[Bay] War Without End - Will Lennox
Title: War Without End - Will Lennox
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Will Lennox, Optimus Prime, Sideswipe, Robert Epps
Rating: T
Warnings: mentions of character death, angst
Desc: Will's seen a lot of things. Some heroic. Some terrible. But he's never been ashamed to be human until now.
Not for the first time does Will consider putting in for a transfer. Or a voluntary discharge.
How many times has he filled out the paperwork, lingering over every line, staring at every date and signature? How many times has he lain awake in the barracks, thinking of Sarah and Annabelle? Of Ironhide?
And how many times has he ripped up the papers and thrown them away, only to request a fresh set a week or two later?
The base is quiet as of late. Too quiet.
Will remembers when the Autobots first arrived, how much noise and bluster there was then. Military leaders shouting, politicians turning red in the face, the Autobots patient in the brunt of it all. Optimus dignified and enduring, sharing information and refusing to give weapons tech.
Skids and Mudflap used to get in all kinds of trouble. There was something glitched in their processors, Ratchet had said, something he couldn't fix. A word that Ratchet had hissed and never repeated.
Shockwave.
Then, there was Sideswipe. Forever racing around. He seemed to have a need for speed.
And Bee played music at all volumes, at least when he was there. He wanted to spend most of his time with Sam.
Arcee and her sisters were quiet, like Optimus.
Ratchet was always tinkering with something, deep in one project or another, fitfully attempting to distill better energon.
Ironhide was always sparring or practicing or targeting or...
It still hurts to think about his guardian. His friend. His partner.
Memories.
It's the memories that bring Lennox back, again and again, to the paperwork. He could so easily walk away. No one could argue that he hadn't done his duty, that he hadn't played his part. No one would protest. Mearing would probably rejoice and quickly encourage someone to take his spot that’d be more malleable.
Would the Autobots even notice?
Maybe Sideswipe. He's the only one who seems even remotely unchanged, happier even, with the arrival of Sunstreaker. His brother, his twin, half his spark.
Will's not even supposed to know that much, but Ironhide was surprisingly chatty once he knew someone. Besides, Will knows what a person looks like when he or she has some demons to exorcise. Autobots might be alien robots from outer space, but some things are universal. Ironhide's facial structure didn't really leave much flexibility for expression, but there are other ways to understand.
Will's military background pales in comparison to Hide's, but there's enough there that he understands. He gets why Hide's optics sometimes dimmed, why his posture sagged. Why he would sometimes find his friend standing at the edge of the farm, staring up into a dark sky.
He can't imagine what it must be like to fight a war for millennia. To watch as, bit by bit, mech by mech, their entire civilization withers away.
The base is so quiet now.
Ratchet is gone. And with him, Drift.
And now, Will has to tell Optimus that another one of his Autobots has gone missing. Will guessed that Prowl would soon take Ratchet's route. It’s why he had hinted where Prowl should go.
Will won't be surprised either if one day, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker disappear as well.
There's something broken in the Autobots, and Optimus Prime stands at the core of it.
Whatever madness had begun the war, had infected the Decepticons and set them off on their deadly quest for freedom or power or whatever, has infiltrated to the spark of the Autobots. Or maybe, the madness has been there all along. Optimus is, after all, Megatron's kin.
Not that Will's supposed to know that either.
He finds Optimus on the edge of the base, staring out toward the ruins of Chicago. His battle-scarred armor is painted in the shadows of the sunset. Standing there, Optimus looks regal and proud, a strong survivor of an endless war.
It’s only when Optimus turns to greet him that the flat glow in his optics makes Will's insides crawl. He can't really explain it. He doesn't sense energy fields like the bots can. Nor can he tell with a scan that something's wrong.
He knows, however, to the very fiber of his being that something is broken inside Optimus. Will despairs that it can’t ever be fixed.
Ratchet hadn't been able to after all.
“Colonel,” Optimus rumbles in greeting, lowering himself down. He always does that more than any of the others, and it somehow comes off as unintentionally demeaning. “Were you searching for me?”
Will's lips pull into a strained smile. “You're not a hard mech to find, Optimus.” The half-a-dozen papers he's carrying feel all too heavy. “Got some bad news for you.”
“It seems that is the only news to be found as of late.” Optimus breathes out - ventilating, Ironhide had called out. He lowers himself down fully, sitting upon the pavement.
And isn't that the truth?
Will breathes in and out himself.
“Prowl's missing,” he says, though he finds it a bit strange that he's the one to tell Prime and that the mech hasn't noticed for himself. “No one's seen him since before shift change, and he hasn't reported for duty.”
Optimus' gaze tilts downward. He rests one arm over a bended knee.
“I see.”
There’s an evident pause. Will knows that look, that distant flicker of a mech's optics. Optimus must be contacting some of the others.
“He isn’t responding to the comm,” Optimus says or narrates rather. “None of the others have seen him either.” The mechanisms of his audial spin and twitch. “You haven’t been able to locate him with our search net?”
“No.”
Will suspects Prowl is far too intelligent to be caught by a simple spark scan or locator beacon. No doubt he’s accounted for both methods.
“He is certainly off-base,” Optimus Prime states but then falls into silence again.
Will honestly doesn't know what to say. It's a fine line he walks, between covering Prowl's tracks and pretending to be equally concerned about the tactician's disappearance.
“Would you like to organize a search party?”
Will shifts from foot to foot, but Optimus doesn’t seem to notice. The mech lets out air again, a rattling and gusty sound that hints of poor maintenance.
“No, I don’t believe that will be necessary.” He rises up. “I suspect Prowl left of his own volition.”
Aren't you worried? Will wants to shout. Do you even care? Does it bother you that your troops are vanishing into the night?
“Why?”
Optimus looks down at Will. “I don’t know, Colonel. It’s unlike him to abandon his post, but…” He pauses, helm lifting to peer up at the sky. “The same could be said of Ratchet.” He makes a gesture that Will can’t quite interpret. “Have you informed Director Mearing?”
“No.” Will isn’t the best of actors; he can't hide the distaste in his tone. “I didn't know if there was anything to report.”
“She won’t be pleased,” Optimus states and drops his gaze once more. “We can do nothing for Prowl, Colonel. Yet, there’s still work to be done.”
Will blinks. He’s thrown off balance by the sudden shift in conversational tone.
“Work?”
