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Last night I dreamed that you died.
It wasn’t a noble death or a dramatic death or even, heh, a hero’s death. It was just some decepticon being a better shot than usual and down you went. But it was horrifying, probably the worst thing I’ve ever seen, because it was you. That bright pink frame of yours, dulling to dead grey as I fought to reach your side was awful, but I got there in time to hold you as your spark went out.
You spoke to me, there at the end. Said things I’ve always wanted to hear, but am afraid you’ll actually say. I felt my spark break then, both because I lost you and because you were gone before I could tell you that I feel the same.
I woke when they shot me, and I think I must have made some noise because you and Hot Rod were both quick to ask if I was all right. Just hearing your voice was enough to soothe me and when you crossed the room to sit on my berth and fuss at me, I knew I’d just been processing bad data. You sitting there didn’t make the fear leave me completely, though, and it was all I could do not to grab you and hold you as close as I could while Hot Rod was still watching.
I forced myself to be content with your hand stroking my helm like I was a new-spark and feeling the warmth radiating off your plating.
Today was nearly a repeat of my dream.
I screamed when you went down, and I though my spark had stopped. I know that I killed at least one of them getting to your side, but Hot Rod swears there were four. I don’t remember.
The only thing that mattered was keeping you alive.
Somehow I managed to keep it together enough to remember my first aid training, though I don’t know how. You were such a mess, and I don’t think I’ve been so panicked since my first posting off world. The doc bot says I did good, and he must be right because you’re still here.
I just wish you’d wake up. I have so much to tell you, before it’s really too late.