Fic: Put It Down
TITLE: Put It Down
SUMMARY: The symptoms were there, whether he liked it or not. Hiding them to protect her from worrying had to be as heavy for him as his sword felt to her.
PAIRING: OptimusxMikaela (glimpsed) This is mostly a father and daughter fic.
RATING: T
UNIVERSE: Bayverse (Danceverse)
GENRE: Angst/Family
OTHER NOTES: This is another addition to the Danceverse series. It's a dad-and-daughter piece with a glimpse of OptimusxMikaela.
The translated Cybertronian on Optimus' sword is pure headcanon; I don't actually know what those glyphs say.
My hope is the contents of this story as well as In Sickness and in Health help end the stigma against mental illnesses. It's a long shot, but I can try!
Trigger warning: This fic contains a serious discussion about sexual assault and makes passing mention of a violent suicide.
LOCATED:
FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10809632/1/Put-It-Down
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Put It Down
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"I want to hide the truth, I want to shelter you,
but with the beast inside, there's nowhere we can hide.
No matter what we breed, we still are made of greed!
This is my kingdom come, this is my kingdom come..."
--Imagine Dragons, "Demons"
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THWACK! THWACK!
The infernal noise cut through Elita's concentration, leaving her no hope of regaining her train of thought. She realized she'd read the same math word problem four times without comprehending it. Homework over the weekend sucked, but she had a minimum day at school and figured doing the boring stuff when she got home was better than dropping something fun to finish it Sunday night.
A third round of banging sent Elita throwing her pencil down in exasperation. She stared at the sunlit tree branches waving gently outside her windows and remembered...
Ultra Magnus took Mikaela to work, which left the Chevy Silverado available so Optimus could pick Elita up from school.
He'd added a bright red windbreaker to his human hologram's wardrobe, making him easy to spot next to the silver pickup truck in the parking lot. Sometimes he had stubble, sometimes he appeared clean-shaven. Once in a great while, he tried a mustache or revived the mutton chops and soul patch. That day, he 'wore' his brown hair slightly spiked while sporting a groomed door knocker goatee.
"There's my dad," Elita turned to hug the tan, dark-haired girl standing next to her. "Bye, Lupe. Don't forget to eat lunch when you get home."
"Okay," Lupe patted Elita's back, her voice thick with a Mexican accent, "Tell your dad hi for me."
"I will."
Elita's friends said Optimus resembled a blue-eyed Eric Wareheim from Tim and Eric's Awesome Show. She could see it. Sort of. Optimus' human hologram was in better physical shape.
They didn't talk much beyond the obligatory greetings and 'how did your day go?' during the drive home. Optimus' eyes kept squinting behind the silver frames of his glasses. Somehow, he shaped them to resemble his robot-self's eyelids.
"Is it bad today?" Elita asked him.
Optimus nodded slowly.
"I wasn't sure if I-- hey!" He slammed on the brakes and punched the horn when a white Corvette cut him off to reach the intersection first. Upon stopping next to it, he rolled down his window and snarled at the other driver, "I had the right of way!"
"Whoa," said the teenage driver, who lifted his sunglasses until they almost touched his blue Mohawk, "Ease up, man."
Optimus jabbed an accusing finger at the teenager's face. Even at a distance, it still made the punk kid shrink back in his car. "My daughter is in this vehicle. You nearly T-boned her side!"
The left-turn light turned green and the Corvette peeled around the corner.
Elita focused on her own pale blue eyes in the Silverado's side mirror. Her freshly-trimmed brown hair fell just above her shoulders. Not yet long enough to keep it in a ponytail. She sighed, brushing it aside.
"Dad, it's okay, he didn't hit us."
"He could have," Optimus whispered. "He could have."
Once startled, he wouldn't calm down again. His eyes darted towards every movement. He shifted his hologram to his robot self as they turned onto the winding road leading to the cabin. The rest of the drive passed in tense silence.
Elita went right upstairs upon arriving home. She didn't know what to do for her dad, so she got out of his way. He probably wanted to be left alone. She quietly wished she could help him.
Lately, life in the household was divided into good days, so-so days and very bad days. Optimus hardly talked at all on the very bad days. He was more on edge, and acted as if simple everyday functions used the energy he normally reserved for idle conversation.
Today, his behavior indicated a very bad day.
Though Elita didn't fully grasp the exact circumstances responsible for his stasis trauma, she understood the condition was a result of malfunctioning software. Something akin to a computer with scrambled desktop shortcuts that accidentally opened incorrect programs at the wrong times.
The result: a heightened fear response, lots of scary thoughts, fits of sadness, horrible nightmares and flashbacks. Nightmares happened randomly. Flashbacks were triggered by innocuous everyday objects. Even pictures or scenes containing them on TV set the flashbacks off.
Mikaela laid down three specific rules: No going to movie theaters with dad, don't touch his chest when your hands have calluses from the monkey bars, and don't let him see the crowbar in the garage.
Elita was scared the first time she inadvertently broke one of those rules. Optimus asked her to help him tidy up the garage during spring cleaning, and she grabbed the container holding the crowbar wrapped in a stained dust cloth. Not realizing this, she uncovered it right in front of him. Her stomach dropped at the way he jerked back.
"Oh no! Dad, I'm sorry! I didn't know that was in there! Dad? Dad? Dad!"
Optimus had turned away, taken a step...and froze. His optics flickered like the coals in a barbecue pit.
"Daddy, it's me!" Elita cried, "Dad...can you hear me?"
"Don't come any closer. Don't. No. Stay away!"
"I'm sorry, dad, I'm sorry!"
She hid the crowbar under the wooden letter blocks in her old toy box.
"I put the crowbar away. It's gone. Dad?"
Optimus' features twisted in genuine pain. Steam escaped the tiny vents beneath his nose.
"I can't move," he said.
Desperate, Elita dropped the plastic container. Spare bulbs for the icicle lights escaped their plastic bag and spilled around her feet.
Optimus jolted at the sound. His optics regained their steady azure glow. He hurried to help pick up the loose LED light bulbs.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he murmured. His voice sounded perfectly calm again, but embarrassment prevented him from fully meeting her eyes. "Did I scare you?"
Elita bit her bottom lip. She wondered how stasis trauma felt because she just couldn't fathom it, but didn't know how to ask him about it.
Two years ago, Lupe, one of her friends at school, had a mentally ill uncle who put a shotgun in his mouth and killed himself because he thought the "people in the walls" wanted his soul. Lupe called it schizophrenia.
Jorje was the nicest guy Elita knew besides Optimus. His thick Mexican accent and big, barking laugh were staples in Lupe's household. Elita always remembered the funny stories he told about his childhood. He only acted strange when he didn't take his medication. Then something happened and he couldn't have his usual medication anymore. That was when he took his life.
Elita went to the funeral to support her friend. Poor Lupe-- she found her uncle with his brains splattered across the kitchen floor and hadn't been the same since. Kids at school were cruel about it when they found out. They called Lupe the girl with the crazy dead uncle. Elita once chased a sixth grader around the playground because she saw her pretending to shoot herself behind Lupe's back.
But what if stasis trauma made Optimus do the same thing as Lupe's uncle? In reality, he was far away from Earth. What if he stabbed his own Spark out or flew into a star? There wasn't anything anyone could do.
"You didn't scare me, the yelling did," Elita swallowed, calming herself, "Are you okay now?"
Optimus squinted and parted his mouth plates, his version of a smile. "Yeah. I'm fine. Let's get these lights put away before your mother runs us over."
He always deflected his own problems with friendly winks, smiles and a constant need to do something.
Like the present moment.
Elita stood on the bottom two stairs and peered out the huge picture windows overlooking the woods.