“Prowl's disappearance is regrettable. He didn’t finish the task I assigned him.” Optimus reaches for a panel on his hip and pulls free a datapad, Autobot-sized. “I do, however, have a plan that is half-completed. It should be enough for your tacticians to work with.”
Words fail. Will works his jaw soundlessly.
“A plan?”
He feels like a parrot, only able to repeat what Optimus tells him and nothing more.
“Yes.” Optimus' fingers drag over the screen, calling up some kind of file, and then William's Blackberry beeps as it receives the document. “Finding Ratchet and the Decepticons was Prowl's task.”
“You...” Will falters, inhales to control himself, and strongly hopes that he’s wrong. “You ordered him to devise a plan to track down Ratchet?”
Optimus nods, a humming sound emerging from his chassis. “Director Mearing was concerned about the presence of unknown Decepticons, including the ones who most recently escaped. It’s her opinion - and one I share - that they are all in hiding with Ratchet. This cannot go unchallenged.”
His stomach drops to his ankles even as his eyes widen.
This isn’t right. Ratchet was one of his soldiers for longer than humans have had writing. Ratchet is his comrade. His friend.
It isn’t… It isn’t right.
But he knows without having to ask that it’s been on Mearing's urging. Damn that woman to hell.
Still speechless, Will pulls out his Blackberry, accessing the file. It’s large, and a quick glance through confirms its identity. Though if this is what Prowl considers half-complete, Will is impressed. Not that he’d trust any of it since it was made by the same mech who’d just hightailed it out of here to join Ratchet and his merry band of miscreants plus Drift.
“This will be a lot of help,” Will forces out instead and bites his tongue to keep in what he really wants to say. He wants to put this off as long as possible.
And he knows that wish as he might, he’ll be in this job for a long time yet.
After all, if he quits, who will take his place? Who will be there to help divert attention and resources away from hunting down Ratchet and the others?
Who will be the voice for the Autobots?
“I’m glad to hear it.” Prime tucks away his own datapad and offers Will a smile that feels completely out of place. “Your acceptance of us, Colonel Lennox, has always been greatly valued. I, for one, am proud to have made your acquaintance.”
Will feels sick to his very core. His stomach churns, threatening to expel his very nutritious breakfast of stale coffee and an equally stale doughnut.
“Thank you,” he forces the words out. “You guys have done a lot for us. I'm just doing my part.”
Optimus nods again. “Earth is our home now. Our future. We will do whatever it takes to defend it.” He pauses, helm tilting. “If you'll excuse me, Director Mearing is requesting a meeting.”
Demanding more like. Will has never heard Mearing politely request anything.
“Sure, Optimus. Good luck.”
Humor fills the large mech's vocals. “Sometimes, I am quite certain I shall need it.”
Will turns, watching Optimus head back to the command center. Mearing is supposed to be in Washington the majority of the time, but as of late, she's been lingering around Chicago to the consternation of Will's soldiers. The Autobots, save Optimus, despise her. Will's noticed a distinct lack of their presence whenever Mearing is here.
Sighing, Will contemplates the file on his Blackberry. Technically, he should be contacting General Morshower and letting his CO decide what to do from there. Will finds himself reluctant.
He wants to protect himself and his family. He wants to keep helping Ratchet, though he doesn't give a slag about the Decepticons Ratchet saved.
Those papers on his desk are looking more and more appealing by the minute.
o0o0o
The base is quiet. Chicago is starting to rebuild, inch by inch, street by street. Will reflects that humans are remarkably resilient. We can always rebuild.
Cybertron, however, is beyond saving.
He thinks of the document he just sent to Morshower and the phone call he just completed. Even the general sounded startled at Mearing's demand and Optimus' compliance. But the both of them have met the quota of risks they can take in the breadth of their career. Will doesn't so much as hint to his own acts of near-treason, but he can hear it, hear the indecision in his commanding officer's voice.
General Morshower has always been on their side. Even so, Will dares not trust him with Ratchet's fate.
Will wants nothing more than to go home. He misses Sarah and Annabelle. He wants to kiss his wife, hold his baby girl, and forget everything. Retirement is looking more and more appealing. For all that the war is over, he knows he's fighting a losing battle.
The sound of weapons fire pierces the silence though. Will orientates toward it, the reverberating booms indicating Cybertronian weapons as opposed to human-made artillery. He hasn't heard this sound in so long, it seems.
There's paperwork on his desk. His job is more and more administrative these days. Other members of NEST go into the field with the Autobots. Soldiers that Mearing feels can be trusted more. Or so Will assumes. She has yet to come right out and say what she thinks of Will Lennox and the others who've been through all major Autobot-Decepticon clashes.
Will's feet turn toward the weapons fire anyway. He's not sure this is a job still worth saving. He's not sure what or who he's supposed to be protecting anymore.
He doesn't need so many guesses as to who’s test-firing their weapons. Though the fact it’s Sideswipe does come as some surprise. He always figured the silver mech for preferring his blades over his blasters. Though he has seen that Sideswipe can be deadly with either.
Sides must know he’s there, watching. But he says or does nothing, barely shifting as he continues a steady barrage at a set of targets on the far side of the river, set up in the ruins of Chicago that won't be rebuilt for years to come. Will can't see them hit, but he does see the puffs of ash and fire that rise up in their wake.
These are the mechs Mearing has no problem provoking. Will is quite certain there's something loose in that woman's brain. Thinking she’d be able to make the Decepticons see reason because the Autobots would back down. Foolish, foolish woman.
Silence falls. Will's ears ring.
He tilts his head, looking up at Sideswipe. The mech keeps examining one of his blasters.
“Nice shooting.”
“I won't ever be as accurate as Blue,” Sideswipe says, but he tilts a grin down at Will. “But I'm still slagging good.”
“Blue?”
The grin fades back into a neutral expression. Sideswipe's concentration returns to his weapon.
“Bluestreak,” he clarifies without looking down again. “He was an Autobot, a sharpshooter. The best any of us had ever seen.”
“Was?”
“He's dead. Gone. Like all the rest of us.” Sideswipe prods at one of the mechanisms in his blaster, popping it loose and frowning over it. “Maybe.”
Will crosses his arms. It's getting late, the sun setting and a cold wind settling in. Winter in Chicago is never comfortable.
“You don't know?”
“He was on Sunstreaker's team,” Sideswipe replies and shoves the piece back into his blaster. There's an audible click. “They had to leave him behind.”
“What?” Will blinks. “Really?”
