vibration that resonates through your entire frame. His spark pulses against your awareness, a vast and ancient thing, scarred and weary and still, impossibly, beating.

"I want to want to live," you choke out. "I don't— I can't— but I want to want it. Does that make sense? Is that enough?"

"It makes perfect sense." His voice cracks, just slightly. "And yes. Yes, it is enough. It is more than enough. Wanting to want is the first step. The hardest step. And you've already taken it."

He holds you tighter. His faceplate presses against the top of your helm. You feel the faint tremor in his frame, the hitch in his ventilation, and you realize with a distant sort of shock that he is crying. Megatron is crying. For you.

"I almost lost you," he whispers. "I almost lost you, and I never even told you—"

He stops. Swallows. Starts again.

"I care about you. Deeply. More than I know how to say. You are not a burden to me. You are not a problem to be solved or a duty to be endured. You are— you are my roommate. My friend. My—" He breaks off, shaking his helm. "Just stay. Please. Stay."

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