Optimus, a being made of gleaming red, blue and silver metal, looked every bit like he belonged in a superhero movie. People put him on a pedestal as a leader, a warrior and a legend.
To her, he was simply 'dad.' A dad who could transform into a truck and accomplish feats the average human population only dreamed of.
She often called him a superhero because he shared so many similarities with them. Like Superman, he had to hide his true identity from a world not ready to fully comprehend his existence. But great power required greater responsibilities, and being heroic didn't come without burdens and consequences.
Elita watched Optimus stand a chunk of wood on the edge of the deck. He grasped his sword in both hands, raised it aloft and brought it down with a loud THWACK. The sliced pieces toppled aside. Judging by the considerable mound, he'd been at it for awhile.
Optimus seized what appeared to be the last part of whatever small tree he chopped down. He tossed it straight up, squinted and swung his sword upward. His huge blade cleaved the wood in two. The halves landed on either side of him.
Time stood still for a beat. Optimus stuck his sword in the ground and grabbed the wood chunks. They weren't cut evenly. His shoulders rose and fell, mimicking an exasperated sigh, and he spiked the pieces like footballs. He turned away, stopped and abruptly rushed over to punt a large portion of the gathered wood pile across the grass.
"Be quiet! This is not who you are! You are strong enough!" Optimus snarled, kicking at what he missed the first time. His optics flared brightly. "This is enough! I am enough! No, be quiet! I can do this! Quiet!" He chucked more wood chunks at the trees and hollered down at his open hands, "This is my fight! You will not overpower me!"
Elita clutched at the banister. Optimus never yelled at her or Mikaela like that, but he always yelled at himself. Always. This wasn't the first time she heard him, however it was the first time she actually saw him in the act.
Optimus finally stopped shouting. He stood still, surrounded by the sliced fragments of a tree. The yard was a disaster zone. For a moment, he surveyed the damage as if trying to make sense of it all. Then he closed his optics, rubbed his fingertip across the bridge of his nose and muttered in undertones too low to hear.
Most of the time, he acted normal. He worked hard to behave civilly in public.
Then he came home and did things like that.
Elita padded through the living room to reach the kitchen. She stopped by the back door set between the refrigerator and the kitchen counter. Taking a breath, she quietly pulled the main door inward and pushed the screen door outward.
"Daddy?" she hedged. "What are you doing?"
Optimus' hand fell to his side. He opened his optics and immediately wiped the distraught expression off his face.
"I'm practicing my swordsmanship."
She approached him, glancing at the alien William Wallace-style claymore planted vertically in the ground. It stood almost two feet taller than her. Cybertronian glyphs framed both sides of the intricate fuller running along the blade's center.
In the name of freedom, in the name of justice and in the name of peace. Worthy is the hand, worthy is the arm and worthy is the Spark of the Knight wielding this blade.
"It looks hard," Elita remarked.
Optimus grasped the sword by its handle and easily freed it from the ground. When he straightened, the pointed pommel was level with the tip of his nose. Elita's head barely reached the topmost section of his abdomen-- she could have stuck her nose into his belly button if he had one.
"It's only difficult to someone who hasn't handled a blade before. Here, I'll show you." His shadow swallowed Elita's when he stepped behind her. He knelt, his long arms easily framing her without having to shift position. "Grasp the hilt above and below my hands."
Optimus gripped hilt in the middle. Elita took hold of the sword just above its pommel and below the cross-guards. The handle was nearly as long as her entire arm. Her small fingers didn't encircle it completely. She noticed it felt rougher and less round than the monkey bars at school. The reality of its weight wasn't lost on her.
"Whoa, this thing's heavy!"
"Mmhmm, but using a sword is less about physical strength and more about balance. The blade's center of gravity is close to the hilt. Once you know that, you can use your whole body in tandem with the weight of the blade," Optimus' deep voice created faint vibrations in the sword.
"Stand like you're up to bat in baseball. Left leg forward, back leg-- that's right. Don't hold the pommel end so tight, it needs to be able to move in your grasp. It's your top hand that will control the blade. Your bottom hand is there for support."
"This might be easier if the sword wasn't bigger than me," Elita joked.
Optimus chuckled and kissed her above the ear. "You're right, but you're doing fine."
She laughed with him before refocusing on the task at hand. Throughout the lesson he held the sword unwaveringly forward; he didn't have muscles that trembled or fatigued from holding something heavy.
"We're going to perform a diagonal slash. It's similar to swinging a baseball bat, but you're going to move from the upper right to your lower left. Here is where controlling the handle comes in. Rock forward on your feet...now back. There you go."
Optimus pulled the sword and Elita's arms rightward and upward until the blade pointed towards the cabin rooftop.
"Relax your arms a little more. Make sure the pommel stays at this angle. Hold on tight enough to keep your grip, but not so tight that it can't pivot. For the swing, twist just like you're hitting a baseball and push with your right hand. Momentum will do the rest. Remember, your whole body provides the force, but let the blade become an extension of yourself. Ready?"
"Uh-huh!"
"All right, push!"
Optimus guided the sword forward. Elita timed her movements per his instructions. The weapon's full relationship with gravity suddenly took over. She squeezed her eyes shut. The blade continued towards inevitability.
THWACK!
Elita let the sword pull her into a kneeling position. She opened her eyes. Two pieces of wood sat near the end of the still-vibrating blade. Optimus wasn't holding the handle anymore.
"Nice going, sweet-Spark!"
She blinked, looking at the deadly weapon still in her hands. Her slightly sweaty palms had imprints from the intricate hilt.
"You helped me."
"Actually, no. I let go of the sword after you started swinging. You did that on your own, kid." He ruffled her hair, "You believed you could, so you did."
Pride swelled behind Elita's sternum. The sword was far too heavy for her to lift on her own, but she managed to wield it. She laid the alien blade gently on the grass before examining the wood chunk she sliced apart. The cut was terribly uneven and barely went all the way through. Still, she had done it.
Beside her, Optimus bent and picked up his sword. To him, it didn't weigh much at all. Being sick, on the other hand, had to feel like brandishing a weapon ten times his size. While he lacked muscles that wore out with overuse, the exhaustion of fighting wrote itself so plainly on his face. All because he bore a mental sword far larger than himself.
Elita suddenly realized how much effort Optimus put forth to conceal his constant inner struggle. The symptoms were there, whether he liked it or not. Hiding them to protect her from worrying had to be as heavy for him as his sword felt to her.
"Dad," Elita whispered, "Put it down."
"Hm?"
"Put it down!" She slapped the blade out of his hands and wrapped her arms around his waist. "You pretend you're fine for me all the time, daddy, but I know you're not. You don't have to pretend for me. It's okay to be sick in front of me. It's okay to be sad in front of me. I know you're strong, you don't have to prove it anymore."
Optimus' hands slipped under her armpits and lifted her up to eye level. Elita grabbed onto him like a koala. Gratefulness and relief swirled inside the pain radiating through his blue optics. The wiper fluid tears came next, though they didn't last long.
"Primes take care of people," Elita hugged him as tight as he held her. "That's what I'm gonna do when I grow up. Take care of people."
She gazed beyond Optimus' shoulder armor, her blue eyes carefully studying the fragments of what used to be a small tree littering the grass around them.
"How did that soldier make you sick?" she asked, "What did he do? Can you tell me or is it too hard?"
"I can talk about it," Optimus' torso moved like someone steeling themselves with a deep breath. The cool plating under Elita's cheek trembled. "But first, do you remember when I explained what your mother and I do when we close our bedroom door?"
She nodded, "You have sex...but you say make love. You touch each other in places nobody else is allowed to touch and it feels good."
"Exactly. Anyone who tries to touch your private areas or engage in sex with you without your permission is very, very wrong to do so. Even if what they do makes you feel good."
"Feeling good can be bad?"
