Marking it complete, but it'll get updated whenever inspiration strikes me. (I have two other stories prepped for this verse at this moment and a third in the works... two of which are smut... heh). These fics will not be any particular order and will cover the span of time from the inception of this unusual arrangement until... well... I haven't decided yet... at least until after they strike Earth. It will cover mostly Prowl's circumstances, but I hope to include a few Decepticon stories in here. There will be genderbending involved if I can do with this what I plan, and those chapters will get a warning attached for that. Enjoy!

Sour Fruit

Pairings Optimus/Elita/Prowl +others (Hubbed), Prowl/Ratchet implied
Warnings None that I can think of... Might be a little dark? --;;
Authors Note The hub theory is that a femme is the central bonding point for a group of mechs; an archaic technique used for reproduction that has since become defunct. The mechs are bonded to the femme, the hub, but not bonded to each other. Often, the mechs attached to the same hub will also be one another's lovers.

It was the smallest of sounds that brought Optimus from his recharge. He still sat at his desk, datapads scattered about him in a hopeless mess. He'd been attempting to clean out the files in his desk computer (a laborious task on the best of days, and this hadn't been the best of days) when he'd apparently slipped into recharge.

There it was again. That smallest of sounds.

But that hadn't been what brought him online.

No.

It had been the spike in his spark, the desperate reach of another seeking solace.

The mess on his desk forgotten, he stood, joints creaking with the sudden movement. Shoving his chair out of the way he made haste to the quarters separated from the office by a sliding door.

He entered the dark room, letting the door hiss shut behind him. Lights from various monitors lit up the berth, and pale blue optics stared at the wall, the pink frame shuddering with the effort of staying conscious.

:Elita!:

He knew though, that his wasn't the only voice she heard. But it was to him that she turned her face, and the tears tracing her cheek seams made guilt twist in his spark. He could hear the echo of other mechs reaching out to her, some querying her softly, some offering support despite not knowing what had happened, a few demanding an answer in harsh tones that reached everyone's senses.

She shook, sobbing, unable to curl into herself as he knew she wanted to, unable to even bring her hands up to wipe away her tears. Bindings held her firmly in place, attesting to her inability to control the seizures that would overcome her at random intervals. They kept her also from pulling out the wires plugged into her open chestplate; tubing and cables that kept her spark online and regulated her systems.

He pulled a rag out of subspace, using it to wipe away the fluid running down her face.

"Optimus," she whimpered, for his receivers alone, she spoke aloud.

It pained him, every solar cycle, to see her like this.

The door to his quarters slid open, and a mech stood silhouetted against the hallway light. Optimus glanced up, taking in the wings adorning the mech's shoulders, not that he was surprised. Only a select group had the access codes to his private quarters, and only one of those mechs was currently here. They had to have the access codes, they would cause a disturbance if they were left to pound on the door, so close but unable to answer her inadvertent call.

"Who was it, Elita?" The mech moved to stand on the other side of Elita's elevated berth. No expression touched his stoic face, even though he touched her shoulder in a gentle, if not tender, manner.

Optimus felt Elita withdraw from this mech, the signal muting itself. He thread his fingers through hers; squeezing her hand, offering silent comfort.

She squeezed back and her signal spiked out again, sending pain and loss; crying out a name. :Hardline!:

The mech's optics flashed. "Hardline was working with Ultra Magnus, is he okay?"

Elita-1 turned her head to glare at the other mech. "Yes," she said shortly, before turning away again.

The doorwings dipped down momentarily and he dropped his hand to his side.

"I'm sorry that you were pulled away from Ratchet for this, Prowl."

Prowl's lips twitched as he dismissed Optimus' concern with a flick of his doorwings. "Ratchet understands the necessity. He also asked me to see if you needed him, Elita, for the pain, perhaps?"

Optimus knew, then, that she had been ignoring his queries over their bond. "No, Prowl, tell him thank you." Another sob racked her frame.

Prowl's optics dimmed, and he stepped toward her again, doorwings tilted; clearly at a loss for what to do.

