G1: Hardest to Bear
Title: Hardest to Bear
Author: BitterEloquence
Series: G1
Spoilers: *snerk* It's hardly a spoiler! Post-Movie
Warnings: Angst. Buckets and buckets of angst!
Word Count: 2,751
Summery: His shoulders were too young to bear the grief of an entire gestalt.
Disclaimer: Not mine, nor am I making any money off of it. The only thing I own are the twisted ideas floating around in my head.
Author's Notes: This fic tried to kill me with it's angst. Massive thanks to both stormsailor for her wonderful-beta'ing and wyntir_rose for giving it a less involved look at it!
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The days leading up to the funeral were the longest in Silverbolt’s life. After the horrible aftermath of dealing with losing such a significant portion of their officers--not to mention their commander--he hadn’t thought those days could get any worse.
Then the fallout from his own brothers began.
As always, it was Fireflight with his softer feelings that started them all off. His misery carried over the bond until the Concorde sought out his brother and just let him sob into his lap. Skydive had poked his head in to check on ‘Flight and ended up cuddling his brother as Air Raid slunk in as well. He ended up joining the miserable jet-pile which was only complete when Slingshot came and sat down on the edge of the berth.
Anger and bitterness turned the Harrier’s already severe features into a mask of barely simmering rage and pain. Out of all the Aerialbots, with the possible exception of Silverbolt, he had been closest to Prime, and perhaps, in a way, to their creators.
Slingshot had certainly spent the greatest amount of time in the med-bay and had interacted with Ratchet and Wheeljack the most. Silverbolt knew he was hurting but as always, he held himself apart. Finally, the Concorde stretched out his long arm and yanked the reluctant Harrier into the pile of jets.
He fought initially but Silverbolt was stronger and more determined. After a few moments of struggle, the Harrier just sank down and buried his face into Silverbolt’s lap with a hoarse, almost animalistic sound of pain that surely had no right coming from a Cybertronian.
That just set them all off again and the painfully young gestalt put aside their various differences, glued together with shared grief a pain. Skydive seemed to hold it together almost as well as Silverbolt but he was woefully overwhelmed and could only offer confused, numb hugs after a while.
Air Raid, for all his bravado, found himself slowly losing control he finally ended up stifling his sobs in the crook of Skydive’s shoulder. Fireflight was curled up beneath them all, the center of this shared pile of misery. Eventually he cried himself out and fell into recharge with his brothers surrounding him.
Soon after, Air Raid was slipping off into recharge as Skydive grew drowsy beneath the soft and soothing way Silverbolt’s hand was moving along his wing. It had been years since they had done this. Oh sure, there had been a time or two when one of his brothers had come to Silverbolt too upset over something to express through words and he’d simply pulled them into his arms and soothed them until they’d calmed down. But not like this. They’d never been dealt a blow like this and Silverbolt didn’t know what to do to ease his brothers’ pain.
The Concorde wasn’t sure how that particular duty had fallen to him but it was one he readily accepted. And that particular skill had certainly come in handy that day. Out of all of the Aerialbots, Silverbolt was perhaps the best at not broadcasting his emotions and thoughts through their bond. Having been born of necessity and from fear of letting them know how much flying terrified him, that reluctant talent was paying off today. It was only because of that skill that he was able to remain calm and not fall to pieces like the rest of his brothers.
“They’re really gone… aren’t they?” Slingshot’s miserable whisper finally broke the silence of their recharging brothers.
“Yes, they really are gone. I’m so sorry, Slings.” Normally, Slingshot would have bristled at the use of his nickname. Instead, he just buried his face further into Silverbolt’s mid-section. The Concorde smoothed a hand along one of Slingshot’s wings in an attempt to calm him down.
“You should try and rest.”
“Tomorrow is going to be just as bad," Slingshot reminded him without any of his typical angry defiance. Pain darkened Silverbolt's optics as he nodded and bowed over his brother's protectively.
"I know it is, Slings, I know."
The next day, they buried their dead.
The air was somber as a line of mechs approached their fallen leaders and friends. It was like the life had been drained out of them. The young, new Prime was drawn and miserable.