"The sensation itself isn't a bad thing, but the person forcing you to feel that way against your will is violating your body. Your body responds to things by itself all the time whether you want it to or not. The sensations related to sex are very intense and can't easily be stopped once they start. It's like..." Optimus squinted until the idea flashed on his face, "It's a lot of fun to get tickled, right? Being tickled feels good and makes you laugh uncontrollably, but you wouldn't want someone tickling you at a funeral, would you?"
"No way, you're supposed to be sad at funerals. Especially Lupe's uncle...everyone was crying. I don't want to laugh in front of somebody's coffin."
"Yes, you see?" He looked her squarely in the eyes. "Someone who keeps tickling you at a funeral after you tell them to stop is making you feel a sensation you don't want to feel."
"Yeah, that's a mean thing to--" Cold realization crystallized in Elita's mind. Only one part of her dad's body was that private and sacred. She stared at him, aghast. "That soldier messed with your Spark?"
"Yes," Optimus replied simply, even though the truth made his voice shake. "After the Cemetery Wind attack, I took shelter inside an abandoned movie theater. I was injured and unable to transform. The soldier who found me tried to pry my Spark chamber open with a crowbar. I went into emergency stasis minutes after, and I spent four years with that single moment replaying over and over in my processor. Reliving the fear, horror and shame for four years created chaos within my software. That is why we call it stasis trauma. It can only happen to a bot who enters stasis immediately after experiencing something traumatic."
His optics clicked shut. Pain twitched his mouth plates into a grimace. The agony of remembering moved through him like a wave. He shuddered noticeably.
"Daddy," whispered Elita.
"The soldier who hurt me was trying to kill me-- he had no idea he had violated me. A human who commits such an atrocity on you will know exactly what they are doing. You have a right to refuse an unwanted advance, and a decent person will respect that. If anyone ever tries to look at or touch your private areas without permission, I want you to inform your mother or me about it right away. Don't keep it a secret even if they tell you to. No matter the situation or who it is, come to us. You will never be in trouble for reporting that kind of incident, but the person responsible will have to contend with me."
Freeing his left hand, he held up his pinkie finger, "Pinkie promise that you'll tell me?"
"Okay, pinkie promise," Elita hooked her pinkie around his. Knowing what made his mind sick unsettled her more than she cared to admit, but remembering what happened to Lupe's uncle Jorje was ten times scarier. She let go of his little finger and hugged his neck again. "Dad, how can I help you get better?"
His silver-black eye ridges rose as the glow in his optics softened.
"You already are, sweet-Spark. Not having to hide it means everything to me. I-- whoops, just a moment. Telephone."
"Yeah, better get that."
Optimus set Elita down and one of his audios emitted a soft beep. "Good afternoon, Mikaela. You're-- oh? Is he? I completely understand. Yes, thank you for letting me know. Mm, yes, I'll be all right until then." He paused and a familiar warmth passed his face like sunlight peeking through clouds. "I love you, too. Goodbye."
"Mom's gonna be late?"
"Mmhmm. Jeremy called in sick and she agreed to cover his shift. She won't be home until ten. Looks like it's you and me, kiddo." Optimus blinked and regarded her, "So, as I was saying, I think getting your homework done will be helpful."
"What about the mess?" Elita gestured at the yard. "Need a hand?"
"Nah. I made it, so I'll clean it up. I'm all right now, thanks to you."
This time, his smile didn't seem forced.
She beamed back. "Okay, boss. Can I make a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner?"
Optimus pointed at her and winked, "Eat a salad with it and you're on."
"Awesome!"
Elita went back inside. She skipped upstairs to finish her arithmetic homework. Now that she knew why her dad wasn't well, she silently swore she would give her all to understand his illness and help him recover.
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Dinnertime came and went with little fuss. Optimus checked over Elita's math homework while she ate. Cleanup took almost fifteen minutes. Elita figured she should give Mikaela a break by washing the breakfast dishes, too, so she did.
In her peripheral vision, she saw Optimus sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. He'd finished examining her math homework and hadn't moved from that pose since he set her math book aside.
Depression was one of the many facets of his disorder. He fought it with the bravest face imaginable, yet giving him permission to 'be sick' in her presence meant he wasn't trying to hide his battle from her. Picking her up from school, clearing away the mess he made in the yard and supervising while she cooked a grilled cheese sandwich burned through his last emotional reserves.
Realizing just how much Optimus shouldered to take care of the household despite feeling so awful made Elita admire him more.
"Did I get all my answers right?" she asked after putting the silverware away.
"Mmhmm," Optimus answered noncommittally. No feigned exuberance. He didn't even raise his head.
"Awesome, thanks."
Elita kissed the top of his head, grabbed her math book and carried it upstairs. She returned with the fleece snowflake blanket he got for Christmas and wrapped it around his shoulders.
"I love you, dad."
Optimus looked over. His optics twinkled with a hint of the happiness captured by the photos on the wall in the master bedroom. The person he had always been was still there, mired under the invisible war raging inside his mind.
"I love you, too, sweet-Spark," he reached out and took her hand, "Thank you. You're doing a wonderful job. I know I'm not showing it very well, but you're helping me more than I can say. I deeply appreciate it."
"You're welcome," she squeezed his hand. Seeing him this way was harder than she imagined it would be, but it gave her the courage to ask the burning question, "Can you tell me what being sick feels like to you?"
"Hmm...that's a tough one. I'll try."
He rested his forehead on his free hand. His audio covers twitched. Neither achieved a full revolution before they changed directions. A long moment passed before he spoke again.
"Right now...it's like a hole, empty and dark. I know I have many responsibilities, but the desire to perform those duties isn't there. My emotions are blunted. I have to work in order to show how I feel outwardly. I struggle to do the everyday tasks most people don't think twice about. Then there are times where I can't control any of my emotions at all. They happen before I'm able to logically assess the reason I'm feeling them.
"When I'm tense like I was while driving you home, it's the fear. Do you remember how frightened you were when lightning hit the road while you were accidentally locked outside last month?"
Just remembering the experience made Elita's heart jump. That storm blew the door closed while she sprinted through pouring rain to grab the mail. Unaware that she went out, Optimus had turned the deadbolt so the wind wouldn't keep swinging the door open and shut. And just as Elita realized the door was locked-- BAM! Lightning hit the road scarcely twenty feet away. She remembered screaming and banging on the glass. When Optimus realized his error and let her back inside, she cried in his arms for ten straight minutes.
Elita shook off the memory. She could laugh at it now.
"Scariest thing ever," she said, "But I got over it."
"Mmhmm. Now imagine not being able to 'get over it' after the fact. The experience is finished, but your body keeps telling you to be afraid. You're on edge, you're jumpy, you think danger is everywhere," Optimus briefly met her eyes, "That is the fear part of my condition."
He lowered his gaze again. Elita waited patiently. He was doing an excellent job of explaining it in a way she could understand, and she wasn't about to shut him down by rushing his thoughts.
After a long silence, Optimus gestured at the clicker on the end table.
"The flashbacks and nightmares are like someone changing the channel in my mind. Only, instead of watching the events, I'm reliving them. When they happen, they are as real to me as you are right now. I know the channel has changed when I'm having a flashback, but I can't always change it back on my own. With nightmares, I have no realization that I'm on the wrong channel until I awaken in a different position than I was when I settled down to recharge.
"And, sometimes, my mind will say cruel things to me-- those are called intrusive thoughts. Whenever you hear me hollering at myself, please know that it isn't anything you've done. It's my verbal equivalent to writing in the notebooks upstairs. I challenge those thoughts because I refuse to let them wear me down."
"What do they say to you?"
"Just about everything school bullies say, and more. Sometimes, they sound like Megatron. Other times, I hear Sentinel," he flinched, "Most of the time, it's my own voice."