Sideswipe's vents expel a rush of air, and his blaster vanishes to wherever their weapons go when they aren't in use and attached to their bodies. Subspace, Ironhide had said, not that Will understands or is supposed to know about it.
“I don't think they had a choice.” Sides rocks back and forth on his wheels before peering down at the colonel. “Were you looking for me?”
He can't feel energy fields like all Cybertronians can. Nonetheless, it doesn't take an alien robot to see the grief and resignation clinging to Sideswipe like a bad waxing job.
“No.” Will shakes his head, feeling like he's stepped into the middle of something important. “Heard the noise. Came to investigate.”
Sideswipe holds up his hands, the smallest of smiles flitting across his lips. “Promise I'm not destroying anything important. I got permission.”
“Oh, yeah? From who?”
“Myself, of course.” The brief attempt at humor fades as quickly as it appeared. “Hide's gone. Jazz's gone. Ratchet's gone. Bee's pulled a disappearing act. And now Prowl? That leaves me.” His facial ridges draw down. “Or at least, it would have. That's Leadfoot's job now.”
Will winces. He hadn't needed the reminder of all the Autobots lost. But there it is in all its depressing glory.
“You know about Prowl, huh?”
“Prime made sure to let everyone know,” Sideswipe confirms, rocking back and forth on his wheels again. “He assigned Roadbuster to investigate.”
Surprise rolls over Will like a bath of icewater. “Optimus told me not to organize a search party.”
Sideswipe tilts his head. His optics cycle with curiosity.
“Investigating how and why Prowl left isn’t the same thing as sending a mech to look for him.”
In other words, Optimus has already written off Prowl.
Frag. Double and triple frag. It's like the Autobots are prisoners here or something.
Will sighs and palms his face. “I suppose you have a point.”
The churning in his gut intensifies. He thinks longingly of the paperwork on his desk, the most recent set he has yet to tear and toss. The set waiting for a date and a signature.
“What do you think happened?”
“Thinking's not part of my job. I'm just a weapon.” Sideswipe's blades slide out of their sheaths pointedly, dripping hot metal before he retracts them. “I go where I'm pointed.”
Will debates with himself before he lets the question slip free. “What if they point you in the wrong direction?”
Sideswipe looks at him, a wealth of words in the slow flickering of his optics. “I have to trust that they aren't. Otherwise, the weight of everything I've done will crush me.”
He turns back around then. And doesn’t dare look at Will again.
It's a sentiment that Will understands completely.
o0o0o
Thank Primus it's Tuesday.
“Bobby!”
“Will!”
Manly handshakes give way to manly-slap-on-the-back hugs. One doesn’t do go through hell and back multiple times to get intimidated by a little bromance. Will loves Epps like the brother he never had, and he's been through too much to be ashamed to show it.
They've been having this weekly meet ups since the whole Chicago fiasco. Bobby makes the three-hour drive because he's that side of awesome. Not to mention that he knows Will can't leave the base.
Epps is grinning ear to ear, a curve to his lips that hints of mischief. “Shit, Will. You look like hell.”
“Tell me about it,” Will grunts and slides into the booth, opposite from his best friend - aside from Sarah and Hide of course. “There are times I hate you for getting out when you did. And then, there are times that I envy you.”
“Uh, oh. Prime throwing another tantrum?” Epps asks as he slides into the seat across from Will, looking in far better cheer. He's all patched up, too. No evidence of Chicago's madness is present on his body.
Will still limps from time to time. Doctors tell him his leg's never going to heal right. Small price to pay. He's lucky he's alive.
“I wish it were that.” Will shakes his head. “Mearing's enough to give a migraine a migraine.”
Epps laughs, nearly startling the waitress who comes by to take their orders. Not that it ever changes. Four dozen of the hottest wings, bleu cheese dressing, and a pitcher of beer. They're in for the long haul, as they usually are.
Sometimes, Will thinks these weekly get-togethers are all that's keeping his sanity intact. He wishes Graham could be here, too. But Mearing has long since shipped him back to Britain. That bitch.
“You'd think after Chicago she would’ve mellowed some,” Epps shoots back, slumping in his seat until he's comfortable.
Will rubs his forehead. “If anything, she's gotten worse. Especially since Ratchet left.” He's already told Epps about Ratchet, though he had left out the circumstances behind the mech’s departure and his own involvement in it.
“I still don't understand that.” Bobby frowns, arm slinging across the back of the booth as his other hand taps the tabletop. “I always thought Ratchet was one of the more loyal ones.”
“Maybe he knows something we don't,” Will edges around and is relieved when the waitress returns with their drinks.
Bobby, however, is not easily distracted. “Yeah. And that's what worries me.” He takes a deep drink of the beer, the noise of the bar rising around them. “What does Mearing think about it?”
Will rolls his neck, feeling the tension in his upper body. If only he was home with Sarah’s magical touch. Woman had the hands of a masseuse and a goddess both.
“She's ordered Optimus to hunt him down. And now Prowl, too.”
“Wait a minute.” Bobby pushes himself up, hand sliding down to smack against the table. “Prowl left?”
“No one's seen him, so that's what we're assuming.” Will shrugs and tries not to look guilty. He isn’t sure that it’s working.
Bobby frowns. “Damn.”
He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. There’s something in his eyes. Something far too shrewd and far cleverer than anyone would ever expect.
“Why are the Autobots jumping ship, Will?” he suddenly asks, voice and tone painfully neutral.
“I wish I knew.”
Will reaches for his own beer, draining the mug in one fell gulp and pushing it to the edge of the table. Tonight, he thinks, is the night for a dozen. He can always call for a ride. Sideswipe won't mind. Much.
“The war's supposed to be over, but it still feels like we're all on high alert,” Will allows with a flick of his hand.
Bobby’s eyes narrow. “I guess that's cause the 'Cons are still around.”
The waitress returns again, setting a plate of wings down in front of them. The sharp bite of spices floats to Will's nostrils, and he inhales greedily. So much better than the food at the mess.
“What are you talking about?” Will asks as he loads up his plate and snags one of the plastic cups of bleu cheese. “The half-offline drones that are scattered around?”
Bobby shakes his head and munches on a celery stick. “No, I'm talking about the 'Cons that showed up in DC the other day.”
Will nearly chokes. He coughs, trying to clear his airway, washing it down with a gulp of beer.
“What?”
“You didn't know?” Bobby waves his chicken wing like it’s a pointer. The motion is casual. Too casual. “One of my boys down in DC was telling me about it. Though strangely, no one was hurt.” He looks at Will again, eyes glinting and tone too light.
