a/n: This hasn't been beta'ed though I've done my best to catch the errors. The incomplete sentences, however, were intentional. Please enjoy!

Title: To Wish Impossible Things

Universe: Bayverse, likely post ROTF

Characters: past Megatron/Optimus

Rating: T

Description: Ficlet. Only a great love could spawn such an all consuming hate.

For ancientlybroken who prompted me Megatron/Optimus, "I hate you" and it refused to restrain itself into a tiny flashfic.

"I hate you," he growls into the dark of his quarters, claws gouging holes in his berth. His optics flicker, his frame tenses. His guttural vocalization echoes in the starkness of his room.

I hate you.

Megatron hates everything. He hates the memories, the way his system flags them for reviewing right before recharge, entirely without his permission.

Memories of soft smiles. Deft touches. The taste of a pure spark. The sensation of utter trust. The glyphs of his name cried out in open need.


Laughter shared over energon. Playful sparring after a fruitless day spent in politics. The hot crash of mouth on mouth, ex-vents caressing already heated plating. Nimble fingers grasping sensitive wires, tugging, pain and pleasure.

I hate you.

It has to be hate, this overwhelming need to destroy. To abolish the truth staring him in the optics. To lock away everything that's been taken from him.

"You are the cruelest of them all." Megatron sneers into the shadows, trying and failing to lock away the past.

"Your spark is beautiful."

"You speak pretty lies as always, Optimus."

Fingers tease the outer corona of fiery red, making Megatron shudder with pleasure. "I'd never lie to you."


His fist impacts the berth again. A loud noise, metal crumpling. Soundwave pings him, a polite query of faithful concern. Megatron ruthlessly snaps a command to be left alone, to be tortured by the past in solitude.

"I hate you," he says to the ghostly image of the mech who was. The Optimus not a Prime. Each glyph is heavy with finality, dire with promise of destruction and pain. Physical pain to match the agony in Megatron's spark.

His vocalizer crackles with static, optics bleeding crimson, berth screeching protest under his claws.

"Failed," he snarls. Himself? Or the fuzzy after-image of his memory files. Maybe both.

"Never," responds the soft croon, so much promise, so much invitation. It would be too easy to give in. Peace will never be an option.

Megatron chokes on the ghostly scent of stale energon, burnt Cybertronian frames, and an all too dead planet. Too late. Too fragging late.

The night twists into itself. Megatron shudders, lost to the echoes. This pain cannot be broken.

Tomorrow will rain energon. It's his only hope for salvation.

"I hate you," he says aloud this time. Louder.

"No," the Optimus-not-a-Prime murmurs. "I love you."


He has no escape from them. Not in the quiet hours before he stirs from recharge. Not when the Matrix is sufficiently charged, when it seeks to taunt him with all the things that were, remind him of all that's been lost.

He's a Prime. He's become an artifact of war. Scarred. Pitted. Tattered. Broken. He's not Optimus, not really.

Nothing will ever be the same again. He can't go back. He can't return to those golden orns of peace and happiness. He can't, won't?, return to Megatron's berth.

No matter how often he is assaulted with the memories.

Careful. Always so careful. Mindful of his greater weight, height, the strength of his armor, the sharpness of his claws. His teasing nature, turned in great force upon a helpless Optimus, who can only quiver, trying in vain to turn the tables.

What have you become? Prime mourns into the fallen night. What have I made you?

It can't be hate. It's not hate. When did it twist into hate?

Where is your Lord Protector? The Matrix demands of him. It's voice silky soft as much as it is barbed with mockery.

A soft keen threatens to spill from his vocalizer, but Prime clamps it down ruthlessly. Pins his lip components shut, slides his battle mask closed, as though that can prevent the sound from emerging.

What have you done? The Matrix demands.

What have I done? Prime's ventilations stutter, pain stabbing into the space behind his chestplates, where the Matrix and his spark chamber jostle for position. For prominence. What have we done?

"Failed," Prime croaks into the gloom. Who? Himself? Or the Megatron of his memories, the one who smiles a crooked smile but only ever in private.

Yes, the Matrix hisses at him. Accusing. You have.

This time the keen does escape him, no matter his restraint. Somewhere, in the next hanger, an ever vigilant Ratchet picks up the sound. He sends a query ping, and Prime can practically hear the medic's engine revving to come investigate, no matter what his leader might say.

Prime bites out a negative, citing a sensory ghost, promises to come in for a scan in the morning. By then he can lock it all away, back into the Matrix, into the core of his memories where no mech will find them. All to be relived upon another recharge.

I hate you. Prime cries into the darkness and he can't tell if it's truth or lie. The glyphs ring with agony, real and imagined. His spark lurches in his chamber, desperate for the past.

"We are more than what they make us."

"It is an honor."

"No," Megatron corrects with a flare of his optics. "It is a prison."

Tomorrow Prime will end this.

Tomorrow they'll be saved.

a/n: I might do more with this. I'm not sure. It really depends on what my muses give me, fickle beasts that they are.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated.

*Update* This fic now has a sequel entitled "The Great Divide".