Just for a while want to
When the call comes, he isn't expecting it. It's not even all that clear what's going on. There's just a raspy, half-strangled voice on the end of his comm. And it's begging him, pleading with him in tones that sound too desperate to belong to the 'bot he thinks it is, to come. It probably says something to the state of their current relationship that he actually has to stop and think about whether or not he should be going. They could argue again, they could shatter what remains of a broken friendship.
But before he makes up his mind, the voice breaks - it sobs over the open network. There's an undercurrent to it, a grating, dangerous snarl. When it fades, his friend sounds all the more desperate, all the more terrified. And Prime's decision is made for him.
Fighting or not, he can't abandon a fellow Autobot. Never again. He promised himself that long ago.
The drive barely takes any time. They live in the same district, and, from the scrambled, barely coherent coordinates he received, his friend hasn't left his usual place of residence. It's a fast drive, made all the faster by the sense of urgency he can't seem to shake. When the garage door ends up being locked, the feeling only gets worse. The door has always been open, every time he's wound up faced with the elaborately carved thing, every time he's met the other here. It sets him on edge.
It reminds him, somehow, of a wide, empty plain. Of broken bodies hanging like gaudy decorations. Of an image of what he could never be.
Of darkness. Of sorrow and pain.
Nevertheless, he manages to get it open - bending the lock away, and quietly stepping inside. The lights are all out. He feels himself grasping for his axe, for some measure of protection, for no reason he can quite name. Then, when his foot scrapes against a line, carved into the cement floor, and his spark sinks toward his feet, he suddenly realizes exactly what is at stake here. He pulls air through his intakes, his vocal processor working, but no sound emerging.
A red light flicks on, across the room, bright and hard in the dimness. He feels himself go tense, while his processor begins to run - what is that? Is it the source of this lurking, unnamed threat? He does find his axe then, preparing himself for whatever could possibly have happened now.
When the blue light flicks on beside the red, when the familiar form crawls forward, across the concrete, with fragments of light playing over its armor, Optimus has to stop himself from crying out. Either in shock, surprise, or dismay. It doesn't matter which - the sight sends all of them surging through his systems.
Silver armor is splattered liberally with dark, pulsing black. It's his friend, it's Sideswipe, but the black armor, the gleaming red optic, isn't anything like what the young 'bot is supposed to be. It's, as Optimus learned long ago, everything he's ever fought against, everything that almost overwhelmed him years ago. As he crawls, the lanky form is still making the wretched, choking sob Optimus heard over the comms - laced through with the low, threatening growl. He shudders, suddenly, his body bucking against the ground. More black suddenly seems to sprout from his joints, tendrils spreading like angry veins across the dull silver armor. Sideswipe cries out, his voice sick, scared. One hand flails at the air, catching a wall by accident. His fingers dig in, hard, bracing his shuddering, shivering body.
The blue optic flicks around the room, and catches sight of Prime. The terror, the pain, on his face suddenly turns to need. It looks as if the effort costs him, but Sideswipe manages to pull his other hand off the ground, to extend it towards Optimus, the whole limb shaking, twitching, as if his very armor wants to crawl off his frame.
Optimus doesn't know what to do.
Honestly, he doesn't know what he's seeing. Some transformation caused by the city, yes, he can grasp that. But why-? What is this blackness? Why is Sideswipe's optic red, of all things? He can only stare, only gape at the slow progression of the Autobot in front of him, half-horrified, half-afraid he's suddenly in danger of losing the young soldier.
He can't help this - how can he, when he doesn't even fully understand what it is he's seeing? He isn't as strong as the others, the City never chose him for anything special. He's not special, he's not a leader, he's not a hero.
All the same, there is panic shining through the blue optic, terror, a desperation the silver face shouldn't be wearing. And there is, undeniably, a strange sort of hope there, as the other stares at him.
How can he do anything less, than try?
His hands find the other's shoulders, grasping them as firmly as he dares. Honestly, he's surprised when his friend doesn't twist away, or make an attempt to remove his hands from his wrists. Instead, Sideswipe goes completely still, only the rasp of intakes betraying his status as something more than a hunched, damaged piece of statuary. It's more encouragement than Optimus had expected, and something he isn't about to waste. His head lowers, slightly, while he attempts to gather his thoughts. He may not be able to do this, but he has to.
“It's okay,” he says. There is steel in his voice. Far more than he can believe in himself. Even if it's a lie, it sounds convincing. It will have to do. “It's okay,” he says again.
He hesitates. There has been no response, positive or negative, to his words. He can feel what remains of his confidence sag.
Silver armor drops into view - the top of a familiar helm. It lowers, slowly, until Sideswipe is resting his head against Optimus' chest. Under his hands, the smaller Autobot can feel the other frame begin to relax, piece by silver piece. Optimus raises his optics, scarcely daring to hope that, for what feels like the first time since he arrived, he's begun to do something right. “It's okay,” he repeats, in the same tone, in the same quiet, resolute voice, while his fingers begin to stroke gentle circles over black-splattered armor.
Another hesitation. He can see, out of the corner of an optic, the patches of ugly, ruinous black begin to dissipate, evaporate into empty air. When he looks down, his friend's red optic is suddenly flecked with blue, the painful desperation now gone as he stares up at Prime, waiting, hanging on those two small, simple words.
“It's okay.”
A beat.
“I've... I've got you. I'm here. It's okay.”
The silver frame sags heavily, a rush of air escaping ventilation systems. It sounds dangerously close to a sob, and, out of reflex, Optimus finds himself pressing closer to his friend. They stand there, in silence and solace, as the final bits of another self fall away, and they are, at last, all that's left in the quiet little room. Optimus doesn't dare to hope, doesn't dare to move back. If he moves too soon, would that destroy what's happened here? Would it just make things worse?
A hand settles itself on the side of his face, armor shifting in his arms. He blinks. And when he opens his optics again, Sideswipe is looking up at him, focused on him, one thumb shakily tracing the edge of Prime's face.
“You... are my constant...” the other 'bot murmurs, his voice rough, exhausted. “You...”
“Me?”
Sideswipe nods, faintly. “My constant... my...” Something in his voice manages to turn wry. “My hero.”
“I...”
There's another shudder, before a low hiss of systems shutting down indicates the other Autobot has fallen into something resembling recharge, curled there against red and blue armor. Optimus blinks. He shifts a bit.
What happened here, he doesn't understand. He wonders if he'll ever truly know what the incident was about. But...
The hand on his face hasn't moved. Sideswipe's head hasn't shifted from its position on his chest. Slowly, Optimus begins to settle down to the floor, easing the silver Autobot down with him. When Sideswipe stirs, a low, plaintive whine in his vocals, stopping just short of a fearful cry, Optimus again steadies him, pitching his voice with the confidence he still doesn't quite feel.
“It's okay.”
He looks down at the silver helm, the memory of the hope, the relief, on that face playing over in his mind.
“I'm here.”
And it's okay.