Rodimus certainly had not been expecting to have to shoulder the mantle of leadership like this. Like an ever present shadow, Ultra Magnus stood behind him, occasionally leaning forward to offer him advice. Arcee stood beside him, hand gripping his in a death-grip. As a silent show of support, Springer was at Rodiumus’s other side.
When Silverbolt saw them, his spark ached. He couldn’t look at the trio of mechs he barely knew and feel the same basking glow of certainty he got when he stared at Optimus and his commanders. Almost automatically, his optics sought out Jazz and he wished he hadn’t bothered to look. It was like the spark had gone out in the normally cheerful saboteur.
It was hard to realize Jazz had been through the war when one talked to him. It was like he had a never-ceasing well of optimism and good-cheer. Now, he just looked tired and dirty as he stood surrounded by friends.
Even Mirage, a mech who’d never been warm or welcoming, was showing his support literally by wrapping an arm around his commander and holding him up when it looked like the strain was too much.
The sight made the Concorde sick and he looked away from the broken mech. He just stood there aching and sick to his tanks as the seemingly never-ending service continued. Rodimus made a speech, then Magnus, and it seemed like they were intent on going down the long line of officers. Primus, he didn’t want to be here anymore.
“-would you like to say anything?” It was like someone was speaking at him from a great distance.
A sharp elbow in his side dragged his attention back to the proceedings with a jerk. “What?!” he hissed at Skydive who just shot a significant look Rodimus Prime’s way.
“Would you like to say any words, Silverbolt?” their new supreme commander asked neutrally.
Silverbolt looked at the bodies waiting to be interred and shook his head numbly. Seeing them laying there, so quiet, so still and utterly… deactivated just made him want to crawl away and hide in a corner somewhere.
Hot Spot bravely stepped up afterwards and presented his eulogy but Silverbolt didn’t hear a word of it or anything else. Finally, the interminable service was over and mechs were shuffling out.
“Hey, we’re going to gather in the commissary and share a few cubes of energon and generally get hugely overcharged and share stories,” the Protectobot leader offered, coming up to the subdued jets with a warm light in his optics. “I think the humans call it awaken?”
“Not awaken, Hots, a wake,” Streetwise chimed in smoothly, slanting an amused look at the Aerialbots.
“Hey, if you’re bringing the high grade, I’ll be there!” Slingshot seemed to be regaining some of his… pep.
“Heh, figures, your fataft needs all the energy you can take.”
Silverbolt had to fight back a grimace when he caught Blade’s sneering visage step into his field of vision. As always, Slingshot visibly bristled at the helicopter.
“You wanna say that to my face, whirlybird? Huh!?”
The Concorde turned around and glared at his brother. “Don’t you dare start here,” he snarled dangerously.
Even Slingshot looked taken aback for a moment.
“Heh, listen to your mommy, fataft,” Blades taunted.
The red mech suddenly found himself being lifted off his feet by a rather pissed-off looking Concorde. “You will show respect for our dead when you are in their presence.”
“Hey!” Kicking his feet in the vain hope of getting away, Blades shot his commander a look mingled with surprised anger. “Get yer hands offa me!”
Slingshot was normally eager to jump into the fight but he just kind of stood there frozen in shock.
“Silverbolt!” Hot Spot’s voice cracked through the air. He didn’t raise his voice often but when he did, it was certainly loud enough to command respect. “That is my trooper you’re threatening. Let him down now.”
He glared at Blades for one more moment before dropping him. “Stay away from my brother.”
Blades barely caught himself before he fell flat on his aft. “What the frag!?”
“Stand down, Blades.” There was a note of warning in Hot Spot’s voice as he stepped between Silverbolt and his brother.
“Let’s go…” Silverbolt whispered.
“I don’t wanna. I want to go check out this human wake thing.”
“You want to investigate a human ritual?” Skydive asked with a disbelieving look.
“Hey, if the high grade is pouring, I’m there!”