“What happened?” Will asks, and he doesn’t trust his own voice.
Bobby ravages the one wing and then grabs another. His mood is too light now. Too deceptive.
“Some Decepticons broke into the warehouse. You know, the one where they hauled all that tech and shit from the DC base? Anyway, they took everything.”
Will stares at him as he eats with gusto.
A couple of days ago?
Something heavy drops into Will's belly, and it has nothing to do with the beer or the wings. He wipes the sauce from his chin.
That matches the timetable when the strange Cybertronians randomly appeared in Washington state, too. Almost as if they were trying to attract attention.
“Mearing said nothing about this. Not to me or Optimus.”
Or maybe she had told Optimus, and the Prime hadn't seen fit to inform Morshower or Lennox. He's certain Morshower would’ve passed it on.
Bobby snorts. “Yeah, well. She wouldn't, would she?”
Will considers that for a minute.
“What kind of stuff?” he finally questions.
“Tech.” Bobby toys with a stick of celery. “Not weapons so much as refining equipment, some welders. That kind of thing. Oh, and a busted engine.”
Will frowns even more. That definitely doesn't sound like the work of Decepticons. Why would they take equipment? They’re more likely to raid human settlements for energy, which they are in such desperate need of.
No, Will suspects that this is not the work of ‘Cons. Or at least, not them alone.
“They couldn't trace it either. By the time the bastards got into Canada, they'd found the trackers and ripped 'em out.”
That sells it. The scattered ‘Cons are underpowered and too stupid for something like this. It has to be Ratchet and his team. They’d need the stuff. Will knows their whole plan involves leaving Earth.
Bobby tips the rest of his beer into his mouth. He swipes the back of his hand over his lips in a way that his own wife and Sarah both hate.
“It's enough to make me worry, want to hurry back home,” Bobby says then, and his face is once more too shrewd. “Are they coming back, Will? ‘Cause I thought their command was dead. Megs is gone. Starscream is just scrap. Sentinel and Shockwave, too. Right, Will?”
“It wasn't the Decepticons,” Will counters, and there's no hiding the heaviness in his voice. He feels like a prick for lying to his best friend.
“What?”
Will shakes his head, reaching for the beer again. It's not enough though. He's seriously contemplating some liquor.
“It wasn't Decepticons, Bobby.”
His friend stares at him now. “Will…”
But he shakes his head, nonchalantly glances around the bar. No one can hear them in their back corner, not over the noise of the game on every TV in the place.
Bobby looks at him again, and suddenly, he doesn’t look at all like a man happy with military retirement. Suddenly, he looks just like the man who’d walked through war zones and always had Will’s back.
“What aren't you telling me, Will?” he asks. “What do you know?”
His gaze wanders away, lips pressing together. Will wants to speak, but he can't. Bobby shouldn't know. It'll put him in danger. It’ll put his wife and all his kids in danger. Hell, Will's not sure how he's been carrying this for so long.
Bobby leans over the table. He lowers his voice so that it's barely audible over the noise and raucous.
“William Lennox, so help me god if you know something you aren't telling me, I'm going to reach over this table and slug the shit out of you. They can’t even haul me in for insubordination anymore either.”
Will momentarily gapes. Then sighs. His elbows hit the table as he buries his head in his hands.
“It's complicated, man.”
“Then uncomplicate it,” Bobby all but hisses. “Shit's going down. I know it. You know it. But only you know why.” He exhales loudly, but it’s drowned out by the cheering from the bar crowd. “So spill it. I got just as much right to know. I was there with you. Remember?”
“You were just telling me you were worrying about your family's safety,” Will retorts. “I tell you this, and you're putting them in even more danger.”
Bobby snorts. “I can't protect them if I don't know what to worry about, dumbass.”
“This isn't ‘Cons, Bobby. This isn't big metal monsters sweeping down to vaporize us all,” Will says, squeezing his eyes shut. “It's betrayal and treason and hope all wrapped up in one fragging mess.”
Silence sweeps between them, more prominent for the racket that surrounds them.
Bobby stirs, whipping out his wallet and tossing several twenties on the table, more than enough for their bill and a generous tip. Not that he can’t afford it with his cushy job. One that pays way more than even Will makes as a colonel.
“Get up.”
Will's arms drop. “What?”
His best friend slides out of the booth, motions jerky and restrained. “Get your ass out of that seat. I'm not having this conversation here.”
Will is stunned. But Bobby's not waiting, and he scrambles out of the booth to follow, plastering a fake smile on his face for the sake of all the strangers who aren’t even watching them. Still, they've visited this bar often enough that they could be recognized. Will’s face was plastered on TV often enough after Chicago anyway. Almost as much Sam’s was.
It isn’t until they’re outside that Bobby whirls on him.
“You're going to tell me everything,” he insists, heading towards his SUV. “Something's got you twisted up inside, and I can't help you if I don't know what it is.”
“It's not safe,” Will tries, but it’s feeble at best.
Bobby jerks open the driver's side door. “Will, I haven't been safe since Qatar. At least give me a fighting chance.”
Will sighs, circling around to the passenger side and letting himself inside. “Fine,” he says as their doors slam shut in tandem. “But don't say I didn't warn you.”
Throwing it into gear, Bobby pulls out into the street, away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers. Will supposes that they'll come back for his own car later. If there is a later. Bobby might just kill him now and be done with it.
“Warning noted,” Bobby says, not privy to his morbid thoughts. “Now, tell me what the slag is going on.”
All the fight - not that there was much - goes out of Will. He slumps into the seat and lets it spill. He tells Bobby everything he knows, everything he's done. He hasn't been able to tell anyone, not even Sarah, for fear of what could happen. But he trusts Bobby more than he’s ever trusted anyone.
Save Ironhide.
And no, Will can’t think of that now. Can’t think of him. Only he is. And that’s the problem.
He sighs then. Long and hard. And turns to Bobby. Looks at him. His profile. His eyes as he glares at the road like it’s personally offended him and called his mama names.
He’s trusted Bobby with his back. With his life. And now, he does it again. With his future. With Sarah’s future. With Annabelle’s.
He can trust Bobby in this, too.
***
a/n: This is all for Will's part. He only had this little bit to say. I've still got Optimus and Thundercracker to go, I'm working on editing them as we speak, and I'm currently writing Skywarp, too. Sunstreaker decided he wanted a say so now I'm adding him to the mix.
