He doesn't want to move on. Not really.
Doesn't want to forget. Doesn't want this to become normal. Slag it. It's all wrong!
The world tunnels off to somewhere distant, everything but servos moving in a practiced daze blurring beyond his awareness. If he doesn't acknowledge any of it, it will go away. He can work just like this, just like Optimus is just in the other room, just a bridge away, wherever he is. He'll just. Work. Until then. There's always something that needs to be done, even now.
When his processor is tired enough—like it is now, befuddled lag confusing his thoughts, overly error-riddled sectors getting the attention of being partitioned off for temporary shutdown, just to keep him functional—is the best he feels, really. However long it's been since he's recharged—five cycles, ten? He's stopped keeping track, and doesn't have plans to break the streak. It lets him forget everything. Not Optimus—never Optimus—but… reality, or some slag.
Something in his servos snaps, and he curses. Careless, careless. The annoyance is short lived, though, and his frame shudders as he sighs. Okay, welder now. Make up for that mistake. Like all the others. It's fine. He can fix it.
Optics shutter. The thought is truncated—messily, doesn't matter—and shoved aside before he partitions off and reboots a few more sectors. He'll just…
His servos slow and stall as he finishes the repair, welded section set down on the worktable. That done, he lets his helm hang forward for a few moments. A nap might feel nice… it's tempting. Or maybe some energon. His tanks are low, warnings pinging at the edge of his awareness. But it will still be some time before he enters a metabolic shutdown, and the stores are at the other end of the building. He'll be fine for now. Just a little nap.
Of course, it is Optimus who comes to hold him in his dream.
The smallest touch feels so wonderful. His spark shudders with relief, exhaustion, love…
"Optimus…" he murmurs. Yes, this… all is right.
Like all good things, though, it ends. Optimus slips away, that same slagging beautiful smile, that awful sadness and regret in his optics. Ratchet whimpers in his sleep—a tiny, pathetic sound, scarcely audible more than a step or two away.
But then, at least, everything is blissfully dreamless. He only wishes he could spend all of his life that way. This is all too short. Time spirals and soon he has to be conscious of the real world again.
He makes a half-sparked grumble, optics blinking open. There's—several parts of his processor fixate immediately. There's… a cube on his desk. He stares at it, not beginning to comprehend how it could possibly have gotten there. It's just sitting there, in a clear space among his tools, heat signature identifying it as slightly warm. He could… drink it. As nice of a distraction as hunger provides, some energon would taste so good.
His servos have already reached it on autopilot and brought it to his intake by the time he finishes the thought. He should at least have a little… yes. He gives up on fighting it and tips it back.
It is warm. A little sweet, with just a hint of a richer note that his chemoreceptors belatedly identify as cadmium.
His hydraulics tighten, stuttering vents making his plating tremble. This kind of thoughtful thing… he knows who, normally, would have done it.
It wasn't. One of the other bots must be visiting, and have taken pity on him. That's kind enough. But he doesn't need it. He's fine.
His servos lower, shaking as they return the cube to the worktable despite the protests of his tanks. He can't… It's just a cube. This is pathetic. He raises it again and drinks, wrestling to control his field as the tension in his frame melts from the warmth. It tastes so good.
Only when the cube is empty does he set it down again and stare blankly at his work. Fuel to get things done… better start again.
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