"That sounds really hard," whispered Elita.
Optimus' head rose and fell in a tired nod. "Facing those things requires a lot of my strength. Some days, it takes more out of me than others. Today is rough. Tomorrow may be worse, or it might be better. I never know until I start engaging in tasks that require focus. Despite those difficulties, Elita, listen-- never think for a single moment that I am pretending to be happy when I see you. I'm always happy to see you, and that will never change. It is only my ability to show it that is hampered. I want you to remember that, all right?"
"I will, now that I know." She held his huge metal hand between her tiny ones and rubbed it as if to return its lost warmth. "Can I give you a hug?"
"Sure." Optimus encircled her in his arms and pulled her close to his chest.
"That's why you're a superhero," mumbled Elita. She embraced him tightly, wishing she had the ability to squeeze the brokenness out of him.
"Hm?"
"I said, 'that's why you're a superhero.' Just because nobody can see you fighting doesn't mean you aren't kicking butt, dad. I'll be your sidekick, okay? Sooo," she spoke in his audio, "Hey, bad thoughts! My dad is better than you! Go away!"
A smile blossomed on Optimus' metal features. "I just recorded your voice saying that. I'll play it when they start up again."
"Good, maybe it'll make 'em shut up!" Elita straightened to look him in the optics again. "Let's watch a movie. Something funny."
"What did you have in mind?"
"How about Shrek?"
Optimus winked, "Deal."
They settled down to watch. Elita curled up in Optimus' lap and they shared the blanket. She noticed he wasn't chuckling at the funny parts like he usually did. Maybe, like he said earlier, the laughter stayed in his Spark. Just because she couldn't hear it didn't mean it wasn't there.
.o
Ten o'clock crawled by. Then ten-fifteen and ten-twenty. Elita spent more time yawning than she did doodling butterflies on a piece of construction paper. Watching Shrek partially refilled Optimus' reserves and his need to do things took over again. He bustled around the kitchen, wiping crumbs off the counter, shooing a moth back outside and taking out the trash.
"I'm tired," Elita yawned for the fiftieth time in ten minutes. "Dad, will you be up soon if I get ready for bed?"
"Definitely," Optimus replied from the kitchen. "Mikaela called to let me know Ultra Magnus is bringing her home right now."
"Cool, I hope I'm still awake when she gets here."
Elita climbed the stairs, changed into her purple Rapunzel nightgown, used the toilet and busily brushed her teeth. Performing those tasks brought back her fading alertness. She was wide awake again by the time Optimus came upstairs to tuck her into bed.
"How long will it take you to get better?" Elita asked him.
Optimus knelt on the floor by the bed, which brought his face nearer to hers. "I don't know. It may be a year, it may be five years. It's different for everyone."
She swallowed over the lump in her throat. The fear she hid throughout the day surfaced, twisting her voice small, "Y-You aren't going to die like Lupe's uncle Jorje, are you?"
"Oh, Elita, is that why you've been keeping such a close eye on me all day?"
"Yeah..."
His optics widened slightly in the darkness. He leaned closer, looking her in the eyes, "Schizophrenia and stasis trauma have a few similarities, but they aren't the same condition. I'm not going to take my own life because of it."
"Promise?"
She felt his metal lips brush her cheek and forehead. His kisses clicked rather than making a wet smacking sound.
"I promise," he whispered in her ear. "I promised to never leave you again and I intend to stand by it."
"Pinkie promise to make it official?" Elita held up her little finger.
Optimus linked his pinkie with hers. "This is an official pinkie promise. I will not die from this, Elita."
The hard lump in her throat softened away. Her dad always kept his promises.
"You can come to me if mom isn't home, you know. I'll take care of you when she can't. Don't be by yourself if you feel bad, okay?"
One of his glowing blue optics winked shut. "It's a deal. Besides, you've proven yourself to be an excellent nurse."
Elita smiled and promptly yawned. Lying down had definitely returned the sleepiness that tried to abandon her in the bathroom. She grasped Optimus' thumb since he left it within reach. "Hey, dad?"
"Hm?"
"If I meet the soldier that hurt you...can I beat him up?"
Optimus made sounds similar to mechanical snorting. "While I'm not a fan of unnecessary violence...heh...I won't be the one who tries to stop you."
Giggling, she puckered up her lips to receive the good night kiss he happily gave.
"Can we do the Cybertron good night kiss grandpa Orion gave you?" Elita asked hopefully.
"Certainly," Optimus' face came towards hers again.
"Good night to the stars, good night to the moon. Feel no fright towards the lack of light, for morning will arrive very, very soon," he said, reciting the Cybertronian equivalent to a short nursery rhyme.
They gently bumped and nuzzled noses, then repeated the gesture with their lips. Optimus' less-than-flexible mouth plates didn't allow him to pucker up like Elita could, so he kept them slightly parted instead.
"Thank you, again, for helping me today," his soothing baritone voice washed against her ear, "I love you so very much, my little sweet-Spark."
"You're welcome. I love you a whole lot back, dad."
She let go of his thumb so he could get to his feet. The front door creaked open as he exited the bedroom.
Elita watched the silhouettes of her parents meet right outside her doorway. Optimus slipped his arms around Mikaela's waist and she embraced his neck. They exchanged a long hello kiss.
"Sorry I'm so late. Ultra Magnus took me to Taco Bell after I said I needed something spicy."
"Something spicy, you say?" Optimus waggled his eye ridges at her and imitated a cat's purr-meow.
"Easy there, Kittymus Prime," Mikaela snickered, slapping his shoulder. "Is El still awake?"
"Yes," he dropped his voice to a murmur too quiet to hear. She hugged him again and rubbed his back. They spent another lengthy moment with their foreheads touching.
Afterward, Optimus headed for the master bedroom. Mikaela tip-toed into Elita's room.
"Hey, sweetie, thanks for washing all the dishes for me. I heard you took care of daddy today, too."
"Yeah," Elita reached up for a sleepy hug and kiss from her mom. She loved those squish-hugs. "I told him he doesn't have to pretend he's fine when he's not. Remember when I lied about my ear infection being better so I could go swimming with Jennifer? I cried all night afterward."
"Ooh, yeah. Learned a lesson, didn't you?"
"Yup! But I don't want dad getting worse like that, either."
"He won't if we keep helping him," Mikaela sounded like someone took a load of worry off her shoulders, too. "It might get worse before it gets better, though."
"He promised not to die like Jorje."
"Oh, sweetie," Mikaela hugged her again, reassuringly, "Jorje died because he had an incurable condition and his doctors changed his medicine to something that didn't work. It's not like that for your daddy. Optimus is going to be okay, but it's going to take time and a lot of support."
"Good...'cause that story still scares me, mom."
"I know. You've got guts to keep helping Lupe. Being at the funeral was a great thing to do. She'll always remember that."
Elita covered a yawn. Having her mom home greatly eased her worries about her dad.
Air brakes hissed outside. Mikaela craned her neck to peek out the window above the dresser.
"There's Ultra Magnus. Poor guy sounded tired tonight, even for a robot."
"Dad said he had a long patrol."
"Yup, and then he picked me up at Joe's. That added twenty minutes to his route."
"He needs a break," Elita gave in to her billionth yawn before curling up on her right side. "Sleepy...night mom, I love you."
"So am I," Mikaela yawned in sympathy. She leaned down and her warm, soft kiss tickled Elita's cheek. "Night night, I love you, too, El."
She left the door open when she slipped out.
The hall light cast a pale white beam across the hardwood floor outside the bedroom. Elita rolled onto her left side and watched the shadows of her parents unite in a slow dance. She could hear them speaking to each other in low undertones. They made no secrets about how much they loved each other.
She smiled, closed her eyes and fell asleep hoping for a better tomorrow.