Feedback is, as always, welcome and appreciated.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/226241.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant
Characters: Will Lennox, Optimus Prime, Sideswipe, Robert Epps
Rating: T
Warnings: mentions of character death, angst
Desc: Will's seen a lot of things. Some heroic. Some terrible. But he's never been ashamed to be human until now.
Not for the first time does Will consider putting in for a transfer. Or a voluntary discharge.
How many times has he filled out the paperwork, lingering over every line, staring at every date and signature? How many times has he lain awake in the barracks, thinking of Sarah and Annabelle? Of Ironhide?
And how many times has he ripped up the papers and thrown them away, only to request a fresh set a week or two later?
The base is quiet as of late. Too quiet.
Will remembers when the Autobots first arrived, how much noise and bluster there was then. Military leaders shouting, politicians turning red in the face, the Autobots patient in the brunt of it all. Optimus dignified and enduring, sharing information and refusing to give weapons tech.
Skids and Mudflap used to get in all kinds of trouble. There was something glitched in their processors, Ratchet had said, something he couldn't fix. A word that Ratchet had hissed and never repeated.
Shockwave.
Then, there was Sideswipe. Forever racing around. He seemed to have a need for speed.
And Bee played music at all volumes, at least when he was there. He wanted to spend most of his time with Sam.
Arcee and her sisters were quiet, like Optimus.
Ratchet was always tinkering with something, deep in one project or another, fitfully attempting to distill better energon.
Ironhide was always sparring or practicing or targeting or...
It still hurts to think about his guardian. His friend. His partner.
Memories.
It's the memories that bring Lennox back, again and again, to the paperwork. He could so easily walk away. No one could argue that he hadn't done his duty, that he hadn't played his part. No one would protest. Mearing would probably rejoice and quickly encourage someone to take his spot that’d be more malleable.
Would the Autobots even notice?
Maybe Sideswipe. He's the only one who seems even remotely unchanged, happier even, with the arrival of Sunstreaker. His brother, his twin, half his spark.
Will's not even supposed to know that much, but Ironhide was surprisingly chatty once he knew someone. Besides, Will knows what a person looks like when he or she has some demons to exorcise. Autobots might be alien robots from outer space, but some things are universal. Ironhide's facial structure didn't really leave much flexibility for expression, but there are other ways to understand.
Will's military background pales in comparison to Hide's, but there's enough there that he understands. He gets why Hide's optics sometimes dimmed, why his posture sagged. Why he would sometimes find his friend standing at the edge of the farm, staring up into a dark sky.
He can't imagine what it must be like to fight a war for millennia. To watch as, bit by bit, mech by mech, their entire civilization withers away.
The base is so quiet now.
Ratchet is gone. And with him, Drift.
And now, Will has to tell Optimus that another one of his Autobots has gone missing. Will guessed that Prowl would soon take Ratchet's route. It’s why he had hinted where Prowl should go.
Will won't be surprised either if one day, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker disappear as well.
There's something broken in the Autobots, and Optimus Prime stands at the core of it.
Whatever madness had begun the war, had infected the Decepticons and set them off on their deadly quest for freedom or power or whatever, has infiltrated to the spark of the Autobots. Or maybe, the madness has been there all along. Optimus is, after all, Megatron's kin.
Not that Will's supposed to know that either.
He finds Optimus on the edge of the base, staring out toward the ruins of Chicago. His battle-scarred armor is painted in the shadows of the sunset. Standing there, Optimus looks regal and proud, a strong survivor of an endless war.
It’s only when Optimus turns to greet him that the flat glow in his optics makes Will's insides crawl. He can't really explain it. He doesn't sense energy fields like the bots can. Nor can he tell with a scan that something's wrong.
He knows, however, to the very fiber of his being that something is broken inside Optimus. Will despairs that it can’t ever be fixed.
Ratchet hadn't been able to after all.
“Colonel,” Optimus rumbles in greeting, lowering himself down. He always does that more than any of the others, and it somehow comes off as unintentionally demeaning. “Were you searching for me?”
Will's lips pull into a strained smile. “You're not a hard mech to find, Optimus.” The half-a-dozen papers he's carrying feel all too heavy. “Got some bad news for you.”
“It seems that is the only news to be found as of late.” Optimus breathes out - ventilating, Ironhide had called out. He lowers himself down fully, sitting upon the pavement.
And isn't that the truth?
Will breathes in and out himself.
“Prowl's missing,” he says, though he finds it a bit strange that he's the one to tell Prime and that the mech hasn't noticed for himself. “No one's seen him since before shift change, and he hasn't reported for duty.”
Optimus' gaze tilts downward. He rests one arm over a bended knee.
“I see.”
There’s an evident pause. Will knows that look, that distant flicker of a mech's optics. Optimus must be contacting some of the others.
“He isn’t responding to the comm,” Optimus says or narrates rather. “None of the others have seen him either.” The mechanisms of his audial spin and twitch. “You haven’t been able to locate him with our search net?”
“No.”
Will suspects Prowl is far too intelligent to be caught by a simple spark scan or locator beacon. No doubt he’s accounted for both methods.
“He is certainly off-base,” Optimus Prime states but then falls into silence again.
Will honestly doesn't know what to say. It's a fine line he walks, between covering Prowl's tracks and pretending to be equally concerned about the tactician's disappearance.
“Would you like to organize a search party?”
Will shifts from foot to foot, but Optimus doesn’t seem to notice. The mech lets out air again, a rattling and gusty sound that hints of poor maintenance.
“No, I don’t believe that will be necessary.” He rises up. “I suspect Prowl left of his own volition.”
Aren't you worried? Will wants to shout. Do you even care? Does it bother you that your troops are vanishing into the night?
“Why?”
Optimus looks down at Will. “I don’t know, Colonel. It’s unlike him to abandon his post, but…” He pauses, helm lifting to peer up at the sky. “The same could be said of Ratchet.” He makes a gesture that Will can’t quite interpret. “Have you informed Director Mearing?”
“No.” Will isn’t the best of actors; he can't hide the distaste in his tone. “I didn't know if there was anything to report.”
“She won’t be pleased,” Optimus states and drops his gaze once more. “We can do nothing for Prowl, Colonel. Yet, there’s still work to be done.”
Will blinks. He’s thrown off balance by the sudden shift in conversational tone.
“Work?”
“Prowl's disappearance is regrettable. He didn’t finish the task I assigned him.” Optimus reaches for a panel on his hip and pulls free a datapad, Autobot-sized. “I do, however, have a plan that is half-completed. It should be enough for your tacticians to work with.”