“Fine, just don’t go complain to Ratchet tomorrow when you’re sick and hungover.” It slipped out so thoughtlessly and Silverbolt immediately regretted it. Pain welled up inside him once again and he strode away from his gestalt. “Go do what you want to do,” he muttered a tad sparklessly.
Subdued again, the Aerialbots filed out with the rest of the Autobots. Silverbolt didn’t miss the disapproving look Ultra Magnus sent his way as he walked out of the mausoleum.
Silverbolt made his way over to the fallen Autobots, barely sparing First Aid a glance as he stood there in front of Ratchet's place. The Concorde stood there, moodily regarding Optimus's deactivated frame first.
In all honesty, the mech had been more of a father-figure to him than the mechs who created him. That constant, never-ending pool of grief inside him threatened to spill over and Silverbolt offlined his optics when the pain
grew to be too much.
"Uh... Silverbolt? Are you alright?" First Aid had approached almost silently, startling the jet. It was too deeply ingrained in his core programming to ignore a mech in so much pain.
The jet's optics powered on with an almost audible hum as he glowered over at the smaller mech.
"Am I alright? What the frag do you think!?"
Normally, he never would have snapped at a gentle-sparked mech like First Aid but the past few days had strained him to the end of his tether.
Surprised hurt was plain to see on in the masked mech's optics. "I-I... I know you're upset at losing them but there's no call to lash out at me," the Protectobot finally whispered with a trace of something akin to resentment in his tone. "They were our creators too, you know."
"Creators?" That just seemed to incense the Concorde more as he rounded on First Aid. "Those mechs were never creators to me or my brothers!"
The ambulance stumbled back in surprise.
"That mech there was more of a creator to me than Ratchet or Wheeljack ever were," Silverbolt continued, pointing furiously at Optimus's still chassis. "You guys have no idea how fragging lucky you were, especially you! They just tossed us out onto a battlefield within a breem of bringing us online and just washed their hands of us."
It was over a decade of resentment, hurt and poison spilling out of him like a wound that had been lanced. Silverbolt had never confronted the medic and engineer about how abandoned he and his brothers had felt.
Instead, that pain and hurt built up over the years and now... now he would never have the kind of closure he needed.
"It wasn't like that." First Aid grimaced when his voice wavered slightly. "It hurt them that you and your brothers were so stand-offish with them!"
"Right, easy for you to say," Silverbolt scoffed.
"They told me! It really bothered Ratchet, he just didn't know how to talk to you," the Protectobot protested vehemently. "You're all so... so aloof! How could you expect him to be a creator to you when you didn't want to have anything to do with him?"
It was Silverbolt's turn to flinch.
"I think Streetwise needs your help in the commissary," Hot Spot's voice rumbled from behind the jet. What was with these damned Protectobots sneaking up on him today!?
Looking like a mech who'd been granted a stay of execution, First Aid eagerly started to hurry out of the room. When he reached the doorway, the ambulance paused and looked back at Silverbolt. "I meant what I said--they really did care for you and your brothers. I'm just sorry you never got to know them. They were... they were good mechs."
Silverbolt made an inarticulate noise that might have been a sound of pain.
"That wasn't fair of you," Hot Spot stated neutrally, looking at the Concorde's broad back solemnly. "We're all hurting today."
The fire truck took a risk and laid one hand on Silverbolt's shoulder. Hot Spot wasn't surprised to feel a tremor running through the jet's chassis. He'd plainly been able to see how much pain Silverbolt was in, regardless of how he'd tried so valiantly to hide it.
Considering he'd been going the exact same thing with his own team, Hot Spot understood the burden Silverbolt was under probably better than anyone else. "It's hard, I understand. Being connected to them like that, their grief just wears you away ‘till there is nothing but sheer pain."
Unlike Silverbolt, Hot Spot hadn't tried to shove his own hurt down and had mourned with his team. It had left him in a much better state of mind than the Concorde.
The Aerialbot commander turned to look at him with surprise on his faceplates. He hadn't expected Hot Spot to pin down the problem so quickly or accurately.
"It's easier to lash out at someone else than your own team, too, right?" With a steady sort of understanding, Hot Spot just stared at the shaken jet with sympathy in his optics. "Yeah, it is."
