Chapter Text
Peace talks had been… A challenge, to say the least.
Thus far, they had managed to stop outright fighting each other, which was, truth be told, more than anyone had been expecting. It was certainly the biggest step towards actual peace either side had taken since the war had started. With no outright violence from either side and a tentative trust to respect the ceasefire, the real conversation about Cybertron’s future could begin.
It was arduous. And exhausting. And annoying, simply put. Optimus had allowed himself to take on the mediator role, having been the one to convince both factions that this was even a viable solution in the first place. Which meant that these days, he found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place more often than not. Having to talk down both sides from potentially going too far and trying to rein everyone in from accidentally breaking the truce. A productive assembly was a rarity, but one he savored every time. And every time, at the present, meant two times. When it came to all the other meetings, he would much rather wipe his processor of them altogether, and it hadn’t even been a full orbital cycle.
Between Starscream’s incessant shrieks and Sentinel’s constant whining, Ultra Magnus’ stern refusal to compromise, and Megatron’s never-ending well of jabs and impassioned speeches alike, Optimus found they were at least getting somewhere.
Slowly. Torturously. Somewhere.
A more pressing matter, however, was Optimus’ ability to remain neutral, given his… Intimate familiarity with the Leader of the Decepticons himself. The Slagmaker, Megatron of Tarn, a known war criminal.
If anyone were to corner him and ask him how exactly it had started, he’d be at a loss for words.
He had been vaguely aware of the charged tension he felt every time they had clashed and fought back on Earth. He certainly hadn’t missed the way the Decepticon had slowly taken a greater interest in him over the rest of his crew, seeming almost amused by their constant battles. They would grind metal against metal until sparks flew, exchanging blows that would have been sure to kill, were they to slip up and allow them to connect. Slashes of his axe and earth-scorching blasts from the Decepticon’s fusion cannon would often transition into desperate punches and kicks. Dust billowed around them, their vents mingling as their faceplates came close. Hateful words ground out between heavy gasps, all teeth and dripping with energon. Massive servos aiming to kill, their grip on his frame crushing and unwavering whenever he fell into the warframe’s clutches. Mortal combat or not, it had been pretty hot.
One thing led to another, and although he couldn’t pinpoint where exactly he had gone wrong, he was sure an error had been made somewhere along the way. Optimus had ended up in close proximity with Megatron more times than he would care to count. It became all too easy to slip away from the battlefield, far from the vigilant eyes of the Decepticons and Autobots they both had under their command. The heat only burned brighter when there wasn’t any need to keep up pretense and act as though their charge had been purely borne of battle. Out of sight of any who would judge them for letting themselves devolve into depraved biting and licking the energon off each other’s dermas. The scraping of metal against metal, instead of sparks and pain, now brought thinly veiled pleasure and caused charge to crackle between their high-strung frames.
He was pretty sure the first instance of their “fraternizing” had taken place in some sort of hostage situation. Or perhaps it had been a kidnapping. At this point, it was hard to keep track or even recall their encounters that far back.
At the start, it had been terrifying to know he had folded so easily and possibly let himself be led into a trap. Somewhere, in the last rational part of his processor that remained, he knew the risk of playing into some sort of long-con was far too high. That this sort of exchange never came with no strings attached. Listening to the tattered shreds of reason he still possessed, he knew that sooner or later Megatron would reveal his true intentions. How he intended to use Optimus to turn the tide and end the war, he wouldn’t know; but every time he let himself be whisked away into Megatron’s clutches, his entire frame screamed at him to move, to fight, to resist. Over and over, he surrendered to the heat of the moment, all the same.
Next, it had dawned on him how totally absurd the whole ordeal was. Him, a low-ranking Autobot Academy dropout and a megalomaniacal galactic tyrant in one berth? Where was the punchline?
After that, it had become almost funny, how they constantly found ways to take things to berth – both metaphorically and literally, depending on their proximity to Megatron’s flagship. On many occasions, they had even purposefully drawn away from the battle at large, separating themselves from the rest of their troops and finding a secluded spot where their fighting would gradually devolve into fragging.
And every time, Optimus questioned reality itself.
Now it just felt like a fever dream. Not that Optimus was in any rush to wake up from it.
Despite being a bit foggy on precisely where and how it had all started, he could still recall, with startling clarity, the shame he had felt after that first interface. The moment his frame began cooling off, post-overload clarity had hit him like a freight train. Suddenly, all of the lubricant adorning his plating felt sticky and filthy, the stretch of his valve burned, as did the all-consuming sense of humiliation that made his tanks roll. Megatron had sensed it in his field, then, and immediately withdrew his own, all but dropping Optimus as he released him from his clutches.
He had fled quickly after that, and Megatron had let him go without so much as a question. He still wondered sometimes how he had managed to clean himself up in time, before his team found him again.
The memories of that frag had haunted him for a long time after. Much to his horror, they did not make him feel any real apprehension. Instead, he felt himself engulfed with unbridled desire. A lust and a need for more that caused his frame to reject recharge, forcing him to dwell on the encounter over and over again.
Those same conflicting feelings had caused him to look deeper into Megatron’s crimson optics the next time they had clashed. They had pushed him to look beyond the familiar maniacal grin and the vicious glint of red. An unspoken question had rung clearly between their locked gazes. They had ended up in each other’s clutches again, and again, and again after that.
With enough time, he stopped plunging into regret the moment his charge dissipated. Eventually, once overload would take its course, it would no longer be replaced by shame and mortification. Once he had allowed himself to enjoy the fragging for what it was, his interactions with Megatron had evolved, in a way.
Where once they would have fallen silent, avoiding each other’s optics and pulling their EM fields close to their frames, now, even after the heat of interfacing had dissipated, their fields and charge mingled freely, passing between their frames without a second thought. They exchanged words, jabs, and banter, coming to them easily, like second nature, a battlefield in its own right. Optimus would tease the Decepticon leader, and he would respond with a witty retort of his own. Back and forth they would go, until they both tired themselves out.