Words fail. Will works his jaw soundlessly.
“A plan?”
He feels like a parrot, only able to repeat what Optimus tells him and nothing more.
“Yes.” Optimus' fingers drag over the screen, calling up some kind of file, and then William's Blackberry beeps as it receives the document. “Finding Ratchet and the Decepticons was Prowl's task.”
“You...” Will falters, inhales to control himself, and strongly hopes that he’s wrong. “You ordered him to devise a plan to track down Ratchet?”
Optimus nods, a humming sound emerging from his chassis. “Director Mearing was concerned about the presence of unknown Decepticons, including the ones who most recently escaped. It’s her opinion - and one I share - that they are all in hiding with Ratchet. This cannot go unchallenged.”
His stomach drops to his ankles even as his eyes widen.
This isn’t right. Ratchet was one of his soldiers for longer than humans have had writing. Ratchet is his comrade. His friend.
It isn’t… It isn’t right.
But he knows without having to ask that it’s been on Mearing's urging. Damn that woman to hell.
Still speechless, Will pulls out his Blackberry, accessing the file. It’s large, and a quick glance through confirms its identity. Though if this is what Prowl considers half-complete, Will is impressed. Not that he’d trust any of it since it was made by the same mech who’d just hightailed it out of here to join Ratchet and his merry band of miscreants plus Drift.
“This will be a lot of help,” Will forces out instead and bites his tongue to keep in what he really wants to say. He wants to put this off as long as possible.
And he knows that wish as he might, he’ll be in this job for a long time yet.
After all, if he quits, who will take his place? Who will be there to help divert attention and resources away from hunting down Ratchet and the others?
Who will be the voice for the Autobots?
“I’m glad to hear it.” Prime tucks away his own datapad and offers Will a smile that feels completely out of place. “Your acceptance of us, Colonel Lennox, has always been greatly valued. I, for one, am proud to have made your acquaintance.”
Will feels sick to his very core. His stomach churns, threatening to expel his very nutritious breakfast of stale coffee and an equally stale doughnut.
“Thank you,” he forces the words out. “You guys have done a lot for us. I'm just doing my part.”
Optimus nods again. “Earth is our home now. Our future. We will do whatever it takes to defend it.” He pauses, helm tilting. “If you'll excuse me, Director Mearing is requesting a meeting.”
Demanding more like. Will has never heard Mearing politely request anything.
“Sure, Optimus. Good luck.”
Humor fills the large mech's vocals. “Sometimes, I am quite certain I shall need it.”
Will turns, watching Optimus head back to the command center. Mearing is supposed to be in Washington the majority of the time, but as of late, she's been lingering around Chicago to the consternation of Will's soldiers. The Autobots, save Optimus, despise her. Will's noticed a distinct lack of their presence whenever Mearing is here.
Sighing, Will contemplates the file on his Blackberry. Technically, he should be contacting General Morshower and letting his CO decide what to do from there. Will finds himself reluctant.
He wants to protect himself and his family. He wants to keep helping Ratchet, though he doesn't give a slag about the Decepticons Ratchet saved.
Those papers on his desk are looking more and more appealing by the minute.
o0o0o
The base is quiet. Chicago is starting to rebuild, inch by inch, street by street. Will reflects that humans are remarkably resilient. We can always rebuild.
Cybertron, however, is beyond saving.
He thinks of the document he just sent to Morshower and the phone call he just completed. Even the general sounded startled at Mearing's demand and Optimus' compliance. But the both of them have met the quota of risks they can take in the breadth of their career. Will doesn't so much as hint to his own acts of near-treason, but he can hear it, hear the indecision in his commanding officer's voice.
General Morshower has always been on their side. Even so, Will dares not trust him with Ratchet's fate.
Will wants nothing more than to go home. He misses Sarah and Annabelle. He wants to kiss his wife, hold his baby girl, and forget everything. Retirement is looking more and more appealing. For all that the war is over, he knows he's fighting a losing battle.
The sound of weapons fire pierces the silence though. Will orientates toward it, the reverberating booms indicating Cybertronian weapons as opposed to human-made artillery. He hasn't heard this sound in so long, it seems.
There's paperwork on his desk. His job is more and more administrative these days. Other members of NEST go into the field with the Autobots. Soldiers that Mearing feels can be trusted more. Or so Will assumes. She has yet to come right out and say what she thinks of Will Lennox and the others who've been through all major Autobot-Decepticon clashes.
Will's feet turn toward the weapons fire anyway. He's not sure this is a job still worth saving. He's not sure what or who he's supposed to be protecting anymore.
He doesn't need so many guesses as to who’s test-firing their weapons. Though the fact it’s Sideswipe does come as some surprise. He always figured the silver mech for preferring his blades over his blasters. Though he has seen that Sideswipe can be deadly with either.
Sides must know he’s there, watching. But he says or does nothing, barely shifting as he continues a steady barrage at a set of targets on the far side of the river, set up in the ruins of Chicago that won't be rebuilt for years to come. Will can't see them hit, but he does see the puffs of ash and fire that rise up in their wake.
These are the mechs Mearing has no problem provoking. Will is quite certain there's something loose in that woman's brain. Thinking she’d be able to make the Decepticons see reason because the Autobots would back down. Foolish, foolish woman.
Silence falls. Will's ears ring.
He tilts his head, looking up at Sideswipe. The mech keeps examining one of his blasters.
“Nice shooting.”
“I won't ever be as accurate as Blue,” Sideswipe says, but he tilts a grin down at Will. “But I'm still slagging good.”
“Blue?”
The grin fades back into a neutral expression. Sideswipe's concentration returns to his weapon.
“Bluestreak,” he clarifies without looking down again. “He was an Autobot, a sharpshooter. The best any of us had ever seen.”
“Was?”
“He's dead. Gone. Like all the rest of us.” Sideswipe prods at one of the mechanisms in his blaster, popping it loose and frowning over it. “Maybe.”
Will crosses his arms. It's getting late, the sun setting and a cold wind settling in. Winter in Chicago is never comfortable.
“You don't know?”
“He was on Sunstreaker's team,” Sideswipe replies and shoves the piece back into his blaster. There's an audible click. “They had to leave him behind.”
“What?” Will blinks. “Really?”
Sideswipe's vents expel a rush of air, and his blaster vanishes to wherever their weapons go when they aren't in use and attached to their bodies. Subspace, Ironhide had said, not that Will understands or is supposed to know about it.
