Chapter Text
Heat pressed in around him, dark and close with the scent of soot and slag and the ozone afterburn of cannon fire. He twisted, impaled, lubricant dripping. Above him, his tormentor gave a rough laugh.
“The great Optimus Prime. If only your troops could see you now: on your back, open and helpless before your greatest foe. What would they think of you, I wonder?”
He arched, straining. He would not bend, he would not break—
“Hush now, don’t struggle.” Movement inside him, slow and excruciating and he moaned, hands clutching at the frame pressed to his. “It hurts, does it not? But remember,” He turned his helm aside and a sharp grip on his battlemask brought him back to face them, red optics, burning crimson with battlefire, lifting from the limb thrust into Optimus’s chassis to bore into his own.
“This,” said Megatron, “is how I like it.”
The hand around his spark tightened and he overloaded—
Optimus came online with a shout, tumbling off the berth in a tangle of limbs and rolling into a crouch. Freezing, he scanned the tiny hab-suite, fingers clenched tight around the blaster he couldn’t remember grabbing.
Empty.
Shaking, he let himself slump back against the side of the berth, fuel pump throbbing and spark racing. His plating fairly crawled with charge. It was still offcycle according to his chronometer and a ping from the ship’s computer notified him that two cycles remained before estimated convergence with The Lost Light.
Optimus offlined his optics and groaned, helm clanking against the berth as he allowed it to fall backwards.
This was a terrible idea.
He wouldn’t even be in this situation if he hadn’t carelessly mentioned his next destination to Ultra Magnus, during one of their semi-regular conversations—disguised in fashion typical to Ultra Magnus as routine reports, never mind that he hadn’t been under Optimus’s command for some time now—on the status of the ship.
Or rather its captain, but Magnus was polite enough to cater to Optimus’s paranoia without drawing excess attention to it.
“He’s doing well,” Ultra Magnus had said. “The crew is warming to him, most of them at least. Rung’s mostly bound by patient confidentiality of course, but he seems pleased.”
“And Megatron himself? How does he seem?”
Magnus had gone quiet at this. “My professional opinion is positive. He interacts with others and does not isolate himself, demonstrates a sense of responsibility and caring, in his own way, for those under his command.”
“And your personal opinion?”
An expression of frustration had crossed Ultra Magnus’s face. “My ability to navigate emotional complexities is somewhat lacking.”
“Then you have suspicions.”
“Less suspicions than concerns. As I said, he interacts with others, personally as well as professionally, but there is something…muted about him for lack of a better term.”
“Muted?”
“I am reluctant to ascribe emotional states to others, but I am almost inclined to suggest that he is lonely.”
Optimus turned his blaster over in his hands, checking and rechecking it in automatic habit from his cycles on the force, a repetitive task that always soothed his processor and spark. What did it matter if Megatron was or was not lonely? He had made the choice to play out this farce, to cross the galaxy in some futile attempt to delay the inevitable, to hold back the tide of beings howling for his energon. His fate was out of Optimus’s hands, if it had ever been in them to begin with, his few clumsy attempts to guide Megatron from his path of destruction, his own or others, always stymied by those with more power, more wisdom, more foresight.
Within his chassis, the empty space where the Matrix had rested ached.
His processor fritzed and complained, interrupted during its defragmentation cycle. He desperately needed rest, but the charge from his memory file replay had still not dissipated. Half-turning, he tucked the blaster up near the head of the berth before climbing up after it. Settling back, he stared up at the blank ceiling of the little hab-suite.
Deep-space travel was dangerous, even to a race as long-lived and unchanging as his own. The long dark between quantum jumps left too much time for reflection, for marinating in one’s thoughts.
He hadn’t received much psychotherapy over the course of the war, hampered by time and lack of resources. And while Ratchet was technically certified for emergencies, their prior rapport created a conflict of interest masquerading as awkwardness.
No doubt Rung would have had something to say about his processor’s linkage of an act of violence to an act of intimacy, but Optimus could not at the moment bring himself to care. Perhaps it had been his fault, never crossing that final threshold and baring his spark to another, leaving him vulnerable and blindsided when Megatron had broken through his plating and violated something never meant to be touched.
Or perhaps he could have sparkmerged with thousands and still woken cycle after cycle with the hot brand of invasive touch on him. When he’d said he could feel Megatron on the edge of his spark, he’d meant it quite literally, the imprint of heavy, rough fingers on the very core of him. Bodies could be switched, altered, broken down and reshaped anew, but the spark was eternal, the representation of all he was.
And Megatron had held it in his hand.