One time, in the midst of cleaning themselves up – or rather, Megatron dutifully cleaning their mixed spoils from Optimus’ array – the Autobot had let such a jab slip. A standard procedure for them, at that point.
“What’s it like, walking through life with a monstrosity like that behind your panels at all times?”
Megatron paused his cleaning efforts to level Optimus with a look. Most would crack under the severity of it, but Optimus was no lightweight. The smaller mech only leaned back on his servos where he sat, his pedes obscenely spread before Megatron for easy access. He smiled lazily, still somewhat blissed out from his numerous overloads.
“You certainly seem to manage that monstrosity quite well, little Autobot,” Megatron finally answered, his optics drifting back down, focusing on his work.
Optimus scoffed.
“I’m surprised it didn’t leave a dent.”
“Ah, we wouldn’t want that, now would we? That would certainly be considered evidence of our little… Dalliances.” The Decepticon smiled sweetly, before leaning in, servos placed firmly at Optimus’ thighs. His voice dropped an octave. “Unless you’d like to be marked in such a crude way? Parade around with a little gift from me for all to see?”
Optimus would vehemently deny the blush that crept up his faceplates then.
“Not exactly little,” Optimus shot back, before putting on a thoughtful face. “And I don’t know, you’d have to have a pretty great pitch for a commitment like that.”
“It could be something less conspicuous,” Megatron shrugged, as if the topic at hand was nothing more than an idle chit-chat about the weather. “A dent in plating hardly indicates anything. And it is quite crude. Perhaps a subtle decal would be more agreeable.”
“What, the Decepticon insignia slapped on my aft?”
Megatron actually barked a laugh at that, before the predatory hunger returned to his optics. He tilted his helm to the side, sizing up his prey.
“Or my name, written in old Cybex.”
“Hmm. You like putting your name on things?” Optimus asked, mirroring the tilt of his helm.
“Only if I’m proud of the work.”
“Ah, and therefore you sign every bot that has experienced the privilege of taking your spike.”
“No, not every bot.”
“I should consider myself lucky, then?”
“Far be it from me to say.”
“So you don’t think you’re a good frag?”
“I choose to remain humble, believe it or not.’
“Oh, please,” Optimus popped the “p” as he spoke, mirth bleeding into his EM field. “The only thing bigger than your spike is your ego.”
Megatron glowered, then rolled his eyes, a long groan slipping from his intake, though he did not cease faithfully performing his task.
“Spare me the witty quips,” he droned. “They do become exhausting after a while.”
“Hey, I’m not the only one quipping!” Optimus huffed, taking offence at Megatron’s tone. “It takes two to banter. You’re quipping too!”
“No, I am not,” Megatron actually furrowed his brow in consideration, his servos stilling with the damp rag still in his hold. He looked up at Optimus, as if in disbelief. “I’ve just been responding to you. They were retorts, not quips.” He nearly spat out the last word, faceplates twisting in disgust.
“Yeah!” Optimus gestured widely, trying to get his point across. “Whatever you wanna call it! Quipping back! Engaging in banter! Wisecracking!” He pulled an over-exaggerated serious face, letting his voice drop an octave, before he spoke with mock-gravitas. “Retorting.”
“No, I-” Megatron cut himself off, seemingly analyzing their exchange up until this point, perhaps even previous conversations they had engaged in. Optimus found the lost expression incredibly fascinating to look at, as well as downright hilarious.
“Oh, Primus, I’ve been quipping.”
Optimus doubted he would ever get bored of the disgusted, distraught expression that graced Megatron’s faceplates just then. It seemed he had found one of the Slagmaker’s elusive weaknesses.
“There, there,” he patted Megatron’s shoulder pad, pride emanating from his smile as the warframe dealt with his identity crisis.
“What have you done to me, Prime?”
“Don’t be dramatic. Embrace the quip.”
“This is demeaning… What even is the difference between a retort and- And that?”
“A quip is a quip.”
“I dare you to say quip one more time.”
“Oh, what, are you getting quiplash?”
“I will kick you out of this habsuite.”
“Clean me up first, I wouldn’t want to leave a trail on my way out.”
As he spoke the last words, Optimus got right in Megatron’s face, close enough that their noses almost touched, and grinned unabashedly. Megatron just opened his intake, before no doubt realizing what had almost come out of his voice box. He froze with a dumb look on his faceplates, before his dermas closed shut with an audible snap.
“I refuse to partake.”
“It’s not the end of the world. You’ll come around to it.”
“No, I will not.”
From then on, their interactions had only grown more amicable. With each one that passed them by, they would lower their defences incrementally, perhaps foolishly.
Despite their respective positions in the reignited war, there seemed to be an understanding that neither of them needed to speak into existence; a clear line drawn in the sand neither were supposed to cross. There was them on the battlefield – heated looks that could easily be mistaken for hatred and heat mixed with a charge that to any onlookers was merely a result of their vicious confrontations. Then, there was them in berth – EM fields brushing against one another with no hesitation, optics dimming and plating flaring, heat and charge passing between them with overwhelming intensity in any way they desired. A completely discordant contradiction that they reconciled with seeming ease only when no one else was around to see.
Every time he sought Megatron out, he had to lie to his teammates, eventually resorting to calling his disappearances “scouting missions” to lessen arising suspicions. He still found it amusing how each time he had spoken of being “on the lookout for Decepticons”, he had never truly been lying. Eventually, his crew had given up on questioning him whenever he disappeared. Be it vanishing after a battle, or going missing for a joor or two, or an entire night, if he was feeling particularly irresponsible. He just couldn’t seem to unravel himself from the fearsome warlord, nor did he really entertain the idea of trying to do so anymore.