SUMMARY: The symptoms were there, whether he liked it or not. Hiding them to protect her from worrying had to be as heavy for him as his sword felt to her.
PAIRING: OptimusxMikaela (glimpsed) This is mostly a father and daughter fic.
RATING: T
UNIVERSE: Bayverse (Danceverse)
GENRE: Angst/Family
OTHER NOTES: This is another addition to the Danceverse series. It's a dad-and-daughter piece with a glimpse of OptimusxMikaela.
The translated Cybertronian on Optimus' sword is pure headcanon; I don't actually know what those glyphs say.
My hope is the contents of this story as well as In Sickness and in Health help end the stigma against mental illnesses. It's a long shot, but I can try!
Trigger warning: This fic contains a serious discussion about sexual assault and makes passing mention of a violent suicide.
LOCATED:
FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10809632/1/Put-It-Down
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Put It Down
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"I want to hide the truth, I want to shelter you,
but with the beast inside, there's nowhere we can hide.
No matter what we breed, we still are made of greed!
This is my kingdom come, this is my kingdom come..."
--Imagine Dragons, "Demons"
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THWACK! THWACK!
The infernal noise cut through Elita's concentration, leaving her no hope of regaining her train of thought. She realized she'd read the same math word problem four times without comprehending it. Homework over the weekend sucked, but she had a minimum day at school and figured doing the boring stuff when she got home was better than dropping something fun to finish it Sunday night.
A third round of banging sent Elita throwing her pencil down in exasperation. She stared at the sunlit tree branches waving gently outside her windows and remembered...
Ultra Magnus took Mikaela to work, which left the Chevy Silverado available so Optimus could pick Elita up from school.
He'd added a bright red windbreaker to his human hologram's wardrobe, making him easy to spot next to the silver pickup truck in the parking lot. Sometimes he had stubble, sometimes he appeared clean-shaven. Once in a great while, he tried a mustache or revived the mutton chops and soul patch. That day, he 'wore' his brown hair slightly spiked while sporting a groomed door knocker goatee.
"There's my dad," Elita turned to hug the tan, dark-haired girl standing next to her. "Bye, Lupe. Don't forget to eat lunch when you get home."
"Okay," Lupe patted Elita's back, her voice thick with a Mexican accent, "Tell your dad hi for me."
"I will."
Elita's friends said Optimus resembled a blue-eyed Eric Wareheim from Tim and Eric's Awesome Show. She could see it. Sort of. Optimus' human hologram was in better physical shape.
They didn't talk much beyond the obligatory greetings and 'how did your day go?' during the drive home. Optimus' eyes kept squinting behind the silver frames of his glasses. Somehow, he shaped them to resemble his robot-self's eyelids.
"Is it bad today?" Elita asked him.
Optimus nodded slowly.
"I wasn't sure if I-- hey!" He slammed on the brakes and punched the horn when a white Corvette cut him off to reach the intersection first. Upon stopping next to it, he rolled down his window and snarled at the other driver, "I had the right of way!"
"Whoa," said the teenage driver, who lifted his sunglasses until they almost touched his blue Mohawk, "Ease up, man."
Optimus jabbed an accusing finger at the teenager's face. Even at a distance, it still made the punk kid shrink back in his car. "My daughter is in this vehicle. You nearly T-boned her side!"
The left-turn light turned green and the Corvette peeled around the corner.
Elita focused on her own pale blue eyes in the Silverado's side mirror. Her freshly-trimmed brown hair fell just above her shoulders. Not yet long enough to keep it in a ponytail. She sighed, brushing it aside.
"Dad, it's okay, he didn't hit us."
"He could have," Optimus whispered. "He could have."
Once startled, he wouldn't calm down again. His eyes darted towards every movement. He shifted his hologram to his robot self as they turned onto the winding road leading to the cabin. The rest of the drive passed in tense silence.
Elita went right upstairs upon arriving home. She didn't know what to do for her dad, so she got out of his way. He probably wanted to be left alone. She quietly wished she could help him.
Lately, life in the household was divided into good days, so-so days and very bad days. Optimus hardly talked at all on the very bad days. He was more on edge, and acted as if simple everyday functions used the energy he normally reserved for idle conversation.
Today, his behavior indicated a very bad day.
Though Elita didn't fully grasp the exact circumstances responsible for his stasis trauma, she understood the condition was a result of malfunctioning software. Something akin to a computer with scrambled desktop shortcuts that accidentally opened incorrect programs at the wrong times.
The result: a heightened fear response, lots of scary thoughts, fits of sadness, horrible nightmares and flashbacks. Nightmares happened randomly. Flashbacks were triggered by innocuous everyday objects. Even pictures or scenes containing them on TV set the flashbacks off.
Mikaela laid down three specific rules: No going to movie theaters with dad, don't touch his chest when your hands have calluses from the monkey bars, and don't let him see the crowbar in the garage.
Elita was scared the first time she inadvertently broke one of those rules. Optimus asked her to help him tidy up the garage during spring cleaning, and she grabbed the container holding the crowbar wrapped in a stained dust cloth. Not realizing this, she uncovered it right in front of him. Her stomach dropped at the way he jerked back.
"Oh no! Dad, I'm sorry! I didn't know that was in there! Dad? Dad? Dad!"
Optimus had turned away, taken a step...and froze. His optics flickered like the coals in a barbecue pit.
"Daddy, it's me!" Elita cried, "Dad...can you hear me?"
"Don't come any closer. Don't. No. Stay away!"
"I'm sorry, dad, I'm sorry!"
She hid the crowbar under the wooden letter blocks in her old toy box.
"I put the crowbar away. It's gone. Dad?"
Optimus' features twisted in genuine pain. Steam escaped the tiny vents beneath his nose.
"I can't move," he said.
Desperate, Elita dropped the plastic container. Spare bulbs for the icicle lights escaped their plastic bag and spilled around her feet.
Optimus jolted at the sound. His optics regained their steady azure glow. He hurried to help pick up the loose LED light bulbs.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he murmured. His voice sounded perfectly calm again, but embarrassment prevented him from fully meeting her eyes. "Did I scare you?"
Elita bit her bottom lip. She wondered how stasis trauma felt because she just couldn't fathom it, but didn't know how to ask him about it.
Two years ago, Lupe, one of her friends at school, had a mentally ill uncle who put a shotgun in his mouth and killed himself because he thought the "people in the walls" wanted his soul. Lupe called it schizophrenia.
Jorje was the nicest guy Elita knew besides Optimus. His thick Mexican accent and big, barking laugh were staples in Lupe's household. Elita always remembered the funny stories he told about his childhood. He only acted strange when he didn't take his medication. Then something happened and he couldn't have his usual medication anymore. That was when he took his life.
Elita went to the funeral to support her friend. Poor Lupe-- she found her uncle with his brains splattered across the kitchen floor and hadn't been the same since. Kids at school were cruel about it when they found out. They called Lupe the girl with the crazy dead uncle. Elita once chased a sixth grader around the playground because she saw her pretending to shoot herself behind Lupe's back.
But what if stasis trauma made Optimus do the same thing as Lupe's uncle? In reality, he was far away from Earth. What if he stabbed his own Spark out or flew into a star? There wasn't anything anyone could do.
"You didn't scare me, the yelling did," Elita swallowed, calming herself, "Are you okay now?"
Optimus squinted and parted his mouth plates, his version of a smile. "Yeah. I'm fine. Let's get these lights put away before your mother runs us over."
He always deflected his own problems with friendly winks, smiles and a constant need to do something.
Like the present moment.
Elita stood on the bottom two stairs and peered out the huge picture windows overlooking the woods.
Optimus, a being made of gleaming red, blue and silver metal, looked every bit like he belonged in a superhero movie. People put him on a pedestal as a leader, a warrior and a legend.