Part of him wished that Megatron had been successful, crushed it like a cheap bauble, something to match the physical agony with the mental, but despite the pain of ripped plating and circuitry and the instinctive alarm of the threat to his very life force, Megatron’s fingers had been eerily gentle, reverent almost, as though conscious of the fragility.
A lover’s touch.
Optimus’s spark throbbed and an electric zing zipped through his circuitry, curling in his interface array. Groaning, he covered his face and pinged the computer once more.
One point three seven cycles.
He doubted he’d recharge for any of it.
His welcoming party was, to his surprise and relief, much smaller than he’d expected. Ultra Magnus was there of course, looking as close to pleased as Ultra Magnus ever did, and the wide-mouthed metallurgist, Swerve, who looked fit to burst with excitement, likely at the thought of a returning customer to his little establishment.
And Megatron, standing to Ultra Magnus’s left, with an expression so blank and artificial it made something in Optimus’s tanks roil. Optimus waited until he’d greeted Magnus and Swerve before acknowledging him. “Megatron,” he inclined his helm, “I hope the cycle finds you well?”
“Well enough,” said Megatron. “Though I was uninformed of the occasion which begged your presence here. Come to make sure I haven’t slaughtered the crewmembers as they recharged?”
Optimus stiffened and cast a questioning look at Ultra Magnus, “This is not any sort of official visit. More a happy accident.” Grateful for his mask, he looked back to Megatron, forcing his field into an even hum, “Or an unhappy one, I regret that my impending arrival was sprung upon you unawares.”
Megatron glanced sidelong at Ultra Magnus but his expression did not change, “Not so unhappy, merely unexpected. I’ll have an additional hab-suite cleaned out.”
“Unnecessary,” said Optimus, resisting the urge to sigh in relief, “My ship is docked in the cargo bay, I can rest aboard it.”
“If that is your preference,” said Megatron.
Silence fell between them and Swerve coughed awkwardly. “Well,” he said, “how about a drink? Everybody likes drinking.”
Megatron’s orbital ridge quirked very slightly and his field flashed irritation before smoothing out. “Of course,” he said. “Everyone, save perhaps those who do not, and those who cannot. A marvelous idea.”
“Glad you think so!” said Swerve. “We’ll lubricate the gears of conversation, have a little spark-to-spark, you guys can watch me get drunk. It’ll be great!”
Megatron’s expression shifted to one of exasperation, “Lead the way.”
This far into offcycle, the bar was empty, though that might have had something to do with the hastily drawn sign Swerve had stuck to the door reading “Back in Ten!” in sloppy, crooked glyphs. Ten what he’d failed to elaborate on, and Optimus rather suspected this was deliberate, to give Swerve the option of being absent anywhere from mere moments to ten metacycles without claiming he’d spoken any falsehoods. He shoved the door open and bustled behind the bar, rummaging among the glowing containers. “What can I get you?”
“Midgrade,” said Ultra Magnus.
“An empty cup,” said Megatron flatly.
Swerve snorted. “One shore leave incident and you never let me mix anything for you again. Fine, spoilsports,” he slid an empty cup towards Megatron, who caught it, and fished under the counter for a plain container marked ‘Allergic to Fun’ and poured Ultra Magnus a cup of its contents. “Please tell me you have better taste,” he said, looking over at Optimus as he seated himself gingerly at the bar. “Nightmare Fuel? Engex on the rocks with manganese shavings?”
“Just a cup of the house blend, please,” said Optimus. His helm was beginning to ache already and he hadn’t even touched the high grade.
“I would suggest specifying a particular variety,” said Ultra Magnus, “as Swerve’s house blend is rather notorious for containing substances of questionable safety or origin.”
Swerve shot him a wounded look but Ultra Magnus merely took a long sip from his cup, unmoved.
Optimus resisted the urge to rub his hand across his face, “Very well. How about that one?” He indicated a container above the bar labeled ‘Sweet-and-Twenty’. It was the same ultraviolet hue as most of the others, but also appeared to contain no strange floating particles or ominous bubbles.
Swerve looked unimpressed. “Really? Tailgate likes that one.”
“Just pour the energon,” said Megatron, uncorking a flask from his subspace and dumping some of the sickly yellow liquid inside it into his own cup.