Cycling air through his vents quietly, Hot Spot reached out and gently grasped Silverbolt's hand. "Come on, we're going to head out somewhere where we can talk without being interrupted."
He led the surprisingly docile jet out of the main part of the masoleum and into a smaller room set aside for mechs and femmes who needed a moment to compose themselves in privacy.
"I want to help you," Hot Spot finally stated bluntly. "I know exactly what you're going through and how hard it is to put up with your brothers’ clamouring over the link and pressing down on you with their own emotional burdens. That is something no one should have to go through alone."
"I..." Silverbolt started, voice choking up with emotion, much to his horrified mortification. He'd put up with days of this and suddenly he was just going to break down because Hot Spot tried to make him feel better? Angry and determined to fight back the tide of grief that threatened to spill over, Silverbolt shuddered and cycled air through his vents raggedly. "I'll be okay."
"That is a bold-faced lie and you know it." The Protectobot called him on it immediately. His hands fell on the jet's shoulders and rubbed them soothingly. The tremor of repressed emotions was stronger now and he could see Silverbolt was on the verge of cracking.
"Let me help you, please?" he entreated gently, stepping closer carefully so as not to startle the jet into action. "You don't have to be the one holding it all together all the time, Silverbolt. Sometimes it helps to share a little bit of the burden."
Another choked sound escaped the young mech and the trembling grew stronger until finally, Hot Spot wrapped his arms around the Concorde and pulled him into a comforting hug.
Silverbolt whimpered at the first contact of the mech's frame against his and then he was wrapped in those strong arms and pulled close. "I..." he choked out through the emotions welling up inside of him. "Oh Primus, I'm going to miss them so much," he finally sobbed. Hot Spot tightened his hold on the white mech as Silverbolt's arms closed around him as if he were a life-line, and clung to him like a Sparkling.
"I know, 'Bolt. I will too." Emotion darkened the fire truck's optics and he bowed his head to rest it against Silverbolt's and they stood there sharing one another's pain--since there was no one else to share it with.
Author: BitterEloquence
Series: G1
Spoilers: *snerk* It's hardly a spoiler! Post-Movie
Warnings: Angst. Buckets and buckets of angst!
Word Count: 2,751
Summery: His shoulders were too young to bear the grief of an entire gestalt.
Disclaimer: Not mine, nor am I making any money off of it. The only thing I own are the twisted ideas floating around in my head.
Author's Notes: This fic tried to kill me with it's angst. Massive thanks to both stormsailor for her wonderful-beta'ing and wyntir_rose for giving it a less involved look at it!
There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The days leading up to the funeral were the longest in Silverbolt’s life. After the horrible aftermath of dealing with losing such a significant portion of their officers--not to mention their commander--he hadn’t thought those days could get any worse.
Then the fallout from his own brothers began.
As always, it was Fireflight with his softer feelings that started them all off. His misery carried over the bond until the Concorde sought out his brother and just let him sob into his lap. Skydive had poked his head in to check on ‘Flight and ended up cuddling his brother as Air Raid slunk in as well. He ended up joining the miserable jet-pile which was only complete when Slingshot came and sat down on the edge of the berth.
Anger and bitterness turned the Harrier’s already severe features into a mask of barely simmering rage and pain. Out of all the Aerialbots, with the possible exception of Silverbolt, he had been closest to Prime, and perhaps, in a way, to their creators.
Slingshot had certainly spent the greatest amount of time in the med-bay and had interacted with Ratchet and Wheeljack the most. Silverbolt knew he was hurting but as always, he held himself apart. Finally, the Concorde stretched out his long arm and yanked the reluctant Harrier into the pile of jets.
He fought initially but Silverbolt was stronger and more determined. After a few moments of struggle, the Harrier just sank down and buried his face into Silverbolt’s lap with a hoarse, almost animalistic sound of pain that surely had no right coming from a Cybertronian.
That just set them all off again and the painfully young gestalt put aside their various differences, glued together with shared grief a pain. Skydive seemed to hold it together almost as well as Silverbolt but he was woefully overwhelmed and could only offer confused, numb hugs after a while.