To her, he was simply 'dad.' A dad who could transform into a truck and accomplish feats the average human population only dreamed of.
She often called him a superhero because he shared so many similarities with them. Like Superman, he had to hide his true identity from a world not ready to fully comprehend his existence. But great power required greater responsibilities, and being heroic didn't come without burdens and consequences.
Elita watched Optimus stand a chunk of wood on the edge of the deck. He grasped his sword in both hands, raised it aloft and brought it down with a loud THWACK. The sliced pieces toppled aside. Judging by the considerable mound, he'd been at it for awhile.
Optimus seized what appeared to be the last part of whatever small tree he chopped down. He tossed it straight up, squinted and swung his sword upward. His huge blade cleaved the wood in two. The halves landed on either side of him.
Time stood still for a beat. Optimus stuck his sword in the ground and grabbed the wood chunks. They weren't cut evenly. His shoulders rose and fell, mimicking an exasperated sigh, and he spiked the pieces like footballs. He turned away, stopped and abruptly rushed over to punt a large portion of the gathered wood pile across the grass.
"Be quiet! This is not who you are! You are strong enough!" Optimus snarled, kicking at what he missed the first time. His optics flared brightly. "This is enough! I am enough! No, be quiet! I can do this! Quiet!" He chucked more wood chunks at the trees and hollered down at his open hands, "This is my fight! You will not overpower me!"
Elita clutched at the banister. Optimus never yelled at her or Mikaela like that, but he always yelled at himself. Always. This wasn't the first time she heard him, however it was the first time she actually saw him in the act.
Optimus finally stopped shouting. He stood still, surrounded by the sliced fragments of a tree. The yard was a disaster zone. For a moment, he surveyed the damage as if trying to make sense of it all. Then he closed his optics, rubbed his fingertip across the bridge of his nose and muttered in undertones too low to hear.
Most of the time, he acted normal. He worked hard to behave civilly in public.
Then he came home and did things like that.
Elita padded through the living room to reach the kitchen. She stopped by the back door set between the refrigerator and the kitchen counter. Taking a breath, she quietly pulled the main door inward and pushed the screen door outward.
"Daddy?" she hedged. "What are you doing?"
Optimus' hand fell to his side. He opened his optics and immediately wiped the distraught expression off his face.
"I'm practicing my swordsmanship."
She approached him, glancing at the alien William Wallace-style claymore planted vertically in the ground. It stood almost two feet taller than her. Cybertronian glyphs framed both sides of the intricate fuller running along the blade's center.
In the name of freedom, in the name of justice and in the name of peace. Worthy is the hand, worthy is the arm and worthy is the Spark of the Knight wielding this blade.
"It looks hard," Elita remarked.
Optimus grasped the sword by its handle and easily freed it from the ground. When he straightened, the pointed pommel was level with the tip of his nose. Elita's head barely reached the topmost section of his abdomen-- she could have stuck her nose into his belly button if he had one.
"It's only difficult to someone who hasn't handled a blade before. Here, I'll show you." His shadow swallowed Elita's when he stepped behind her. He knelt, his long arms easily framing her without having to shift position. "Grasp the hilt above and below my hands."
Optimus gripped hilt in the middle. Elita took hold of the sword just above its pommel and below the cross-guards. The handle was nearly as long as her entire arm. Her small fingers didn't encircle it completely. She noticed it felt rougher and less round than the monkey bars at school. The reality of its weight wasn't lost on her.
"Whoa, this thing's heavy!"
"Mmhmm, but using a sword is less about physical strength and more about balance. The blade's center of gravity is close to the hilt. Once you know that, you can use your whole body in tandem with the weight of the blade," Optimus' deep voice created faint vibrations in the sword.
"Stand like you're up to bat in baseball. Left leg forward, back leg-- that's right. Don't hold the pommel end so tight, it needs to be able to move in your grasp. It's your top hand that will control the blade. Your bottom hand is there for support."
"This might be easier if the sword wasn't bigger than me," Elita joked.
Optimus chuckled and kissed her above the ear. "You're right, but you're doing fine."
She laughed with him before refocusing on the task at hand. Throughout the lesson he held the sword unwaveringly forward; he didn't have muscles that trembled or fatigued from holding something heavy.
"We're going to perform a diagonal slash. It's similar to swinging a baseball bat, but you're going to move from the upper right to your lower left. Here is where controlling the handle comes in. Rock forward on your feet...now back. There you go."
Optimus pulled the sword and Elita's arms rightward and upward until the blade pointed towards the cabin rooftop.
"Relax your arms a little more. Make sure the pommel stays at this angle. Hold on tight enough to keep your grip, but not so tight that it can't pivot. For the swing, twist just like you're hitting a baseball and push with your right hand. Momentum will do the rest. Remember, your whole body provides the force, but let the blade become an extension of yourself. Ready?"
"Uh-huh!"
"All right, push!"
Optimus guided the sword forward. Elita timed her movements per his instructions. The weapon's full relationship with gravity suddenly took over. She squeezed her eyes shut. The blade continued towards inevitability.
THWACK!
Elita let the sword pull her into a kneeling position. She opened her eyes. Two pieces of wood sat near the end of the still-vibrating blade. Optimus wasn't holding the handle anymore.
"Nice going, sweet-Spark!"
She blinked, looking at the deadly weapon still in her hands. Her slightly sweaty palms had imprints from the intricate hilt.
"You helped me."
"Actually, no. I let go of the sword after you started swinging. You did that on your own, kid." He ruffled her hair, "You believed you could, so you did."
Pride swelled behind Elita's sternum. The sword was far too heavy for her to lift on her own, but she managed to wield it. She laid the alien blade gently on the grass before examining the wood chunk she sliced apart. The cut was terribly uneven and barely went all the way through. Still, she had done it.
Beside her, Optimus bent and picked up his sword. To him, it didn't weigh much at all. Being sick, on the other hand, had to feel like brandishing a weapon ten times his size. While he lacked muscles that wore out with overuse, the exhaustion of fighting wrote itself so plainly on his face. All because he bore a mental sword far larger than himself.
Elita suddenly realized how much effort Optimus put forth to conceal his constant inner struggle. The symptoms were there, whether he liked it or not. Hiding them to protect her from worrying had to be as heavy for him as his sword felt to her.
"Dad," Elita whispered, "Put it down."
"Hm?"
"Put it down!" She slapped the blade out of his hands and wrapped her arms around his waist. "You pretend you're fine for me all the time, daddy, but I know you're not. You don't have to pretend for me. It's okay to be sick in front of me. It's okay to be sad in front of me. I know you're strong, you don't have to prove it anymore."
Optimus' hands slipped under her armpits and lifted her up to eye level. Elita grabbed onto him like a koala. Gratefulness and relief swirled inside the pain radiating through his blue optics. The wiper fluid tears came next, though they didn't last long.
"Primes take care of people," Elita hugged him as tight as he held her. "That's what I'm gonna do when I grow up. Take care of people."
She gazed beyond Optimus' shoulder armor, her blue eyes carefully studying the fragments of what used to be a small tree littering the grass around them.
"How did that soldier make you sick?" she asked, "What did he do? Can you tell me or is it too hard?"
"I can talk about it," Optimus' torso moved like someone steeling themselves with a deep breath. The cool plating under Elita's cheek trembled. "But first, do you remember when I explained what your mother and I do when we close our bedroom door?"
She nodded, "You have sex...but you say make love. You touch each other in places nobody else is allowed to touch and it feels good."
"Exactly. Anyone who tries to touch your private areas or engage in sex with you without your permission is very, very wrong to do so. Even if what they do makes you feel good."
"Feeling good can be bad?"
