#opticade

It's such a small and unnecessary thing and really, he's managed to live without it for ages. He's fully functional, his plating is clean, there's enough fuel, his team... his team is safe. He can't possibly ask for more, can't ask for luxuries. And he doesn't - his comfort is not a priority. At least not for him. Not for him...

"You do not have to do this, Cade Yeager," he says as he watches the human cleaning the inner sides of his plating, removing pebbles, dried out grime and rust. As the time goes, he gets cleaner and cleaner while the inventor's skin and clothes become more and more dirty. And it really is not fair. It shouldn't feel so nice, it shouldn't feel so right to let Cade do that.

"Nonsense, big guy," the human answers and reaches between Optimus inner cabling to dig out some small rocks, bits and pieces of leaves, grass and straw. He checks diligently all the transformation seams. All the plating patches. Oils the hinges and locks. Touches the warm piece of metal over Optimus's spark.

"Nice and shiny," he finally says and smiles to the Autobot leader. Optimus looks at his human friend, at his clothes, all stained and smudged, at his hair, almost grey from dust.

"Thank you, Cade Yeager," he rumbles.

His human grins:

He doesn't really know what to say.

There are no right words - no words he could think of that would make anything better. Crosshairs' "those fleshlings are really fragile" still reverberates in Hound's mind. Optimus should've never heard that. Even if it's true. But still...

Simple system - simple heart failure and Cade Yeager is gone, like that: no reboot, no frame change, nothing can bring him to life. Fifty-one years - a flash in a Cybertronian's optic. Nothing but organic waste remains.

So vulnerable. So weak. Delicate.

And Optimus grieves: his spark, older than this whole planet, brims with sadness and bleak regret. He barely says anything, forgets to fuel. He doesn't look any different - but his EM field almost burns with despair and pain.

And Hound is not sure if he should - if he should disturb that time of mourning, when he can't offer anything that would bring at least some comfort. But he climbs on the hill where Optimus spends most of his time, isolating himself from everyone else.

Fifty-one years. Stupid, weak humans. Fifty-one years..!

"I'm... really sorry, Optimus," he says gruffly and sits by his leader's side. And he is sorry - not for the human, but for their sparkbroken Prime. Too good, too loving, too quick to forgive and forget. Too ready to trust again. Too precious to suffer like that.