Air Raid, for all his bravado, found himself slowly losing control he finally ended up stifling his sobs in the crook of Skydive’s shoulder. Fireflight was curled up beneath them all, the center of this shared pile of misery. Eventually he cried himself out and fell into recharge with his brothers surrounding him.
Soon after, Air Raid was slipping off into recharge as Skydive grew drowsy beneath the soft and soothing way Silverbolt’s hand was moving along his wing. It had been years since they had done this. Oh sure, there had been a time or two when one of his brothers had come to Silverbolt too upset over something to express through words and he’d simply pulled them into his arms and soothed them until they’d calmed down. But not like this. They’d never been dealt a blow like this and Silverbolt didn’t know what to do to ease his brothers’ pain.
The Concorde wasn’t sure how that particular duty had fallen to him but it was one he readily accepted. And that particular skill had certainly come in handy that day. Out of all of the Aerialbots, Silverbolt was perhaps the best at not broadcasting his emotions and thoughts through their bond. Having been born of necessity and from fear of letting them know how much flying terrified him, that reluctant talent was paying off today. It was only because of that skill that he was able to remain calm and not fall to pieces like the rest of his brothers.
“They’re really gone… aren’t they?” Slingshot’s miserable whisper finally broke the silence of their recharging brothers.
“Yes, they really are gone. I’m so sorry, Slings.” Normally, Slingshot would have bristled at the use of his nickname. Instead, he just buried his face further into Silverbolt’s mid-section. The Concorde smoothed a hand along one of Slingshot’s wings in an attempt to calm him down.
“You should try and rest.”
“Tomorrow is going to be just as bad," Slingshot reminded him without any of his typical angry defiance. Pain darkened Silverbolt's optics as he nodded and bowed over his brother's protectively.
"I know it is, Slings, I know."
The next day, they buried their dead.
The air was somber as a line of mechs approached their fallen leaders and friends. It was like the life had been drained out of them. The young, new Prime was drawn and miserable.
Rodimus certainly had not been expecting to have to shoulder the mantle of leadership like this. Like an ever present shadow, Ultra Magnus stood behind him, occasionally leaning forward to offer him advice. Arcee stood beside him, hand gripping his in a death-grip. As a silent show of support, Springer was at Rodiumus’s other side.
When Silverbolt saw them, his spark ached. He couldn’t look at the trio of mechs he barely knew and feel the same basking glow of certainty he got when he stared at Optimus and his commanders. Almost automatically, his optics sought out Jazz and he wished he hadn’t bothered to look. It was like the spark had gone out in the normally cheerful saboteur.
It was hard to realize Jazz had been through the war when one talked to him. It was like he had a never-ceasing well of optimism and good-cheer. Now, he just looked tired and dirty as he stood surrounded by friends.
Even Mirage, a mech who’d never been warm or welcoming, was showing his support literally by wrapping an arm around his commander and holding him up when it looked like the strain was too much.
The sight made the Concorde sick and he looked away from the broken mech. He just stood there aching and sick to his tanks as the seemingly never-ending service continued. Rodimus made a speech, then Magnus, and it seemed like they were intent on going down the long line of officers. Primus, he didn’t want to be here anymore.
“-would you like to say anything?” It was like someone was speaking at him from a great distance.
A sharp elbow in his side dragged his attention back to the proceedings with a jerk. “What?!” he hissed at Skydive who just shot a significant look Rodimus Prime’s way.
“Would you like to say any words, Silverbolt?” their new supreme commander asked neutrally.
Silverbolt looked at the bodies waiting to be interred and shook his head numbly. Seeing them laying there, so quiet, so still and utterly… deactivated just made him want to crawl away and hide in a corner somewhere.
Hot Spot bravely stepped up afterwards and presented his eulogy but Silverbolt didn’t hear a word of it or anything else. Finally, the interminable service was over and mechs were shuffling out.