When they would feel particularly daring, they would lay bare small parts of their sparks, sinking deeper into each other’s processors and filling in gaps in their mutual understanding. Never going too in-depth, lest they reveal too much. A threshold of vulnerability that neither of them was willing to brave remained and kept them from plunging too deep.
They would lie side by side, vents heaving and plating covered in condensation, and they would talk. Thus, Megatron had shared snippets of his life before the war with Optimus, and Optimus, in turn, spoke briefly of his time on Cybertron before being relegated to Space Bridge maintenance. A mention of Megatron’s appreciation of poetry and the arts graced their shared pocket of time with its presence. A hint of Optimus’ pride at his crew’s progress brightened their conversation briefly, mixed in with his fears and doubts about his own leadership. Odd bits of information that passed between the two of them, always understood as mere peeks, and never meant to be pushed further than was strictly needed.
Optimus himself had dared to voice his contempt for the Autobot Elite Guard and the entire bureaucracy that kept cybertronian society running only once. Of their sense of supremacy, their disregard, and outright scorn of organic species. Their stifling, rigid rules and suffocating guidelines, their expectations. He had been more than content to be a cog in the greater machine, to work towards a greater good by contributing in any way he could, in any way he was asked to. Still, he had to ask himself, what good was a well-oiled mechanism, its cogs and gears tirelessly turning, if the machine itself was rotten from within?
Megatron had looked at him with unabashed understanding as the words came out in a rush. If Optimus let himself entertain his ever-present, often misplaced hope, he swore there was also a glint of reverence in the crimson pools.
Only one time, when the stars aligned just right and Megatron’s voice had been flowing with elegant ease as they talked, Optimus got to hear true, unfathomable vulnerability from the warlord. Optimus must have said something to prompt Megatron to speak, or perhaps he had asked a question. Though, as time passed, the intricacies of that conversation had faded in his processor, leaving only this one, singular moment to blaze in his memory. He did not know how to reconcile it, then. It had clogged his intake and clawed at his spark chamber, leaving him with nothing to do but listen.
“I used to be a miner, after the Quintesson War had ended,” Megatron spoke, his usually unwavering, commanding voice reduced to nothing more than a hushed rush of air. “Cybertron had no more use for warframes once we were victorious. Once everyone was done celebrating, our presence became bothersome.”
His faceplates wrinkled with disdain as he spoke, yet his gaze was sorrowful and far away, staring through Optimus at something the Autobot himself couldn’t see, nor fully grasp. He dared not interrupt, lest he break the spell that had fallen over them and allow such tender, raw feeling to emerge from the ruthless warlord. It spilled forth in rivulets, old wounds opening right before Optimus’ optics. An unstoppable torrent.
“Perhaps they feared us, or perhaps they never saw us as more than a means to an end,” he continued, his tone droning low and shaking Optimus to his very core. “The Allspark itself had made us the protectors of Cybertron, yet we were cast out, all the same…”
There was a pause. Long enough that Optimus started wondering if he should will himself to speak, if the moment had passed and drifted by him. Megatron spoke again, his voice overcome with emotion, shaking and passionate. He bared his dentae in a snarl.
“No child of Primus should be expendable, nor should they be cast aside.”
Optimus watched with awe as rage flickered in crimson optics, before they finally refocused and Megatron once again looked at him, not through him. Whatever the warlord had found on his face caused that anger to fade, until it finally dissipated completely, leaving Optimus awestruck.
No words would have sufficed; he had known that all too well. Instead, he had reached out with his servos, gently cupping Megatron’s face, thumbs stroking the scarred metal beneath his touch. Much to his surprise, the warlord melted into it, holding his gaze for mere moments more, before letting his optics offline. Recharge had crept up on them soon after, all the while Megatron’s words echoed in his processor. They wormed their way through his thoughts and consumed them, even as he drifted into sleep.
Eventually, they realized the impact the two of them could have on Cybertron’s very future. An Autobot and a Decepticon presenting a united front might have been enough to bring the two factions from the brink of another potentially planet-killing war.
Neither side had been particularly thrilled. Despite agreeing with Optimus in private, even Megatron himself had become apprehensive the moment actual negotiations had begun. Optimus’ valve had clearly not been enough to quell his hatred for the Autobots, and some small part of him registered that as a blow to his pride, though rationally he knew how ridiculous the feeling was. He still often wondered what had happened to his processor to commit to such a dangerous, risky, and downright irrational move. Only now it wasn’t only about the fact that he was interfacing with Megatron itself, but also the fact that said interfacing had somehow led the two of them to spearhead a major political stunt that would affect their entire planet. Maybe his processor had gotten scrambled, or perhaps the spiking was just that good, but he always remained hopeful.
Even so, through this series of unfortunate events, he had somehow managed to convince Megatron to reconsider his lifelong vendetta against the Autobots. So, it couldn’t have been the worst possible decision on Optimus’ part. Probably.
Even when he was on trial, Megatron mostly accepted everything with grace and did his best to avoid implicating Optimus. Be it his decision to suddenly flip from working towards all-out war to seeking a peaceful solution, or his sudden ability to tolerate an Autobot’s presence in the same room, he did his due diligence without engaging his fusion cannon a single time. All that went mostly unexplained, much to the jury’s chagrin and Megatron’s amusement.
He had made sure to be the biggest pain in the aft he could possibly be before all the legal proceedings had ended, though it did serve as a source of entertainment amid all of the bureaucratic stiffness and administrative dilly-dallying. It additionally served to pull attention away from Optimus, given that he was one of the witnesses in the case and had to work tirelessly so as not to implicate himself too much. Every one of Megatron’s stunts worked flawlessly as a smoke bomb. Optimus would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t found it incredibly entertaining to watch the Slagmaker drive the jury mad.
