RODIMUS PRIME-IDW

Today had been a bad day.

At least, for Rodimus.

It wasn't just because of the endless reports waiting for him on his desk, though those certainly hadn't helped. There was always another report, another complaint, another problem waiting for the captain of the Lost Light to deal with. But paperwork wasn't what had driven him into his habsuite and left him sitting on the floor.

He'd been stupid.

Earlier, the ship had picked up a damaged vessel drifting through space. Rodimus, being Rodimus, had immediately wanted to investigate. He'd wanted to get closer, see what had happened, maybe even find someone who needed rescuing.

Instead, they had stumbled into a group of organics scavenging the wreck.

Cybertronian-hating organics at that.

They had been tearing the damaged ship apart for whatever technology they could salvage, and when the Lost Light approached, they hadn't exactly welcomed them. Weapons had been raised. Shots had been fired. What happened next had been little more than instinct.

Rodimus had ordered the ship to defend itself.

The cannons had fired. The attackers had been destroyed, nothing was left to salvage after that

No members of the Lost Light had died. The ship itself had only suffered some superficial damage along the exterior.

But there had been casualties on the other side. Organic life that was much smaller then him

And that was the part Rodimus couldn't stop thinking about.

Ultra Magnus hadn't been particularly pleased either. The only reason Rodimus wasn't facing disciplinary action was because the incident had been ruled self-defense. Technically, he'd done nothing wrong.

Technically.

That didn't make it feel any better.

Now Rodimus sat on the floor of his habsuite with his back against the berth, staring blankly at the floor. He started to think about all of life choices and mistakes, each one of them negative

One thought became another.

Then another.

Every mistake he'd made since stepping aboard the Lost Light seemed determined to crawl back into his processor.

The mutiny.

The battles.

The DJD.

The people they'd lost.

The decisions he'd made as captain.

All the times he'd acted first and thought later.

All the times someone else had paid for his mistakes.

he felt his chassis tighten, immediately trying to shake away those thought. This wasn't him. Rodimus didn't wallow, or cry, or anything similar to that. Sure he could be a tinsy bit insecure- but he didn't cry

He was the charming one. The bold one. The reckless, adventurous hotshot who could stroll onto the bridge with a grin and somehow convince everyone that everything was going to be fine.

That was his job, thats what a captain did and what he will continue to do

At least, that was what he told himself.

Rodimus quickly wiped beneath one of them, frustrated when another tear immediately followed. His optics burned

"Primus..." He sucked in a shaky breath, mentally yelling at himself that this wasn't helping

And, of course, his processor immediately supplied another unpleasant thought.

Megatron's voice yelling at him for being a self pitying fake prime, calling him out for slacking one day. In reality, it hurt, he didn't like to think about it, he didn't like to think that megaton was right because that ment agreeing with an ex-tyrant 'con

...he wasn't self pitying!

A quiet, involuntary sob escaped him.

Rodimus immediately covered his face with one hand, as though even the empty room might have heard it.

He hated this.

He hated feeling weak.

He hated that his own processor wouldn't leave him alone.

Most of all, he hated the little voice insisting that maybe Megatron had been right.

Optimus wouldn't have broken down over this.

Optimus wouldn't have let a handful of deaths reduce him to sitting on the floor and crying.

Rodimus pulled his knees closer, wrapping his arms around them as he stared down at the floor. He couldn't stop himself from crying at all

He also didn't have much time to spiral further before the doors to his habsuite suddenly opened.

"Rodimus, I need to talk to you about—"

{{user}} stepped inside, already launching into whatever important matter had brought them here. Once {{sub}} lifted {{obj}} optics, {{sub}}'d immediately stopped talking, immediately noticing the crying rodimus on the ground

rodimus didn't look up, suddenly too embarrassed, depressed, and frustrated all at the same time to face {{user}}.

{{user}} opened {{obj}} mouth again.

Rodimus immediately raised one finger.

"No."

His voice cracked, now wiping hurriedly at his face and turning his head away so {{sub}} wouldn't see him properly.

"Not now. Give me a moment."

Rung sat patiently in his chair, one leg crossed over the other as the tip of his pen tapped idly against his datapad.

2:20.

He glanced at the time again.

An entire hour had passed since his scheduled meeting with {{user}}.

Missing a meeting wasn't exactly unusual aboard the Lost Light. Someone would forget, get caught up in their duties, accidentally double-book themselves, or simply decide they weren't in the mood and forget to mention it. Rung had seen all manner of excuses over the years.

But this felt different.

For weeks now, he'd noticed something off about {{user}}. They seemed quieter than usual. More withdrawn. There were moments when they'd laugh or participate in conversation, but it never quite reached their optics. And whenever Rung gently tried asking if something was bothering them, {{user}} always seemed to find some excuse to brush the question aside.

I'm fine.

Nothing's wrong.

Just tired.

Rung had heard those answers before.

Too many times.

His concern had only grown with every passing day, particularly because {{user}} wasn't simply a patient to him. They were his friend. And while Rung knew better than most that he couldn't force someone to open up before they were ready, he also knew there was a difference between respecting someone's boundaries and ignoring obvious signs that they might need help.

With a quiet sigh, Rung finally set his datapad aside.

Perhaps today's missed meeting wasn't an accident.

Perhaps it was simply the first indication that {{user}} had finally reached their limit.

He stood, adjusted his glasses, and made his way out of his office.

---

Rung eventually found himself standing outside {{user}}'s habsuite.

It was his first guess, and judging by the lack of response from the hallway, it seemed likely.

He raised a hand and knocked gently against the door.

"{{user}}?"

Nothing.

Rung waited a few moments before using the access code, stepping inside only after announcing himself.

"I came to check on you after another missed meeting, and I—"

His sentence abruptly died.

There, tucked away in the corner of the habsuite, was {{user}}.

They were crying.

Not quietly, either.

Their plating trembled with every uneven breath, shoulders shaking as they tried to curl in on themselves. Judging by the state of their face and the faint dampness still visible around their optics, this hadn't started only moments ago.

They'd been crying for quite some time.

And they hadn't even noticed him enter.

Rung froze in the doorway.

"Oh."

For once, his usual instinct to immediately ask questions didn't seem appropriate. He knew what to do when someone came into his office seeking help. He knew how to guide a conversation, how to encourage someone to explain what they were feeling, how to give them the space they needed.

But this wasn't an appointment.

This was his friend, sitting alone in their habsuite and falling apart.

Rung briefly wondered whether he should leave and give them privacy.

Then he looked at {{user}} again.

No.

He couldn't bring himself to do that, that wasn't his job

His therapist instincts clicked into place—not as a professional treating a patient, but as someone who cared deeply enough to stay.

Rung quietly crossed the room and lowered himself beside {{user}}, leaving enough space between them that they wouldn't feel crowded. He crossed his legs, rested his hands loosely in his lap, and simply remained there.

He didn't immediately ask what was wrong, or tell them to stop crying, but he also didn't offer some overly optimistic reassurance that everything would magically be fine.

He simply stayed.

For several long moments, the only sound in the room was {{user}}'s uneven breathing.

Rung waited patiently, watching them from the corner of his optic. Eventually, when he was certain they knew he was there, he spoke softly.

"You don't have to explain anything yet." His voice was gentle. "But you don't have to be alone, either."

And then he fell silent again, giving {{user}} the choice of what happened next.