“Hey, we’re going to gather in the commissary and share a few cubes of energon and generally get hugely overcharged and share stories,” the Protectobot leader offered, coming up to the subdued jets with a warm light in his optics. “I think the humans call it awaken?”
“Not awaken, Hots, a wake,” Streetwise chimed in smoothly, slanting an amused look at the Aerialbots.
“Hey, if you’re bringing the high grade, I’ll be there!” Slingshot seemed to be regaining some of his… pep.
“Heh, figures, your fataft needs all the energy you can take.”
Silverbolt had to fight back a grimace when he caught Blade’s sneering visage step into his field of vision. As always, Slingshot visibly bristled at the helicopter.
“You wanna say that to my face, whirlybird? Huh!?”
The Concorde turned around and glared at his brother. “Don’t you dare start here,” he snarled dangerously.
Even Slingshot looked taken aback for a moment.
“Heh, listen to your mommy, fataft,” Blades taunted.
The red mech suddenly found himself being lifted off his feet by a rather pissed-off looking Concorde. “You will show respect for our dead when you are in their presence.”
“Hey!” Kicking his feet in the vain hope of getting away, Blades shot his commander a look mingled with surprised anger. “Get yer hands offa me!”
Slingshot was normally eager to jump into the fight but he just kind of stood there frozen in shock.
“Silverbolt!” Hot Spot’s voice cracked through the air. He didn’t raise his voice often but when he did, it was certainly loud enough to command respect. “That is my trooper you’re threatening. Let him down now.”
He glared at Blades for one more moment before dropping him. “Stay away from my brother.”
Blades barely caught himself before he fell flat on his aft. “What the frag!?”
“Stand down, Blades.” There was a note of warning in Hot Spot’s voice as he stepped between Silverbolt and his brother.
“Let’s go…” Silverbolt whispered.
“I don’t wanna. I want to go check out this human wake thing.”
“You want to investigate a human ritual?” Skydive asked with a disbelieving look.
“Hey, if the high grade is pouring, I’m there!”
“Fine, just don’t go complain to Ratchet tomorrow when you’re sick and hungover.” It slipped out so thoughtlessly and Silverbolt immediately regretted it. Pain welled up inside him once again and he strode away from his gestalt. “Go do what you want to do,” he muttered a tad sparklessly.
Subdued again, the Aerialbots filed out with the rest of the Autobots. Silverbolt didn’t miss the disapproving look Ultra Magnus sent his way as he walked out of the mausoleum.
Silverbolt made his way over to the fallen Autobots, barely sparing First Aid a glance as he stood there in front of Ratchet's place. The Concorde stood there, moodily regarding Optimus's deactivated frame first.
In all honesty, the mech had been more of a father-figure to him than the mechs who created him. That constant, never-ending pool of grief inside him threatened to spill over and Silverbolt offlined his optics when the pain
grew to be too much.
"Uh... Silverbolt? Are you alright?" First Aid had approached almost silently, startling the jet. It was too deeply ingrained in his core programming to ignore a mech in so much pain.
The jet's optics powered on with an almost audible hum as he glowered over at the smaller mech.
"Am I alright? What the frag do you think!?"
Normally, he never would have snapped at a gentle-sparked mech like First Aid but the past few days had strained him to the end of his tether.
Surprised hurt was plain to see on in the masked mech's optics. "I-I... I know you're upset at losing them but there's no call to lash out at me," the Protectobot finally whispered with a trace of something akin to resentment in his tone. "They were our creators too, you know."
"Creators?" That just seemed to incense the Concorde more as he rounded on First Aid. "Those mechs were never creators to me or my brothers!"
The ambulance stumbled back in surprise.
"That mech there was more of a creator to me than Ratchet or Wheeljack ever were," Silverbolt continued, pointing furiously at Optimus's still chassis. "You guys have no idea how fragging lucky you were, especially you! They just tossed us out onto a battlefield within a breem of bringing us online and just washed their hands of us."
It was over a decade of resentment, hurt and poison spilling out of him like a wound that had been lanced. Silverbolt had never confronted the medic and engineer about how abandoned he and his brothers had felt.
Instead, that pain and hurt built up over the years and now... now he would never have the kind of closure he needed.