Optimus, for one, had been incredibly grateful that the investigation hadn’t revealed their numerous trysts; and by Primus were they numerous. With how much he had visited the Nemesis during their time on Earth, he was surprised his CNA hadn’t been found on every surface of the warship. Moreover, he was very thankful that Megatron hadn’t been sent straight to prison for his many crimes, given how difficult partaking in further trysts would have been with that variable in mind. He frequently wondered what had convinced the jury to let him roam free more: the ever convincing argument of “you can’t make a deal with a snake and cut off its head” or the mere mention of “Starscream is next in the chain of command”. A puzzling mystery, never to be solved.
Still, keeping appearances in front of the Council while engaging with the warlord in his spare time was becoming incredibly strenuous. He shuddered every time he thought about the possible ramifications of their arrangement coming to light at such an uncertain point during negotiations. Distantly, he wondered how the Decepticons would react, knowing their leader had become an Autobot sympathizer in more ways than one.
He dared not even imagine what the Autobots would think of him if the information came to light.
After yet another cycle full of statements and motions that had quickly devolved into shouting matches mixed in with poorly concealed personal attacks, Optimus wanted little more than to go to his habsuite and recharge. While Megatron’s trial had seemed like a huge obstacle on their way towards peace, everything that had come after now seemed much worse by comparison.
They couldn’t so much as agree on what issue they should tackle first. Each faction had arrived at the agreed-upon location – that being the Autobot Elite Guard headquarters – with endless lists of demands and requirements they thought imperative for the other side to meet. Both brainstormed by their entire command and expertly penned by Megatron and Ultra Magnus, respectively.
Needless to say, the constant back and forth over anything and everything had worn Optimus down. The arguments over trade and housing, military and administration, reparations and declarations were all so terribly crucial that not a single one could be picked as the first order of business. It led to more discord between the two sides. Optimus did not doubt that he’d be haunted by Starscream’s and Sentinel’s shrieks for the next foreseeable recharge cycles. He swore they still echoed in his processor, even though he’d left the council room far behind in an attempt to flee from them.
His journey towards rest was interrupted by Ratchet, in lieu of someone he might have expected to do so, such as Sentinel (not good) or Bumblebee (how could he say no). Seeing the white and red medic standing in his path was unexpected enough that it shocked him into stopping dead in his tracks.
“I take it the talks are going about as horribly as was expected?”
“How’d you know?” Optimus grumbled back, rubbing a servo down his faceplates. He forced himself to straighten out, realizing he must have hunched over during his walk. “Feels like everything’s just been going downhill since the trial ended.”
Ratchet scoffed at him, before smacking a servo against his back – perhaps more heartily than was strictly necessary – and leading him, to his horror, away from his habsuite.
“Come on, kid. You look like you could use a drink.”
The bar was busy, which was to be expected given the late hour. Swerve’s wasn't the most popular spot, but it served its purpose well. It was no Maccadam’s, but at least it had seats available. Thus, Optimus didn’t complain when Ratchet sat him down at one of the many empty booths and went to grab high-grade for both of them.
The bar thrummed with music that was just a bit too loud to hold a conversation comfortably. Even though the cycle wasn’t over just yet, darkness prevailed in the stuffy space, only broken up by small, flickering lights above the tables. To call the shoddy neon lights that lined the walls and decorated the bar light sources would have been an insult to the concept of brightness itself. Most of them gave off a faint glow that suggested a color and outlined whatever one-liner the owner saw fit to plaster on his walls. Others still managed to emit more substantial light, but they still winked out now and again, fading into the darkened wall.
Seeing the state of the bar, Optimus wondered if Ratchet had found it and taken a liking to it in his youth, and simply never bothered to find a better spot. It certainly looked as though it had aged side by side with him, very gracefully, too.
Normally, Optimus would survey the bar and observe the crowds, if not to assess any possible threats, then to at least entertain himself while he waited. However, he no longer had enough energy left in him for even that. Not after having been on high alert for most of the day in anticipation of the Decepticon High Command and the Autobot Elite Guard finally jumping at each other’s intakes with more than just pointed jabs and politically charged insults. No, by this point, he was more than content to let Cybertron crack open beneath his pedes and swallow him whole. Or to allow an intoxicated mech to set the bar on fire for all he cared.
Before either event had the chance to occur, Ratchet came back with the promised high grade and a set of questions for Optimus to answer. Luckily, it didn’t extend past the basic breadth of “how are you holding up” and “how are the talks going”.
After the first round, Optimus was complaining about every attendee that had graced the peace talks with their presence in excruciating detail. He did not move on until he had broken down every mech to their most basic components, which he swiftly and ruthlessly judged between gulps of high-grade. After a couple more rounds, Ratchet was monologuing about the good old days, only allowing Optimus enough space in the conversation to hum in acknowledgement now and then. By the end, Optimus’ glossa had gotten notably looser, and his common sense was not all there. On top of that, he was quite annoyed that Ratchet, being a medic and thus having better tolerance, was looking pretty stable and speaking far more coherently than he was. Fragger.
True to form, Optimus’ processor ended up latching onto Megatron. Seemingly, all his circuits have ultimately led him back to the warlord in recent times.
First, he had complained about the warframe’s general manner of existence. Then, he moved on to musing about what might have happened if the fragger had been locked up. Soon after, he was praising the mech’s ability to shut Sentinel’s overconfident aft up with an assortment of two to five-word sentences. Then it led him into a tirade about how, even though Megatron seemed perfectly capable of using simple, easy-to-understand language, he apparently refused to utilize the skill and always chose violence of the spoken word. A kind of violence that meant long, winding, needlessly complicated sentences that dragged on and on, and ground the conversation to a halt with their needless decorum. It felt as though every sentence came with terms and conditions, with no option to skim or fast-forward. It drove Optimus mad.
