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Sometimes the rain fell so hard it left welts on the humans but merely pinged off their guardian’s sides. Optimus Prime wondered, on those days when the children returned from school, soaked to the bone and already red: Why? Why were some beings created so unequivocally vulnerable, so weak? Why did his race deserve millennia-spanning lives but the humans only decades? What was so different between them that warranted such a gap?
For a moment, Optimus berated himself. He had no reason to be concerned with things he was powerless to. And then he realized that the same thinking caused Cybertron’s ruin in the first place and he bit back a vehemence he rarely felt. It stunned his systems and shook the matrix in his chassis, as if young, ardent Orion was attempting to break free. He clenched his fists on the edge of the monitor, ignoring the graphs he was reading.
Rafael, from his perch on the couch, was the only human to notice. The others were enraptured in their cartoons, but he was too keen. Footsteps a quiet slap on the floor, he walked over to the Autobot leader.
Barely a whisper, he asked, “Is something wrong, Optimus?” And he looked up with those wide brown eyes, too concerned, too sincere. Some days, Optimus had to remind himself that their human companions were just children. Children.
Optimus loosened his grip on the console. He forced a smile, but it was tense and exhausting and fake. Orion despised the mask. He cleared his throat and said, “No, but thank you.”
Thank you for caring, thank you for taking time from your limited stash and spending it being too mature for your age. Thank you for being human, in all its fallacies and all its wonders. Thank you for blessing me with your companionship.