heavyweaponsbot | 20 - Commentlog (open)

[His kind do not dream. There are memories, certainly. But never dreams.]

[Not until the Elegante took that hard and fast rule away -- took him, changed him. Made him human. The change must have altered something. Ever since then, his recharge has been plagued with memories, with compounded memories and fantasies, fears and daydreams. He can't stop it. And while it's unsettling... it's something he's adapted to, more or less.]

[When the dream comes, he thinks it's going to be just the same as always. Another vague half-memory.]

[He is wrong.]

[It's the Shore. He's back on the Shore. It isn't how he remembers it -- strewn with confused survivors and massive chunks of ice. No bodies. There is instead, order. Nets and boats for fishing. Even a few sandcastles dot the beach, home to curious, colorful lobsters. He finds himself staring at them. The colors are familiar...]

[But someone approaches before he can really observe them. A familiar figure. One he'd seen back there. Only now... she knows his face. So to speak. Bryn. She puts her hands on his arm. It's as close to an embrace as they ever come -- he doesn't mind. She knows him. She's safe, intact, and she knows him. There are words exchanged, relief evident in her face, in his frame.]

[Then she leads him into the island's interior.]

[To the place they'd found the bodies. It's cleared now, made habitable again out of necessity, their comrades given all the respect they could, given their situation. She explains why, and he understands. Familiar faces lurk around every corner, while the tension he hadn't even realized he was feeling begins to leak from his shoulders, from his spinal column. The redheaded vanishing woman, her partner. The green man, his adopted family. The turle brothers. Bryn's mate -- one of his closest friends.]

[... The children.]

[He doesn't see them come. Suddenly, they're there. All of them. Mikaela is crying. Xanth isn't much better, though he's smiling, doing his best not to show it. Even the boy Zuko can't quite hide the look on his face. He lets them gather, stands among them. They're alive. They're all in one piece. It's all he wanted to know -- all he wanted to see.]

[Except... there's a voice. A low chuckle. Amusement, affection. Relief.]

[And time seems to stop in its tracks.]

[He lifts his head, the children seem to part, knowingly. He meets another's gaze across the little square they stand in.]

[Ratchet.]

[He wants to cry out, he wants to run to him. He wants to shout and scold him for not coming. He wants to take him and examine every panel and seam, to make sure his medic is just as intact, just as well, as he seems to be. But all he can do is stand, fixed and rigid in place, staring. His spark feels like it wants to burst from his chest.]

[And in the end, it's Ratchet who approaches. Who curls a hand over the side of his face. He feels himself sag against familiar framework, arms sliding with almost automatic ease around his medic's waist, pulls him close, until their armor scrapes. He can feel every movement, every subtle twitch and flex of joints. The barest hint of pulsing systems. He leans his forehead against Ratchet's, and the world around them disappears. There is a knowing little sound, a sigh, and Ratchet grips him just as tightly, as if they both may be separated again in a moment. He hears himself apologizing, explaining. He hears Ratchet tell him to be quiet, and he falls silent. They stand there, oblivious to those around them, locked so tightly together they may as well be one unit, one Autobot.]

[For the first time in months, the longest months of his entire life, he feels whole again. It's right.]

[When they finally part, it isn't for long. It's only until Ratchet can lead him to the little building he's claimed for himself. It's far from the privacy they'd had on the boat, but it will do. The smallest bit of seclusion is all they need -- and they come together again, and again, the bond between them strengthening, rekindling, at each touch, each gasping almost desperate moment they spend together once more.]

[The dream passes, slowly, as if granting him this last, small mercy. He wakes as he falls asleep again, arms still wrapped tightly around the neon armor laying atop his chest. The contentment, the sense of right permeating everything.]

[... It's okay. You're stronger than this...]

[The old soldier wakes alone, staring up at the night sky beside the lake. Cold sand presses against his back, where he'd simply dropped in his tracks. Water is lapping at one of his feet, damp and uncomfortable in the joints. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand, staring at it.]

[And for the first time since his arrival, he notices the barest hint of neon paint transfer, caught in the scars and grooves of his palm.]

[... you're stronger than this.]

Hmn.

Old fool...