Had Optimus’ perception of his surroundings and the concept of time itself not been impeded by the high grade, he might have noticed the growing exhaustion on his friend’s faceplates by now. Sadly for Ratchet, he did not have enough cognitive ability to perform such a stunt, so he just kept on blabbering.
After his eighth tangent about Megatron had come to a spectacular close, Ratchet finally managed to get a word in, which effectively staved off the ninth tangent that had already been pushing its way past Optimus’ dermas.
“Alright, alright. Enough about the Slagmaker!” Ratchet spoke, his volume control slipping in his ire. “I just don’t get it, kid. How can ya even look that mech in the optics after all the slag he put us through? Let alone play nice with him for hours on end. It’s like yer torturing yourself on purpose, talking about him and he’s not even here! Aren’t ya ever tired of it? Of him?”
Had Optimus been at peak operational capacity, he might have chosen to say something more diplomatic and amicable, for fear of endangering cross-faction relations. As it stood, he was incapable of subtlety and refused to attempt it in his inebriated state.
“Oh, I am,” Optimus drawled, no small amount of disdain coloring his tone. “All the time. But I get tired of dealing with Sentinel’s scrap all the time, and I still work with him, don’t I? Plus, Megatron has soooo much more going for him. He can be pretty fun.”
He shrugged flippantly, as if he had perfectly explained his reasoning.
That gave Ratchet pause, not that Optimus’ processor caught on to it. He slid down onto the table, no longer willing to spend any energy on keeping himself upright.
“Fun? Megatron?” the medic snapped back. Optimus snorted a laugh.
“So fun.”
“The Slagmaker is a fragging pain in the aft on a good day. What’s fun about that?”
The words “aft” and “frag” ignited some choice circuitry in Optimus’ processor, and his thoughts drifted far afield, towards all that was unconstitutional and unbecoming. Perhaps even scandalous... His glossa moved on its own, spurred by these thoughts.
“I mean, yeah, it’s like the size of my pede,” Optimus mumbled into the table, indicating substantial length with his servos and regarding it with much consideration. “Doesn’t even fit all the way in most of the time. Takes ages to get it in.”
It took him several nano-klicks to realize Ratchet had not yet responded.
It took him a few moments more to look up in confusion and see what the holdup was.
It finally sank in once his optics landed on the medic’s face, frozen in horror and bewilderment. He had yet to drop his hands, where they still hovered a considerable distance apart.
“...What.”
He felt the haze of high-grade dissipate instantly. A cold feeling dropped into his tank as he regained some semblance of rational thought. Curse medics and their superior high-grade tolerance! He let his servos drop, hiding them under the table at light speed, as if that would help him in any way. Much to his dismay, it did not undo the damage.
“Wait no–!”
“Oh, Primus, help me. You’re fragging Megatron?!”
“No! I mean, maybe. Just keep it down, please!” he hissed.
“You’re fragging Megatron?!” Ratchet repeated, this time leaning in and keeping his voice just loud enough to be heard over the ambient of the bar. Optimus felt his faceplates growing hot. “What in the pits possessed ya to do that!?”
Optimus had the common decency to shrink in his seat, casting his gaze about to make sure no one had heard Ratchet’s unsubtle proclamation. Luckily, it seemed no one had batted an optic.
“It just kinda… Happened.”
“And during peace talks of all times!” Ratchet threw his servos up, leaning back in his seat. “Did you even think about what would happen if word got out?”
“It wasn’t an issue before!” he shot back, before catching himself on what kind of admission it was. Ratchet openly gaped at him.
“Before?!”
Optimus only hummed, pressing his derma together tightly, hoping that it would be enough to take back the words that had exposed him. Sadly, it did not work.
“How long?”
“Long enough.”
“Prime.”
“...Since Earth.”
Ratchet sighed, his vents straining under the force of it. One of his servos came up to rub incessantly at the creases between his optics, as the mech struggled to adjust to the new information.
“Oh, by the AllSpark, I should have known,” Ratchet hid his faceplates in his hands, hoards of negative emotions radiating through his EM field, flashing far too quickly for Optimus to catch and recognize them all. “Of all the bots… Of all the Cons… Why’d ya have to go with the worst one?”
Optimus opened and closed his intake, dermas moving, but nothing save some choked-off sputters coming out. Finally, he got his glossa to work.
“I- It wasn’t a deliberate choice-”
“Good, otherwise I’d think you were missing a few screws.”
“Hey, I’m not exactly proud of it either!”
“Primus, is that why you two pushed for the peace negotiations in the first place?”
“No! ....Kind of… Maybe? But hey, at least he was on board with it!
“He’s a war criminal!”
“So are some of the bots on our side!”
“He’s a megalomaniac!”
“He can change!”
“He’s like- A billion years old!”
“He- Wait, what?”
Ratchet paused, once more, in disbelief. If he wasn’t careful, the expression might become permanently etched into his faceplates. The medic leaned forward, his servo holding his cube of engex in a death-grip.
“Optimus, he’s ancient.”
“Oh, come on, how old can he be?” he barked a laugh. It was a rhetorical question, but even Optimus could hear the uncertain waver in his own voice. An inkling of coherent thought gave him pause. “Wait, how old is he?”
“He’s older than me.”
What?
“What?!” he straightened out in his seat, voice loud enough to draw the attention of a few neighboring booths. He quickly lowered his voice into a frantic hiss. “But he- He doesn’t act like- If he’s- And you are- Why do you act like that?!”
“What, my age?” Ratchet raised a brow ridge, clearly unimpressed. “He was alive well before the war had even started. How could you not have realized? You think a mech that stuck in his own ways could change cuz you smiled at him pretty?”
All Optimus could do in response was collapse back into his seat, servo covering his face, as if that would hide him well enough to dissipate his shame.
“...I’m fragging a senior citizen,” he uttered in disbelief, shaking his helm slowly. At that, Ratchet heaved another heavy sigh. His specialty. Years of practice.