Optimus flinched, hunching, his tank roiling as he watched Megatron drink from the corner of his optic. He’d know the conditions of Megatron’s release of course, they’d been read to him in excruciating detail, but such casual presentation of one of his failures at the negotiating table still stung. Swerve tutted but poured Optimus a cup of the stuff anyway, pushing it across the bar before obtaining some sort of disgusting greenish fluid for himself, layered with a suspicious orange precipitate that might or might not have been deliberately added. Plopping down at the bar, he took a deep draft of his drink and propped himself up on his elbow. “Now,” he said, smiling. “How about you tell Old Swerve all about your troubles, eh? I’m the best listener.”
“He speaks the truth,” said Megatron. “Indeed, who requires Rung’s services when you may have your personal difficulties spread to the entire ship in less time than it takes to mix a batch of Nightmare Fuel?”
Swerve made a face, but did not contest the claim. “At least give me your opinion on the engex. Then I can put, ‘Preferred Drink of Optimus Prime’ on the outside of the barrel and charge more for it.”
Optimus rather felt like purging his tanks, but he lifted the cup anyway, withdrawing his battlemask and taking a long, slow sip. The liquid flooded his mouth, lighting up sensors as it trickled into his tank. It was, as perhaps could be expected, overwhelmingly sweet, but at he swallowed the sweetness receded, leaving behind a bitter-sour tinge and carving a surprisingly pleasant path of warmth inside him, calming the uneasy pulsing of his spark. Startled, he set the cup down slowly and stared at it.
“Well?” said Swerve.
He found his voice again, “It is good.”
Swerve’s smile widened and he knocked back the rest of his own drink before hopping up. Fishing a stylus and a small sign from his subspace, he scribbled on it and stuck the sign to the outside of the container. “Hello, extra three shanix a glass.”
Optimus took another drink and wrapped his hands around the cup, watching the play of light off the surface of the engex. The liquid sent a spreading tingle through his limbs, and he found his tensor cables relaxing, dorsal struts weakening until he had to lean against the edge of the bar to ease the ache of his own weight sagging down. He sighed, very quietly, systems dropping into a slow, even rhythm similar to when he recharged. Reputation be slagged, Tailgate had the right idea; this was very pleasant.
A tiny tickle on the edge of his spark, a phantom itch, and he raised his helm, surfacing from the half-trance of the high grade, to find Megatron looking straight at him.
A jolt passed through him, zinging through circuit and wire. Megatron’s optics were fixed, intense but unreadable, glowing deep and crimson in the muted light of the bar. Optimus’s spark throbbed once, artificially slow from the influence of the engex, and a static tingle rippled along the surface of his protoform, as though he’d been dipped in liquid nitrogen. His hand clutched spasmodically around the cup and he jerked his gaze back to it, forcing his fans to remain at a steady pace as his core temperature gave a little jump.
“Another round?” said Swerve.
“No,” said Optimus, wincing at the hoarseness of his voice. “I believe I am done for the cycle.”
Swerve tsked. “At least let me make you up a cube to go. Something to guard against the long, cold cycles until you can get slagfaced again.”
“Fine, thank you,” said Optimus, suddenly anxious for the evening to be over.
“If you are weary from the journey, you may of course retire,” said Megatron, voice deep and even and edged with a hint of what might have been condescension, “but I believe that it might be prudent to have a little talk before you do so, captain-to-captain, if you will.”
Optimus’s systems fairly barked in alarm and he clamped down on the involuntary response as his weapons array strained to come online. Ice washed through his spark, warring with the warm tide of engex and he downed the rest of his cup, setting it down with a hand that trembled only slightly and lifting his helm to look at Megatron.
“I think,” he said, with a calm he did not feel, “considering the last such conference, the results might be unpleasantly shocking.”
There was something sickly gratifying in watching the startled, blindsided expression flash across Megatron’s face before it smoothed out, becoming just as blank as when he’d welcomed Optimus aboard. His tanks churned, systems warm and humming and he fought the urge to purge once more.
“Perhaps so,” said Megatron, guarded but pushing on regardless, “but as the situation is now quite different, this may be an opportunity to clear the air.”
A small torrent of resigned despair flooded through him. How many times? How many times must he gird himself against Megatron’s assault, build and rebuild his armor against the jagged-glass blades of those words? The Matrix had fortified him to carry weight, to hold up against the slice of blade and burn of plasma, but how long? Pride in endurance was a cold comfort and faced with the prospect of yet another trial, Optimus would have just as soon have held their proposed conversation with his fists.
But Swerve pushed a small cube of Sweet-and-Twenty into his hands and from beside him Ultra Magnus’s field pulsed uncharacteristically calm encouragement and Optimus grappled with himself, biting back the howl of rage or frustration or dismay that wanted to erupt from his vocalizer and picking up the cube. “Very well,” he said. “Lead the way.”