Sometimes Optimus wondered if it might not have been a better idea to give Jazz the command Prowl currently held. Elita-1 liked Jazz, as she had never liked Prowl. Yet, he knew that Jazz wouldn't have been able to handle the demands that came with the position; it wasn't in his personality profile. He served much better as Prowl's second-in-command, tempering Prowl's rather blunt, and emotionless mannerisms.

They could use a little of that tempering right now.

"I have this under control, Prowl." He didn't say, 'you're not helping,' he knew that Prowl was aware of this. "Why don't you go back and tell Ratchet that I will call, if I think she needs him." He also didn't say 'enjoy your time with him, while you are here,' that would be rubbing the other's face in exposed circuits.

Prowl's optics flickered with indecision, and Optimus understood. His bond protocols demanded that he stay and at least attempt to soothe his bondmate, but he also knew that Elita-1 didn't like him, and would receive no comfort from his continued presence. The conundrum stalled him.

:Elita, you need to talk to him.:

She shifted uncomfortably, her stubborn refusal sending along their bond.

Prowl's optics dimmed again, doorwings drooping. He raised his hand, the desire to touch her clear in his optics, the uncertainty of what exactly to do halting his motion.

:You can't simply ignore him like this. It isn't fair to him. Nor is it fair to the others you are ignoring.:

She squeezed his hand again. :I'll be fine.: The grief still surging through her signal said otherwise, but she finally turned to Prowl. "I'll be fine," she repeated, aloud, "you don't have to stay, Prowl." She tilted her head, forcing a smile on her face. :Primus knows, you'll only make it worse if Ratchet storms in here thinking there's something seriously wrong because you haven't returned.:

Optimus couldn't hear Prowl's answer, it was too soft in the maelstrom of other, louder mechs, demanding her attention.

"If you are certain," Prowl lowered his hand again, expression still unsure, but relief sighing from his vents and heavy in his tone. "When you are able, let us know what happened?"

"Of course."

Prowl hesitated only a moment longer before he finally walked out.

Optimus looked back down at Elita, bringing his other hand up to caress her cheek. He didn't have to ask if she would really be 'fine,' he could still feel her grief spiking through their bond.

"There are only thirteen of you left." Was that relief in her voice?

"I know." He stroked a hand down her neck, avoiding the tubes and cables coming from her open chestplate. Thirteen commanders left out of the initial thirty that had bonded to her.

The idea had seemed brilliant at the time.

There would be no need to risk messages falling into the wrong hands, all they would need to do would be to reach out to each other, or ask Elita-1 to convey the message to everyone.

They had failed to consider the cost to her.

Ten mechs was the normal limit of most femmes, the requirement for a sound spark to be produced. Twenty bonded mechs had been amazing to achieve. Thirty mechs strained her spark; debilitating her point that she could no longer function normally in her duties. Thirty mechs left no moment of peace to her, and affected the soundness of her processors. Thirty mechs; some of whom she didn't even like, Prowl being only one of those, Hardline had been another. Thirty mechs dying one by one in a war that had gone on far longer than any had hoped drove her to the point of insanity.

Could he blame her if she was relieved?

How often of late had he stood here, assuaging her grief, soothing her frazzled circuits sparked by some of her bondmates' more insensitive natures. How often had he watched her systems crash one by one from the strain. As it was her body could no longer sustain her without the assistance of the life support. How often had he watched her writhe on this berth, crying out the names of mechs she loved, knowing that his commanders, his friends, would never be seen again.

He stood by her side, bringing her hand up to his masked face. Tears of his own collected in the seams of his mask, and he rubbed the back of her hand against his chin. "Elita, I 'm sorry that we did this to you."

She didn't hear his whispered words, her concentration instead on those other signals as she sent reassurances and information that needed to be passed on.

There was never any time for her.

Never any time for her to recover.

Would she be glad when the last of them was gone? When her time was her own again? Her spark, empty, silent, and riddled with voids that used to be other presences. Would she consider herself whole?

He looked down at her, at the machines that sustained her; the memory of her once vibrant mind clear in his memory. He looked down at her and he grieved his loss. He hated himself for the decision.

She looked up at him, drawing herself from half a dozen different conversation, and her fingers twitched their way across his mask; her control fleeting. "It's okay," she whispered for him alone.

"Elita, I love you."

But she was gone again.

And he was with her, but so alone.