“The real question is, is that gonna stop ya?” Ratchet asked, elbow joints resting on the table. The resigned look he levelled at him indicated he knew the answer before it had graced Optimus’ processor.
Loath as he was to admit it, the medic’s assumption was right.
In lieu of answering verbally, Optimus only peered at his friend from beyond the servo, ineffectually covering his all-consuming shame. He hoped his optics conveyed well enough both his shock and embarrassment. Judging by Ratchet’s unchanged expression, it fell short of the medic’s standards.
“Look, kid, I don’t know what possessed ya to do this-”
Optimus opened his mouth, ready to provide justification.
“-Nor do I wanna know. But ya gotta stop and think if it’s worth it.”
Optimus opened his mouth.
“I don’t wanna know,” Ratchet rushed out again. “All I know is, you’ve got a notorious warlord who is either genuinely interested in ya, or tryna to use ya to get his way. Neither sounds particularly comforting to me. Just keep that in mind, will ya?”
Optimus nodded, relaxing the tiniest bit. He had expected much worse in terms of lectures and reprimands, and so Ratchet’s more-or-less composed demeanor soothed his frayed, fried processor. He slowly unwound his frame to sit up straight.
“I will,” he confirmed verbally, for good measure.
“Good. And if ya need help, just come to me.”
A cynical part of Optimus’ mind wondered what the medic could do if Megatron were to become an active threat to his safety. The more optimistic part of him warmed at the show of care from the older bot.
He assumed he already knew the answer, but for clarity’s sake and peace of mind, he asked, “You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”
“Obviously. Unlike some bots, I haven’t completely lost my processor.”
Optimus smiled, though his spark chamber still burned with that familiar shame. He threw the last of his high-grade back, hoping that the pleasant burn of it sliding down his intake would drown out his turmoil.
He supposed that of all the mechs who could have found out, Ratchet was probably the best case scenario. He doubted Bumblebee would have managed to keep his dermas shut about it if he knew, and Bulkhead often cracked under pressure if he had to keep something secret for too long. Prowl probably would have kept it to himself, but Optimus had an inkling that the ninja’s judgment of his choices would have been palpable, even if nobody knew what had caused it. A shudder wracked his frame at the very thought of someone more high-ranking finding out, be it Ultra Magnus, Starscream, or – Primus forbid – Sentinel.
An Autobot of any station or rank so much as consorting with a Decepticon at such a precarious time would be enough to rock the boat for the peace negotiations. Maybe it would cause an upheaval and ignite further outrage. For him – the very mech who had vouched for and initiated these talks – and Megatron – the leader of the opposing faction and the key to ending the war for good – consorting as they had been thus far? The consequences of such an entanglement coming to light would be catastrophic.
Optimus wondered if Megatron ever thought about how long they would allow themselves to be entangled like this. He was curious if the warlord ever let his processor wander and stumble upon perfect dreams of a Cybertron where neither of them was tied down by their obligations to their factions or had the implicit, unspoken duty to despise each other on some intrinsic level. A hypothetical circumstance where they never had to worry about having to take up arms and fight each other again, until one of them finally fell and joined the Well of All Sparks, leaving the other to claw their way towards victory with energon-stained servos. Before countless sparks were lost in another war that could have been avoided. Before the stolen moments they had carved out for themselves finally ran dry.
Perhaps this blind optimism everyone kept accusing him of was making him act foolishly yet again, but so far it had worked out for him, had it not? Even so, his doubt warred with hope every time he let himself think about it for too long. Did he not have reasons to doubt Megatron’s intentions? Had he made a miscalculation? Was he foolishly following his spark, walking right into a tyrant’s clutches?
All the things that Ratchet had said to him at the bar played on loop in his processor. Maybe Megatron saw him as nothing more than a toy, a means to an end. Maybe, he saw nothing but a young, imprudent bot he could exploit for some sort of greater plan.
Or maybe he was merely an old, sentimental fool, deep in his spark. Maybe Optimus could see through the image of a ruthless warlord and see the poet that resided underneath.
Or maybe, he was just really, really naive.
His perilous thoughts persisted, even once he had finally made it to his habsuite and went to recharge for the night. He could only soothe himself once an idea for how to pester the warlord graced his processor. He smiled to himself right as he was about to power down, already imagining Megatron’s spectacular annoyance.
Maybe he’d be able to have some fun before reality caught up with him after all.
The next cycle’s meeting proved to be just as exhausting as the previous ones. Frankly, to call them productive would be an insult to the concept of productivity itself.
Acting professionally wasn’t usually a problem for Optimus, especially when he was under pressure and the future of Cybertron was dependent on his ability to be civil and make sure others followed suit. Keeping it together was an absolute necessity in his position. He considered himself lucky to be able to steer the conversation towards a peaceful solution at all, even if both sides behaved as though they wanted nothing more than to break the ceasefire and launch an attack right in the middle of the council room.
Somehow, miraculously, they had finally agreed to settle on a topic of discussion. Unfortunately, it proved highly controversial, as it concerned the process of bringing the Decepticons back to Cybertron, many of whom still lived in numerous colonies scattered all over the galaxy, Armada chief amongst them. With that came the arduous, overwhelming task of discussing everything from the dangers of bringing thousands of Cons back to the planet, the rate at which it should happen, and the living accommodations for the newcomers. In turn, it led them towards talks of accessibility.
Many warframe-compatible cities had fallen into disrepair since the Decepticons had been exiled from Cybertron, meaning there weren’t many places built with their larger frames in mind. While Iacon itself was the epitome of grandeur, meaning many public spaces were designed to be larger than was strictly necessary, there weren’t many housing units that warframes could assume as their own. Most civilian frames, save maybe someone like Ultra Magnus, fit perfectly into the city’s architecture. But what was comfortable to navigate for them was often a roadblock for the average warframe.