"The sensation itself isn't a bad thing, but the person forcing you to feel that way against your will is violating your body. Your body responds to things by itself all the time whether you want it to or not. The sensations related to sex are very intense and can't easily be stopped once they start. It's like..." Optimus squinted until the idea flashed on his face, "It's a lot of fun to get tickled, right? Being tickled feels good and makes you laugh uncontrollably, but you wouldn't want someone tickling you at a funeral, would you?"
"No way, you're supposed to be sad at funerals. Especially Lupe's uncle...everyone was crying. I don't want to laugh in front of somebody's coffin."
"Yes, you see?" He looked her squarely in the eyes. "Someone who keeps tickling you at a funeral after you tell them to stop is making you feel a sensation you don't want to feel."
"Yeah, that's a mean thing to--" Cold realization crystallized in Elita's mind. Only one part of her dad's body was that private and sacred. She stared at him, aghast. "That soldier messed with your Spark?"
"Yes," Optimus replied simply, even though the truth made his voice shake. "After the Cemetery Wind attack, I took shelter inside an abandoned movie theater. I was injured and unable to transform. The soldier who found me tried to pry my Spark chamber open with a crowbar. I went into emergency stasis minutes after, and I spent four years with that single moment replaying over and over in my processor. Reliving the fear, horror and shame for four years created chaos within my software. That is why we call it stasis trauma. It can only happen to a bot who enters stasis immediately after experiencing something traumatic."
His optics clicked shut. Pain twitched his mouth plates into a grimace. The agony of remembering moved through him like a wave. He shuddered noticeably.
"Daddy," whispered Elita.
"The soldier who hurt me was trying to kill me-- he had no idea he had violated me. A human who commits such an atrocity on you will know exactly what they are doing. You have a right to refuse an unwanted advance, and a decent person will respect that. If anyone ever tries to look at or touch your private areas without permission, I want you to inform your mother or me about it right away. Don't keep it a secret even if they tell you to. No matter the situation or who it is, come to us. You will never be in trouble for reporting that kind of incident, but the person responsible will have to contend with me."
Freeing his left hand, he held up his pinkie finger, "Pinkie promise that you'll tell me?"
"Okay, pinkie promise," Elita hooked her pinkie around his. Knowing what made his mind sick unsettled her more than she cared to admit, but remembering what happened to Lupe's uncle Jorje was ten times scarier. She let go of his little finger and hugged his neck again. "Dad, how can I help you get better?"
His silver-black eye ridges rose as the glow in his optics softened.
"You already are, sweet-Spark. Not having to hide it means everything to me. I-- whoops, just a moment. Telephone."
"Yeah, better get that."
Optimus set Elita down and one of his audios emitted a soft beep. "Good afternoon, Mikaela. You're-- oh? Is he? I completely understand. Yes, thank you for letting me know. Mm, yes, I'll be all right until then." He paused and a familiar warmth passed his face like sunlight peeking through clouds. "I love you, too. Goodbye."
"Mom's gonna be late?"
"Mmhmm. Jeremy called in sick and she agreed to cover his shift. She won't be home until ten. Looks like it's you and me, kiddo." Optimus blinked and regarded her, "So, as I was saying, I think getting your homework done will be helpful."
"What about the mess?" Elita gestured at the yard. "Need a hand?"
"Nah. I made it, so I'll clean it up. I'm all right now, thanks to you."
This time, his smile didn't seem forced.
She beamed back. "Okay, boss. Can I make a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner?"
Optimus pointed at her and winked, "Eat a salad with it and you're on."
"Awesome!"
Elita went back inside. She skipped upstairs to finish her arithmetic homework. Now that she knew why her dad wasn't well, she silently swore she would give her all to understand his illness and help him recover.
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Dinnertime came and went with little fuss. Optimus checked over Elita's math homework while she ate. Cleanup took almost fifteen minutes. Elita figured she should give Mikaela a break by washing the breakfast dishes, too, so she did.
In her peripheral vision, she saw Optimus sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. He'd finished examining her math homework and hadn't moved from that pose since he set her math book aside.
Depression was one of the many facets of his disorder. He fought it with the bravest face imaginable, yet giving him permission to 'be sick' in her presence meant he wasn't trying to hide his battle from her. Picking her up from school, clearing away the mess he made in the yard and supervising while she cooked a grilled cheese sandwich burned through his last emotional reserves.
Realizing just how much Optimus shouldered to take care of the household despite feeling so awful made Elita admire him more.
"Did I get all my answers right?" she asked after putting the silverware away.
"Mmhmm," Optimus answered noncommittally. No feigned exuberance. He didn't even raise his head.
"Awesome, thanks."
Elita kissed the top of his head, grabbed her math book and carried it upstairs. She returned with the fleece snowflake blanket he got for Christmas and wrapped it around his shoulders.
"I love you, dad."
Optimus looked over. His optics twinkled with a hint of the happiness captured by the photos on the wall in the master bedroom. The person he had always been was still there, mired under the invisible war raging inside his mind.
"I love you, too, sweet-Spark," he reached out and took her hand, "Thank you. You're doing a wonderful job. I know I'm not showing it very well, but you're helping me more than I can say. I deeply appreciate it."
"You're welcome," she squeezed his hand. Seeing him this way was harder than she imagined it would be, but it gave her the courage to ask the burning question, "Can you tell me what being sick feels like to you?"
"Hmm...that's a tough one. I'll try."
He rested his forehead on his free hand. His audio covers twitched. Neither achieved a full revolution before they changed directions. A long moment passed before he spoke again.
"Right now...it's like a hole, empty and dark. I know I have many responsibilities, but the desire to perform those duties isn't there. My emotions are blunted. I have to work in order to show how I feel outwardly. I struggle to do the everyday tasks most people don't think twice about. Then there are times where I can't control any of my emotions at all. They happen before I'm able to logically assess the reason I'm feeling them.
"When I'm tense like I was while driving you home, it's the fear. Do you remember how frightened you were when lightning hit the road while you were accidentally locked outside last month?"
Just remembering the experience made Elita's heart jump. That storm blew the door closed while she sprinted through pouring rain to grab the mail. Unaware that she went out, Optimus had turned the deadbolt so the wind wouldn't keep swinging the door open and shut. And just as Elita realized the door was locked-- BAM! Lightning hit the road scarcely twenty feet away. She remembered screaming and banging on the glass. When Optimus realized his error and let her back inside, she cried in his arms for ten straight minutes.
Elita shook off the memory. She could laugh at it now.
"Scariest thing ever," she said, "But I got over it."
"Mmhmm. Now imagine not being able to 'get over it' after the fact. The experience is finished, but your body keeps telling you to be afraid. You're on edge, you're jumpy, you think danger is everywhere," Optimus briefly met her eyes, "That is the fear part of my condition."
He lowered his gaze again. Elita waited patiently. He was doing an excellent job of explaining it in a way she could understand, and she wasn't about to shut him down by rushing his thoughts.
After a long silence, Optimus gestured at the clicker on the end table.
"The flashbacks and nightmares are like someone changing the channel in my mind. Only, instead of watching the events, I'm reliving them. When they happen, they are as real to me as you are right now. I know the channel has changed when I'm having a flashback, but I can't always change it back on my own. With nightmares, I have no realization that I'm on the wrong channel until I awaken in a different position than I was when I settled down to recharge.
"And, sometimes, my mind will say cruel things to me-- those are called intrusive thoughts. Whenever you hear me hollering at myself, please know that it isn't anything you've done. It's my verbal equivalent to writing in the notebooks upstairs. I challenge those thoughts because I refuse to let them wear me down."
"What do they say to you?"
"Just about everything school bullies say, and more. Sometimes, they sound like Megatron. Other times, I hear Sentinel," he flinched, "Most of the time, it's my own voice."
