Optimus and Megatron (Like a Shoebox of Photograph

A blood-curdling scream from somewhere vaguely to your right. 

You swerve left and right, lurch forward and back, would even bounce the car up and down if the laws of physics allow. 

“Can you shut the fuck up—”

Cut off by another ear-splitting shriek. It rings in your ears something dreadful, and you have to momentarily—you swear just for this one single moment when the worst of the scream is leaving her throat—tear your hand off the steering wheel and plaster it over your right earhole. 

Two things that don’t help her panicking: your own panicking, and telling her off for her panicking. And yet, “Please will you breathe like a normal person?! I'm trying to fucking drive!”

“Oh you piece of shit, I swear to God you did not just say what I think you said or so fucking help me—”

“Stop kicking the dashboard at least?! That can't be helping the situation right now!”

“I decide what is helping the situation, my fucking situation, thank you very fucking much!” before screaming anew, tearing deeper and deeper cuts across her vocal cords. 

The foot of the stretcher knocks the swinging doors clean and loud apart. The medical team, no less than eight people strong, watch every vital, monitor every breath, scrutinize every little twitch she does as you all make your frantic escape from the receiving bay to deeper into the hospital. Amidst it all, Yuri is the palest you've ever seen her, sweatier than that one summer day the air conditioner broke when you'd just spent all morning hanging laundry out to dry. 

“I fucking hate you so much.” Yuri vies to yank more and more air into her lungs, the crease in her brow deepening with every shake of the stretcher, “I can't believe you talked me into this bullshit.”

“Hey, I never said I wanted this! I didn't sign up for two any more than you did!”

Still, your hand and hers clasp around one another. There's a macabre contrast in the nearly see-through skin of the backs of her hands with the clammy redness of the palms of yours. You can't tell the sweat and tears apart anymore, and you have that dastardly aching feeling somewhere in the pit of your stomach that the blood is coming soon. 

Despite it all, she’s weak. Even through her frantic words, her exhausted tone, you heard her for what she really feels: scared out of her wits. By God were you going to take all of those words if it meant she wouldn’t go through it alone.

“It costs how much?!” Yuri's grip falters. She's shivering and sweating, voice hoarse from everything, and you're helpless in the face of life. All you can do is pat her hand down, let her crush it to oblivion once the pain picks back up. 

“Sweetheart, please—”

“We have cram school to save for, no fucking thank you!” followed by yet another scream that has everyone, even the most experienced nurses in the room just about leaving, recoil.

“Fine, but Yuri, please,” and somehow she finds your sincerity amidst the darkness, looks you in the eyes. “I don't wanna see my best friend going through this knowing we have a choice.”

“I—I'll be okay, I promise.” She softens a bit, trying to relax despite the apocalypse of murk and pain her body is wading through. “You always look out for me, I don't wanna make it harder for—” 

She stops. Her eyes grow wide, and her gaze tears away from you off to the blank far wall. Seems even her breathing pauses, with the way her chest abruptly stops its rise and fall. Her hand is almost limp in yours, and the only indication that she's still alive is the quarter-second blink five seconds later. 

“I have seen the face of God and would like the drugs.”

“Should I go get the nurse?”

“No.” Her grip tightens around your fingers anew. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Holds on for dear life. “Don’t leave.”

Gentle, regular, boring beeps. The air conditioner, fully working, maybe a bit too well to be making so much noise. Tiny little coos you never thought you'd hear your entire life. 

“Don’t drop yours.”

“You don’t drop yours.”

You look over to her: “mess” is an understatement. Her face is paler than a whitewashed ghost, hair strewn every which way like some kid just discovered you can place tornadoes in Sim City, voice hoarser than a bobcat tied to a Wrangler and dragged through the Sahara. But despite it all, she cradles her son in her arms as he coos lightly, drifting in and out of an unsteady sleep. He must know he’s someplace else now.

Your daughter is no different. She flails delicately, throwing her arms forward and up towards your face, may as well be lightyears away from ever connecting. But the way she yawns, when her little tongue pokes out just a little before settling back in as she feels how it feels to smack her lips for the very first time, you can’t help but fall in love. 

Your eyes never leave the child’s tiny face. “You did it, mom,” like nothing more than a matter of fact. There’s no energy left to muster and force into whatever words your mouth decides on saying. 

But the message comes across loud and clear. A light chuckle, followed by a half-regretful wince from somewhere vaguely to your right. “You too, dad.”

She’s beautiful. Even though she’s been through hell and back, every injustice done unto her, all the pain a woman could feel when making that big step towards being a mother. 

The clipboard sits patiently at the foot of the bed, and your and her eyes land on it at the same time. You give each other one more look, and the ghost of a smile creeps up on her tired face: “Optimus and Megat—”

“No fucking way in hell.”

It hurts to laugh, but you both do.