Megatron had, of course, come with a thorough docket of previously existing cities he would like to see rebuilt. Namely, Tarn, Kaon, and Vos, along with a few others. Not only had he given an excellent – if a bit lengthy – speech about all that was necessary for his people to live dignified lives, he had also delved into each of the cities’ histories, detailing their previous contributions to Cybertron’s society. While his vision had certainly been ambitious and quite captivating, it was quickly met with a barrage of questions, denials, and outright refusals by the Autobot side of the council.
Optimus had done his best to hold on to common ground and pull everyone back from their breaking points. Even so, by the end of the cycle’s proceedings, an agreement on this matter was but a faint, distant mirage. Optimus felt as though he had gone through the wringer once, then twice for good measure.
All meeting long, he had done his best to avoid Megatron’s wandering gaze. It was no easy task, given how enthralling it was to see him in the throes of an impassioned speech. As everyone finally filtered out of the room, Optimus hung back, acutely aware of the only other occupant left.
Now, perhaps he had been thinking about his talk with Ratchet a bit too much than was strictly necessary during a highly important meeting – sue him. Maybe, he had even glanced at the subject of most of his thoughts one too many times for it to be considered normal and entirely casual – get a warrant. And, perchance, he had caught Megatron staring back at him often enough to decide that the warlord had grown suspicious of his peculiar behavior – creep.
Thus, it came as no surprise to him when he found himself alone with Megatron in the deserted council room. The Decepticon was sprawled in his usual seat, some of his personal datapads still strewn across the table, while others were already gathered into neat stacks. He appeared perfectly nonchalant as he sorted through them, his movements languid and unhurried. Beneath that calm demeanor, however, Optimus could sense a slight tension… Or perhaps it was amusement. …Maybe annoyance? Probably tinged with murderous intent, whatever it was, if Megatron’s previous tendencies were to be taken into account.
Much as he liked to think his hard-earned ability to read the warframe’s mood had improved since the start of their relationship, he didn’t exactly have it down to a science just yet. More often than not, he found that Megatron’s impenetrable mask of indifference or bravado was prone to slipping when they were in berth together. The warlord would never admit to it, not with his damned pride and massive ego in the way and all. He imagined it must be hard to see the world around you clearly with that monstrosity of a spike blocking out half his vision.
The truth was that outside their private conversations, when others were around to see them interact, Optimus’ ability to interpret Megatron’s facial expressions failed him on a semi-regular basis.
Now, true to form, Optimus struggled to name the exact emotion peeking out through the opaque veil of Megatron’s stoic mask. He didn’t like that one bit.
He was never one to shy away from confrontations and difficult topics, even if his tank churned with anticipation and apprehension alike.
“I can tell you have something to say to me. It’s unlike you not to speak your mind, Megatron,” he intoned, standing up from his seat. Now that the council room was properly deserted, he could have allowed himself a more cordial, casual tone, but he still chose to uphold the official tone, in case someone overheard them.
Optimus slowly began walking around the curved table, sauntering down the stairs from the Autobot side onto the Decepticon side, where the floor was placed lower to accommodate their bigger frames.
“Out with it.”
He came to a stop partway down the steps, not exactly at eye level, but still high enough not to crane his neck to have a proper conversation. With a quirk playing at his dermas, Megatron stepped closer as well, stopping at the foot of the stairs. His precious datapads lay abandoned on the table behind him. Optimus shot them a stern glance, finding that he was too far to attempt to read the scribbles that were Megatron’s handwriting, before leveling his gaze upon the mech before him.
“Perceptive as ever, Prime,” Megatron drawled, that familiar, infuriating amusement coloring the words and making Optimus’ plating crawl. Against his wishes, his spark pulsed a little faster, too.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I did wish to speak with you.”
“About?”
“Whatever it is about me that seemed to distract you during our lovely meeting.”
Well, if there was one thing he and Megatron had in common, it was certainly their ability and desire to get straight to the point. Not to “beat around the bush” as the humans would say. Perhaps that was one of the reasons that had ended up… Entangled so. Optimus shoved those musings to the back of his processor to unpack at a later date.
“How kind of you to notice,” Optimus chose to play his snark up. If not for the tactical advantage, then at least for the fun of it.
Lo and behold, Megatron’s face plates were graced with a perfect look of exasperation. Of course, he quickly gathered himself, a retort already flowing out of his voice box. Or rather, much to Optimus’ delight, a quip.
Oh, how he enjoyed being a bad influence on the slagger.
“Yes, it is quite hard to miss a bot trying to bore a hole through me with his gaze alone,” he spoke, his voice sickly sweet. Then he leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a rumbling purr. “Had I known you missed me that badly, I would have caught you on your way out yesterday and invited you to my new, council-appointed habsuite.”
Before he could get a hold of himself, Optimus heard his engine rev at the offer. There was no doubt that Megatron had heard it too, especially seeing as his stupid face plates were now adorned with a stupid, self-satisfied, all-teeth grin that made him look stupidly handsome. It was infuriating. The mech looked way too confident and, by proxy, quite punchable. If there ever were any doubt about how the war had started in his mind, Optimus would have personally chosen to believe that grin to have been solely responsible.
As quickly as he could, Optimus righted himself.
“And risk interfering with your creative process?” he asked, glancing back at the datapads scattered across the table. “I would have hated to be the reason why some of these gems never made it into your speeches.”
“So then, am I right in my assumption? Or is there something else?” Megatron spoke up again when Optimus failed to fill the silence. The sultry rumble still overtaking his words. “Did you miss me that badly, little Autobot?”
“Hmm, not quite,” he chirped, processor already made up as to what he was going to say next. “Only I recently realized something… Interesting about you.”