"That sounds really hard," whispered Elita.
Optimus' head rose and fell in a tired nod. "Facing those things requires a lot of my strength. Some days, it takes more out of me than others. Today is rough. Tomorrow may be worse, or it might be better. I never know until I start engaging in tasks that require focus. Despite those difficulties, Elita, listen-- never think for a single moment that I am pretending to be happy when I see you. I'm always happy to see you, and that will never change. It is only my ability to show it that is hampered. I want you to remember that, all right?"
"I will, now that I know." She held his huge metal hand between her tiny ones and rubbed it as if to return its lost warmth. "Can I give you a hug?"
"Sure." Optimus encircled her in his arms and pulled her close to his chest.
"That's why you're a superhero," mumbled Elita. She embraced him tightly, wishing she had the ability to squeeze the brokenness out of him.
"Hm?"
"I said, 'that's why you're a superhero.' Just because nobody can see you fighting doesn't mean you aren't kicking butt, dad. I'll be your sidekick, okay? Sooo," she spoke in his audio, "Hey, bad thoughts! My dad is better than you! Go away!"
A smile blossomed on Optimus' metal features. "I just recorded your voice saying that. I'll play it when they start up again."
"Good, maybe it'll make 'em shut up!" Elita straightened to look him in the optics again. "Let's watch a movie. Something funny."
"What did you have in mind?"
"How about Shrek?"
Optimus winked, "Deal."
They settled down to watch. Elita curled up in Optimus' lap and they shared the blanket. She noticed he wasn't chuckling at the funny parts like he usually did. Maybe, like he said earlier, the laughter stayed in his Spark. Just because she couldn't hear it didn't mean it wasn't there.
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Ten o'clock crawled by. Then ten-fifteen and ten-twenty. Elita spent more time yawning than she did doodling butterflies on a piece of construction paper. Watching Shrek partially refilled Optimus' reserves and his need to do things took over again. He bustled around the kitchen, wiping crumbs off the counter, shooing a moth back outside and taking out the trash.
"I'm tired," Elita yawned for the fiftieth time in ten minutes. "Dad, will you be up soon if I get ready for bed?"
"Definitely," Optimus replied from the kitchen. "Mikaela called to let me know Ultra Magnus is bringing her home right now."
"Cool, I hope I'm still awake when she gets here."
Elita climbed the stairs, changed into her purple Rapunzel nightgown, used the toilet and busily brushed her teeth. Performing those tasks brought back her fading alertness. She was wide awake again by the time Optimus came upstairs to tuck her into bed.
"How long will it take you to get better?" Elita asked him.
Optimus knelt on the floor by the bed, which brought his face nearer to hers. "I don't know. It may be a year, it may be five years. It's different for everyone."
She swallowed over the lump in her throat. The fear she hid throughout the day surfaced, twisting her voice small, "Y-You aren't going to die like Lupe's uncle Jorje, are you?"
"Oh, Elita, is that why you've been keeping such a close eye on me all day?"
"Yeah..."
His optics widened slightly in the darkness. He leaned closer, looking her in the eyes, "Schizophrenia and stasis trauma have a few similarities, but they aren't the same condition. I'm not going to take my own life because of it."
"Promise?"
She felt his metal lips brush her cheek and forehead. His kisses clicked rather than making a wet smacking sound.
"I promise," he whispered in her ear. "I promised to never leave you again and I intend to stand by it."
"Pinkie promise to make it official?" Elita held up her little finger.
Optimus linked his pinkie with hers. "This is an official pinkie promise. I will not die from this, Elita."
The hard lump in her throat softened away. Her dad always kept his promises.
"You can come to me if mom isn't home, you know. I'll take care of you when she can't. Don't be by yourself if you feel bad, okay?"
One of his glowing blue optics winked shut. "It's a deal. Besides, you've proven yourself to be an excellent nurse."
Elita smiled and promptly yawned. Lying down had definitely returned the sleepiness that tried to abandon her in the bathroom. She grasped Optimus' thumb since he left it within reach. "Hey, dad?"
"Hm?"
"If I meet the soldier that hurt you...can I beat him up?"
Optimus made sounds similar to mechanical snorting. "While I'm not a fan of unnecessary violence...heh...I won't be the one who tries to stop you."
Giggling, she puckered up her lips to receive the good night kiss he happily gave.
"Can we do the Cybertron good night kiss grandpa Orion gave you?" Elita asked hopefully.
"Certainly," Optimus' face came towards hers again.
"Good night to the stars, good night to the moon. Feel no fright towards the lack of light, for morning will arrive very, very soon," he said, reciting the Cybertronian equivalent to a short nursery rhyme.
They gently bumped and nuzzled noses, then repeated the gesture with their lips. Optimus' less-than-flexible mouth plates didn't allow him to pucker up like Elita could, so he kept them slightly parted instead.
"Thank you, again, for helping me today," his soothing baritone voice washed against her ear, "I love you so very much, my little sweet-Spark."
"You're welcome. I love you a whole lot back, dad."
She let go of his thumb so he could get to his feet. The front door creaked open as he exited the bedroom.
Elita watched the silhouettes of her parents meet right outside her doorway. Optimus slipped his arms around Mikaela's waist and she embraced his neck. They exchanged a long hello kiss.
"Sorry I'm so late. Ultra Magnus took me to Taco Bell after I said I needed something spicy."
"Something spicy, you say?" Optimus waggled his eye ridges at her and imitated a cat's purr-meow.
"Easy there, Kittymus Prime," Mikaela snickered, slapping his shoulder. "Is El still awake?"
"Yes," he dropped his voice to a murmur too quiet to hear. She hugged him again and rubbed his back. They spent another lengthy moment with their foreheads touching.
Afterward, Optimus headed for the master bedroom. Mikaela tip-toed into Elita's room.
"Hey, sweetie, thanks for washing all the dishes for me. I heard you took care of daddy today, too."
"Yeah," Elita reached up for a sleepy hug and kiss from her mom. She loved those squish-hugs. "I told him he doesn't have to pretend he's fine when he's not. Remember when I lied about my ear infection being better so I could go swimming with Jennifer? I cried all night afterward."
"Ooh, yeah. Learned a lesson, didn't you?"
"Yup! But I don't want dad getting worse like that, either."
"He won't if we keep helping him," Mikaela sounded like someone took a load of worry off her shoulders, too. "It might get worse before it gets better, though."
"He promised not to die like Jorje."
"Oh, sweetie," Mikaela hugged her again, reassuringly, "Jorje died because he had an incurable condition and his doctors changed his medicine to something that didn't work. It's not like that for your daddy. Optimus is going to be okay, but it's going to take time and a lot of support."
"Good...'cause that story still scares me, mom."
"I know. You've got guts to keep helping Lupe. Being at the funeral was a great thing to do. She'll always remember that."
Elita covered a yawn. Having her mom home greatly eased her worries about her dad.
Air brakes hissed outside. Mikaela craned her neck to peek out the window above the dresser.
"There's Ultra Magnus. Poor guy sounded tired tonight, even for a robot."
"Dad said he had a long patrol."
"Yup, and then he picked me up at Joe's. That added twenty minutes to his route."
"He needs a break," Elita gave in to her billionth yawn before curling up on her right side. "Sleepy...night mom, I love you."
"So am I," Mikaela yawned in sympathy. She leaned down and her warm, soft kiss tickled Elita's cheek. "Night night, I love you, too, El."
She left the door open when she slipped out.
The hall light cast a pale white beam across the hardwood floor outside the bedroom. Elita rolled onto her left side and watched the shadows of her parents unite in a slow dance. She could hear them speaking to each other in low undertones. They made no secrets about how much they loved each other.
She smiled, closed her eyes and fell asleep hoping for a better tomorrow.