“I don't think they had a choice.” Sides rocks back and forth on his wheels before peering down at the colonel. “Were you looking for me?”
He can't feel energy fields like all Cybertronians can. Nonetheless, it doesn't take an alien robot to see the grief and resignation clinging to Sideswipe like a bad waxing job.
“No.” Will shakes his head, feeling like he's stepped into the middle of something important. “Heard the noise. Came to investigate.”
Sideswipe holds up his hands, the smallest of smiles flitting across his lips. “Promise I'm not destroying anything important. I got permission.”
“Oh, yeah? From who?”
“Myself, of course.” The brief attempt at humor fades as quickly as it appeared. “Hide's gone. Jazz's gone. Ratchet's gone. Bee's pulled a disappearing act. And now Prowl? That leaves me.” His facial ridges draw down. “Or at least, it would have. That's Leadfoot's job now.”
Will winces. He hadn't needed the reminder of all the Autobots lost. But there it is in all its depressing glory.
“You know about Prowl, huh?”
“Prime made sure to let everyone know,” Sideswipe confirms, rocking back and forth on his wheels again. “He assigned Roadbuster to investigate.”
Surprise rolls over Will like a bath of icewater. “Optimus told me not to organize a search party.”
Sideswipe tilts his head. His optics cycle with curiosity.
“Investigating how and why Prowl left isn’t the same thing as sending a mech to look for him.”
In other words, Optimus has already written off Prowl.
Frag. Double and triple frag. It's like the Autobots are prisoners here or something.
Will sighs and palms his face. “I suppose you have a point.”
The churning in his gut intensifies. He thinks longingly of the paperwork on his desk, the most recent set he has yet to tear and toss. The set waiting for a date and a signature.
“What do you think happened?”
“Thinking's not part of my job. I'm just a weapon.” Sideswipe's blades slide out of their sheaths pointedly, dripping hot metal before he retracts them. “I go where I'm pointed.”
Will debates with himself before he lets the question slip free. “What if they point you in the wrong direction?”
Sideswipe looks at him, a wealth of words in the slow flickering of his optics. “I have to trust that they aren't. Otherwise, the weight of everything I've done will crush me.”
He turns back around then. And doesn’t dare look at Will again.
It's a sentiment that Will understands completely.
o0o0o
Thank Primus it's Tuesday.
“Bobby!”
“Will!”
Manly handshakes give way to manly-slap-on-the-back hugs. One doesn’t do go through hell and back multiple times to get intimidated by a little bromance. Will loves Epps like the brother he never had, and he's been through too much to be ashamed to show it.
They've been having this weekly meet ups since the whole Chicago fiasco. Bobby makes the three-hour drive because he's that side of awesome. Not to mention that he knows Will can't leave the base.
Epps is grinning ear to ear, a curve to his lips that hints of mischief. “Shit, Will. You look like hell.”
“Tell me about it,” Will grunts and slides into the booth, opposite from his best friend - aside from Sarah and Hide of course. “There are times I hate you for getting out when you did. And then, there are times that I envy you.”
“Uh, oh. Prime throwing another tantrum?” Epps asks as he slides into the seat across from Will, looking in far better cheer. He's all patched up, too. No evidence of Chicago's madness is present on his body.
Will still limps from time to time. Doctors tell him his leg's never going to heal right. Small price to pay. He's lucky he's alive.
“I wish it were that.” Will shakes his head. “Mearing's enough to give a migraine a migraine.”
Epps laughs, nearly startling the waitress who comes by to take their orders. Not that it ever changes. Four dozen of the hottest wings, bleu cheese dressing, and a pitcher of beer. They're in for the long haul, as they usually are.
Sometimes, Will thinks these weekly get-togethers are all that's keeping his sanity intact. He wishes Graham could be here, too. But Mearing has long since shipped him back to Britain. That bitch.
“You'd think after Chicago she would’ve mellowed some,” Epps shoots back, slumping in his seat until he's comfortable.
Will rubs his forehead. “If anything, she's gotten worse. Especially since Ratchet left.” He's already told Epps about Ratchet, though he had left out the circumstances behind the mech’s departure and his own involvement in it.
“I still don't understand that.” Bobby frowns, arm slinging across the back of the booth as his other hand taps the tabletop. “I always thought Ratchet was one of the more loyal ones.”
“Maybe he knows something we don't,” Will edges around and is relieved when the waitress returns with their drinks.
Bobby, however, is not easily distracted. “Yeah. And that's what worries me.” He takes a deep drink of the beer, the noise of the bar rising around them. “What does Mearing think about it?”
Will rolls his neck, feeling the tension in his upper body. If only he was home with Sarah’s magical touch. Woman had the hands of a masseuse and a goddess both.
“She's ordered Optimus to hunt him down. And now Prowl, too.”
“Wait a minute.” Bobby pushes himself up, hand sliding down to smack against the table. “Prowl left?”
“No one's seen him, so that's what we're assuming.” Will shrugs and tries not to look guilty. He isn’t sure that it’s working.
Bobby frowns. “Damn.”
He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. There’s something in his eyes. Something far too shrewd and far cleverer than anyone would ever expect.
“Why are the Autobots jumping ship, Will?” he suddenly asks, voice and tone painfully neutral.
“I wish I knew.”
Will reaches for his own beer, draining the mug in one fell gulp and pushing it to the edge of the table. Tonight, he thinks, is the night for a dozen. He can always call for a ride. Sideswipe won't mind. Much.
“The war's supposed to be over, but it still feels like we're all on high alert,” Will allows with a flick of his hand.
Bobby’s eyes narrow. “I guess that's cause the 'Cons are still around.”
The waitress returns again, setting a plate of wings down in front of them. The sharp bite of spices floats to Will's nostrils, and he inhales greedily. So much better than the food at the mess.
“What are you talking about?” Will asks as he loads up his plate and snags one of the plastic cups of bleu cheese. “The half-offline drones that are scattered around?”
Bobby shakes his head and munches on a celery stick. “No, I'm talking about the 'Cons that showed up in DC the other day.”
Will nearly chokes. He coughs, trying to clear his airway, washing it down with a gulp of beer.
“What?”
“You didn't know?” Bobby waves his chicken wing like it’s a pointer. The motion is casual. Too casual. “One of my boys down in DC was telling me about it. Though strangely, no one was hurt.” He looks at Will again, eyes glinting and tone too light.