"It wasn't like that." First Aid grimaced when his voice wavered slightly. "It hurt them that you and your brothers were so stand-offish with them!"
"Right, easy for you to say," Silverbolt scoffed.
"They told me! It really bothered Ratchet, he just didn't know how to talk to you," the Protectobot protested vehemently. "You're all so... so aloof! How could you expect him to be a creator to you when you didn't want to have anything to do with him?"
It was Silverbolt's turn to flinch.
"I think Streetwise needs your help in the commissary," Hot Spot's voice rumbled from behind the jet. What was with these damned Protectobots sneaking up on him today!?
Looking like a mech who'd been granted a stay of execution, First Aid eagerly started to hurry out of the room. When he reached the doorway, the ambulance paused and looked back at Silverbolt. "I meant what I said--they really did care for you and your brothers. I'm just sorry you never got to know them. They were... they were good mechs."
Silverbolt made an inarticulate noise that might have been a sound of pain.
"That wasn't fair of you," Hot Spot stated neutrally, looking at the Concorde's broad back solemnly. "We're all hurting today."
The fire truck took a risk and laid one hand on Silverbolt's shoulder. Hot Spot wasn't surprised to feel a tremor running through the jet's chassis. He'd plainly been able to see how much pain Silverbolt was in, regardless of how he'd tried so valiantly to hide it.
Considering he'd been going the exact same thing with his own team, Hot Spot understood the burden Silverbolt was under probably better than anyone else. "It's hard, I understand. Being connected to them like that, their grief just wears you away ‘till there is nothing but sheer pain."
Unlike Silverbolt, Hot Spot hadn't tried to shove his own hurt down and had mourned with his team. It had left him in a much better state of mind than the Concorde.
The Aerialbot commander turned to look at him with surprise on his faceplates. He hadn't expected Hot Spot to pin down the problem so quickly or accurately.
"It's easier to lash out at someone else than your own team, too, right?" With a steady sort of understanding, Hot Spot just stared at the shaken jet with sympathy in his optics. "Yeah, it is."
Cycling air through his vents quietly, Hot Spot reached out and gently grasped Silverbolt's hand. "Come on, we're going to head out somewhere where we can talk without being interrupted."
He led the surprisingly docile jet out of the main part of the masoleum and into a smaller room set aside for mechs and femmes who needed a moment to compose themselves in privacy.
"I want to help you," Hot Spot finally stated bluntly. "I know exactly what you're going through and how hard it is to put up with your brothers’ clamouring over the link and pressing down on you with their own emotional burdens. That is something no one should have to go through alone."
"I..." Silverbolt started, voice choking up with emotion, much to his horrified mortification. He'd put up with days of this and suddenly he was just going to break down because Hot Spot tried to make him feel better? Angry and determined to fight back the tide of grief that threatened to spill over, Silverbolt shuddered and cycled air through his vents raggedly. "I'll be okay."
"That is a bold-faced lie and you know it." The Protectobot called him on it immediately. His hands fell on the jet's shoulders and rubbed them soothingly. The tremor of repressed emotions was stronger now and he could see Silverbolt was on the verge of cracking.
"Let me help you, please?" he entreated gently, stepping closer carefully so as not to startle the jet into action. "You don't have to be the one holding it all together all the time, Silverbolt. Sometimes it helps to share a little bit of the burden."
Another choked sound escaped the young mech and the trembling grew stronger until finally, Hot Spot wrapped his arms around the Concorde and pulled him into a comforting hug.
Silverbolt whimpered at the first contact of the mech's frame against his and then he was wrapped in those strong arms and pulled close. "I..." he choked out through the emotions welling up inside of him. "Oh Primus, I'm going to miss them so much," he finally sobbed. Hot Spot tightened his hold on the white mech as Silverbolt's arms closed around him as if he were a life-line, and clung to him like a Sparkling.
"I know, 'Bolt. I will too." Emotion darkened the fire truck's optics and he bowed his head to rest it against Silverbolt's and they stood there sharing one another's pain--since there was no one else to share it with.