Normally, he’d expect Megatron to react with a feigned joviality or even earnest interest. He’d come to expect the teasing intonation of “do enlighten me” or the drawn-out, near-sing-song “is that so?” that usually came in response. Almost as if the warframe relished the opportunity to listen to someone try and analyze his nature and disposition. It didn’t seem to matter much if the analysis came close to reality or if he agreed with it. He met such bold assessments with an air of amusement and a mocking smile. It was yet another context in which Megatron’s massive ego liked to come out to play.
This time, however, none of the expected responses came.
A long, tired groan filled the spacious room. Megatron’s optics rolled so far back into his helm that Optimus was convinced it must have strained his circuitry.
“Oh, please, do spare me the rapt lectures about my character and the profound analyses of my behavior. Amusing as they are, they do get exhausting after a while.”
Optimus only barked a laugh at that, growing all the more eager to pull the proverbial rug from beneath Megatron’s pedes. What a sight that would have been.
“It’s nothing of the sort. Not this time.”
“Then what is it, little Autobot?”
Optimus pushed on, making the executive decision to ignore the mocking tone.
“I spoke with Ratchet the other night, and he enlightened me about something.” For dramatic effect, he picked at the joints of his digits, examining them carefully instead of looking at Megatron. Judging by the quiet, cut-off growl, it had the desired effect, which was mainly to drive the other crazy. The mere notion that Optimus had something to share and wasn’t being very forthcoming about it, on top of the fact that Megatron appeared to have no clue what he could be referring to, was enough to have the warframe’s optics burn brighter and his plating to flare in annoyance.
“The medic? What could he possibly enlighten you on that concerns my person?”
Now there was a dangerous edge to Megatron’s words. The tension he sensed within him earlier culminated, prepared to lash out. Optimus didn’t let it faze him.
He hummed, letting the act of picking at his digits occupy most of his attention, in lieu of the hulking, annoyed Decepticon that stood above him. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw Megatron’s servo clenching into a fist, the only moving part of his otherwise rigid frame. Optimus held him in suspense a few moments longer before it finally behooved him to release the tension.
He viciously wrapped his dermas around each word as he spoke, now that he knew Megatron would hang onto every one.
“Yes, well, he pointed out that he, being quite old himself, is actually considerably younger than you are. And as you may have noticed, Ratchet is not exactly considered a youngster anymore.”
Optimus smirked. Megatron paused. For a moment, there was an all-encompassing silence. Then Megatron narrowed his optics, crimson flashing angrily at him. Then he spoke.
“I see,” he rasped out, the syllables drawn out. “And this occurred to you only now?”
Optimus felt his smirk twitch and waver. He did not let it drop just yet. He would hold on to the upper hand for as long as possible. Backing down was not in his nature.
“Yeah? You don’t exactly act your age, you know?”
“Is that so? And how precisely should I act to match my age?”
Optimus half shrugged, letting his amusement bleed into the motion.
“Like a geezer.”
Megatron gaped so spectacularly that Oprimus nearly keeled over at the sight. It was impressive enough that he began to wonder if the warframe’s lower jaw would unhinge if he held it long enough.
His stupor didn’t last much longer.
“A what?!”
“You know, the geezer that you apparently are.”
Megatron’s dermas flapped wordlessly a few times, but try as he might, no sound made it out of his voice box. He decided to help him along and spoke up again, keeping his tone jovial.
“Frankly, you’re holding up quite well for your age.”
He could both see and feel Megatron becoming defensive, his vents hissing once to dispel the heat of his vexation. His voice now a mere rumble, attempting to contain himself.
“And I suppose that you don’t find that agreeable? The fact that you’re-”
“Fragging a senior citizen? No. After some thoughtful deliberation I find that I am quite content with that, actually,” he shot back, glancing to the side, feigning to be deep in thought. “Speaking of which, how old are you, exactly?”
Megatron scoffed, clearly gearing up to shoot back a cutting retort, a murderous glare, and an impressive show of authority, then all at once… He deflated. It was so quick and frightening that for a moment Optimus wondered if the warlord had ever been upset at all, or if he had merely imagined it.
Just then, much to Optimus’ horror, something dawned on Megatron, and his whole demeanor shifted once more.
Megatron leaned down, his faceplates close enough that Optimus could feel the hot ex-vents brush against his faceplates as the warframe spoke. The crimson glow of his optics overtook Optimus’ entire field of vision.
“Old enough to be called a senior citizen, apparently,” he answered, sounding downright jovial and amicable. Sickeningly sweet. Optimus didn’t like that one bit.
Megatron smiled serenely at him, then turned around without breaking eye contact for as long as he could. Optimus felt pinned in place as an impossible cocktail of confusion and fear, then amusement mixed in his tank uncomfortably. All the while, Megatron stomped along towards the exit at a languid pace, as if there had never been so much as a semblance of annoyance within his spark in his entire functioning. As if the entire war had been just a figment of everyone’s imagination.
The warlord swiped his datapads from the table along the way, putting them into his subspace without a second thought. He left Optimus no choice but to scramble down the stairs and jog up to him to catch up. Worry gnawed at the Prime.
“Wait, wait, wait- I was only joking,” he laughed, there was a slightly manic edge to the sound that even he himself could hear. “You’re not actually upset, are you? Megatron, you’re not upset, right? I was just teasing, you know? Me- Megatron?”
“It’s been a long cycle. Let an old mech find some rest, won’t you?” Megatron spoke, not maliciously, no, but it still instilled fear in Optimus’ very spark. A cold sensation filled his spark chamber, causing his struts to lock in terror. Megatron walked away and left Optimus rooted to his spot, hopelessly watching him depart.
That sweetness? That abominable, syrupy, mind-numbing sweetness? This docile, cordial air? He knew it well. It meant nothing good, and he knew he would soon come face to face with the consequences of his actions. He would reap what he had sown with his teasing words. His joke would be repaid tenfold and then some. He would be annihilated. Megatron was already planning his revenge and it would be swift.
Of that, Optimus had no doubt.