“What happened?” Will asks, and he doesn’t trust his own voice.
Bobby ravages the one wing and then grabs another. His mood is too light now. Too deceptive.
“Some Decepticons broke into the warehouse. You know, the one where they hauled all that tech and shit from the DC base? Anyway, they took everything.”
Will stares at him as he eats with gusto.
A couple of days ago?
Something heavy drops into Will's belly, and it has nothing to do with the beer or the wings. He wipes the sauce from his chin.
That matches the timetable when the strange Cybertronians randomly appeared in Washington state, too. Almost as if they were trying to attract attention.
“Mearing said nothing about this. Not to me or Optimus.”
Or maybe she had told Optimus, and the Prime hadn't seen fit to inform Morshower or Lennox. He's certain Morshower would’ve passed it on.
Bobby snorts. “Yeah, well. She wouldn't, would she?”
Will considers that for a minute.
“What kind of stuff?” he finally questions.
“Tech.” Bobby toys with a stick of celery. “Not weapons so much as refining equipment, some welders. That kind of thing. Oh, and a busted engine.”
Will frowns even more. That definitely doesn't sound like the work of Decepticons. Why would they take equipment? They’re more likely to raid human settlements for energy, which they are in such desperate need of.
No, Will suspects that this is not the work of ‘Cons. Or at least, not them alone.
“They couldn't trace it either. By the time the bastards got into Canada, they'd found the trackers and ripped 'em out.”
That sells it. The scattered ‘Cons are underpowered and too stupid for something like this. It has to be Ratchet and his team. They’d need the stuff. Will knows their whole plan involves leaving Earth.
Bobby tips the rest of his beer into his mouth. He swipes the back of his hand over his lips in a way that his own wife and Sarah both hate.
“It's enough to make me worry, want to hurry back home,” Bobby says then, and his face is once more too shrewd. “Are they coming back, Will? ‘Cause I thought their command was dead. Megs is gone. Starscream is just scrap. Sentinel and Shockwave, too. Right, Will?”
“It wasn't the Decepticons,” Will counters, and there's no hiding the heaviness in his voice. He feels like a prick for lying to his best friend.
“What?”
Will shakes his head, reaching for the beer again. It's not enough though. He's seriously contemplating some liquor.
“It wasn't Decepticons, Bobby.”
His friend stares at him now. “Will…”
But he shakes his head, nonchalantly glances around the bar. No one can hear them in their back corner, not over the noise of the game on every TV in the place.
Bobby looks at him again, and suddenly, he doesn’t look at all like a man happy with military retirement. Suddenly, he looks just like the man who’d walked through war zones and always had Will’s back.
“What aren't you telling me, Will?” he asks. “What do you know?”
His gaze wanders away, lips pressing together. Will wants to speak, but he can't. Bobby shouldn't know. It'll put him in danger. It’ll put his wife and all his kids in danger. Hell, Will's not sure how he's been carrying this for so long.
Bobby leans over the table. He lowers his voice so that it's barely audible over the noise and raucous.
“William Lennox, so help me god if you know something you aren't telling me, I'm going to reach over this table and slug the shit out of you. They can’t even haul me in for insubordination anymore either.”
Will momentarily gapes. Then sighs. His elbows hit the table as he buries his head in his hands.
“It's complicated, man.”
“Then uncomplicate it,” Bobby all but hisses. “Shit's going down. I know it. You know it. But only you know why.” He exhales loudly, but it’s drowned out by the cheering from the bar crowd. “So spill it. I got just as much right to know. I was there with you. Remember?”
“You were just telling me you were worrying about your family's safety,” Will retorts. “I tell you this, and you're putting them in even more danger.”
Bobby snorts. “I can't protect them if I don't know what to worry about, dumbass.”
“This isn't ‘Cons, Bobby. This isn't big metal monsters sweeping down to vaporize us all,” Will says, squeezing his eyes shut. “It's betrayal and treason and hope all wrapped up in one fragging mess.”
Silence sweeps between them, more prominent for the racket that surrounds them.
Bobby stirs, whipping out his wallet and tossing several twenties on the table, more than enough for their bill and a generous tip. Not that he can’t afford it with his cushy job. One that pays way more than even Will makes as a colonel.
“Get up.”
Will's arms drop. “What?”
His best friend slides out of the booth, motions jerky and restrained. “Get your ass out of that seat. I'm not having this conversation here.”
Will is stunned. But Bobby's not waiting, and he scrambles out of the booth to follow, plastering a fake smile on his face for the sake of all the strangers who aren’t even watching them. Still, they've visited this bar often enough that they could be recognized. Will’s face was plastered on TV often enough after Chicago anyway. Almost as much Sam’s was.
It isn’t until they’re outside that Bobby whirls on him.
“You're going to tell me everything,” he insists, heading towards his SUV. “Something's got you twisted up inside, and I can't help you if I don't know what it is.”
“It's not safe,” Will tries, but it’s feeble at best.
Bobby jerks open the driver's side door. “Will, I haven't been safe since Qatar. At least give me a fighting chance.”
Will sighs, circling around to the passenger side and letting himself inside. “Fine,” he says as their doors slam shut in tandem. “But don't say I didn't warn you.”
Throwing it into gear, Bobby pulls out into the street, away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers. Will supposes that they'll come back for his own car later. If there is a later. Bobby might just kill him now and be done with it.
“Warning noted,” Bobby says, not privy to his morbid thoughts. “Now, tell me what the slag is going on.”
All the fight - not that there was much - goes out of Will. He slumps into the seat and lets it spill. He tells Bobby everything he knows, everything he's done. He hasn't been able to tell anyone, not even Sarah, for fear of what could happen. But he trusts Bobby more than he’s ever trusted anyone.
Save Ironhide.
And no, Will can’t think of that now. Can’t think of him. Only he is. And that’s the problem.
He sighs then. Long and hard. And turns to Bobby. Looks at him. His profile. His eyes as he glares at the road like it’s personally offended him and called his mama names.
He’s trusted Bobby with his back. With his life. And now, he does it again. With his future. With Sarah’s future. With Annabelle’s.
He can trust Bobby in this, too.
***
a/n: This is all for Will's part. He only had this little bit to say. I've still got Optimus and Thundercracker to go, I'm working on editing them as we speak, and I'm currently writing Skywarp, too. Sunstreaker decided he wanted a say so now I'm adding him to the mix.
Feedback is, as always, welcome and appreciated.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/226241.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.