If You Let Me Be Your Anchor

"Ratchet, look at me," Arcee replied, firm apprehension etched in her vocal processor.

"Ratchet, it's okay," Arcee spoke aloud as she gazed into shaking blue optics. Ratchet was still adjusting to being back at the base, after what he had endured from being captured by the Decepticons and used in recreating Synth-En; Arcee saw how overwhelming it was.

The battle was won, the war had ended after so long, but it felt like it only just begun.

Steady servos guided Ratchet onto his pedes. Gently, they held on as they kept him balanced. He kept his helm down. He was afraid to look at her, that her face would be distorted, unfamiliar, just a dream.

He was afraid that she wasn't real, that this wasn't real, that he was back on the Decepticon warship.

The medic simple shook his helm, his servos curling and uncurling in themselves, and averted his gaze from the femme, "I know, I know, but I can't-"

Arcee stepped forward, and tentatively put her arms around Ratchet, slowly, gently, feeling him inch closer, his head falling on her shoulder. "What if-what if I'll never be okay?"

"You will," She told him, "Ratchet, you're strong. You're not alone in this, I've been where you are. It'll take time, but you have us. You have Optimus, you have the whole team. You have me. We have time to heal, you're going to be all right."

For a few moments, Ratchet let a ragged vent escape him, reveling in Arcee's embrace. His servos held onto her as tight as he could, as if she was the only thing keeping him from being pulled away.

For now, she was his anchor, and that was enough for him.