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“Well, there is no need to get snippy with me,” Megatron said, not petulantly but with a petulant flair. He was feeling somewhat put-upon, being not the architect not advocate for this now-defunct plan. Alas, he was only the poor hapless fool who had agreed, and though he did not complain during the dismal dinner, and though he took ready initiative in solving the problem with the human cash register (thank you Dorothy), and though he was perfectly obliging about landing blindly on a cliff’s edge, no longer would he accept the grumpy blame from his lover, not for any of it!
Optimus Prime glared up at him. It was the only sort of glare Optimus Prime had ever been capable of wielding, which is to say that he appeared as if on the verge of tears. He might be crying; in fact, it would be difficult to differentiate between the tracks of rain and the tracks of frustrated tears. He wasn’t, obviously. Optimus Prime didn’t cry easily. But the verge of tears was a much easier cliff-edge to balance on than the one they had been on just a few moments prior.
“I am not being snippy,” Optimus sniped. He was, and he knew it, and Megatron knew that he knew it because his whole frame deflated a moment later. “Whatever,” he said. He turned his helm back to the road and leaned further into Megatron’s frame. Not into Megatron, but into his frame, which was underneath his raised arms, which carried the one rain-cloak which he had brought, and which he held up in a desperate attempt to shield them both from the onslaught.
The road was quickly becoming a mud slide.
“I am only saying that, well, you have been taking the night out on me,” Megatron continued. “But it was you who wanted to do this.”
“I thought it would be nice!” Optimus exploded. He threw his arms in the air, where they jostled the rain-cloak and sent a nice torrent of water down their backs. Down Megatron’s back, primarily. “It is a nice tradition. I have heard about it. It seemed very…very, chic!”
“You have about as correct an idea of the word chic as a filly has of a harness,” Megatron said.
Optimus jutted his chin out, conplete with a pout. “What does that even mean?”
“Stop trying to integrate human terms into your vocabulary.”
“It is a nice tradition,” Optimus repeated. “That’s all. And now we are very wet. And we owe Dorothy money. And I don’t even make money.”
“You have about as correct an idea of the word tradition as a filly has of a harness,” Megatron said. Truthfully, he had no idea what a filly knew of harnesses one way or the other, but he had heard the phrase on one of Dorothy's audiobooks and thought it probably applied. Optimus couldn’t tell the difference, anyway.
“A date,” Optimus cried. “A date! You go out for a nice dinner, you see a movie, you find a secluded spot and you kiss. Even you must admit that it sounds nice!”
“I believe that Cybertronians often consume food together,” Megatron argued. His arms were beginning to feel uncomfortable, what with all the water sliding down his digits and into his seams. “They watch films together too. I believe we had a movie night last Friday. And they even…” Megatron lowered his voice into a whisper. “...occasionally find a secluded spot and kiss.”
“It is not the same!” Optimus replied stubbornly. “Would you hold the thing higher?”
“No,” declared Megatron. “I won’t. I had no part in tonight’s disasters. I will hold my cloak as high as I want.” He did raise the cloak though, if only to change the angle of the drops running down his arms. They fell into new, dry seams.
Optimus whirled around and, in a dangerous display of either confidence or a complete lake of situational awareness, began to walk backward so as to continue the argument face to face. "It was a stupid question! It was just a stupid question. I wasn't being snippy, you just asked a, a-"
"Stupid question?" Megatron provided.
"Exactly!" Optimus huffed. "Obviously I did not anticipate the rain."
The rain was beginning to squelch under Megatron's pedes, and the feeling made him a bit defensive. "It wasn't a stupid question. I don't know anything about your plans for tonight. Maybe humans do things in the rain. I heard they like to sing."
Optimus scoffed pointedly, the sort of scoff that counts as an offensive weapon. "Wouldn't I have brought my own cloak, then?"
Megatron shrugged. He was not willing to admit defeat, but neither did he have the will or correctness to pursue the matter. The road, also, was requiring more and more of his attention. The conversation paused for long enough that Optimus righteous himself, which Megatron appreciated.
"And anyway," Optimus continued, "You haven’t helped this evening along yourself."
Now the topic of the argument had shifted to a battlefield Megatron had much more ammo to defend himself with. "I called Dorothy when you forgot that money existed," he reminded him.
"I did not-" Optimus twisted around again, a quick motion that threatened to send him slipping down the road. His balance remained as resolute as his ill-temper. "I did not. I had my debit information." The Cybertronians used their government-provided bank accounts to make simple online transactions. Megatron, not being a total fool, had asked Dorothy to open an account not associated with any form of human government, and had his money tucked safely away. Still, he didn't have paper money. None of them had paper.
"How was I supposed to know it was a cash only establishment?" Optimus stomped especially hard, which splashed water and plenty of mud on both of their shins. Megatron made no comment. On the grand scheme of discomfort they had inflicted upon each other it was really nothing, and on the smaller scale of discomfort he was experiencing at the moment it hardly registered. He lowered the rain cloak just a smidgen.
"I admit I don't know much about drive-in movie theaters," Megatron allowed, "but I did handle the situation. Dorothy brought the... cash. Cash. Yes." That was paper money.
"We pulled her out of dinner!" Optimus moaned. He had pulled ahead of Megatron, his first mistake, and looked up in dramatic agony, which was his second mistake. "Ugh," he said, optics full of rain water. He blinked rapidly, then ducked back under Megatron's make-shift umbrella.
"Dorothy is an admirable friend." Megatron had flown up to the road while Optimus had driven, and was now regretting his lack of geographical context; specifically, just how far they needed to go before mud became wet pavement. "And the dinner was nothing special," Optimus continued. "We don't cook like humans do, and we don't have anyone to cook for us. So what is the point?"
"A question for the ages," Megatron grumbled. He was still sore about dinner. It is never pleasant to dine with a disappointed partner. One starts to think they are the disappointment. He was not a disappointment though. He was a gentlemech. He was holding the make-shift umbrella.
An ominous clap echoed from the sky. Megatron instinctively glanced upwards, but the cloak and the thick rows of Lodgepole and Ponderosa pines obscured his view of the sky.
"Thunder storm," he commented dryly.
"I didn’t know!" Optimus cried again. A version of Megatron that was not resigned to his fate might have made a scathing comment about weather forecasts. It would have been within his rights, being the target of misdirected ire for half the evening. But he was a reformed mech, so instead Megatron angled the cloak over Optimus’ helm and hoped the trees would take any lightning damage for them.
The conversation lapsed, each stuck in their own miseries and the rest of their attentions aimed at the slick road. The rain beat down, louder than the slapping of their pedes in the muck. Overhead, another clap of thunder roared.
They lasted a good five minutes, every minute of which Megatron was convinced the road would certainly end. But it did not, and in the fifth minute their grumpy communion was interrupted by an ill-placed patch of gravel.
“Oh!” Optimus windmilled his arms comically, then flung himself backwards. Just as Megatron was moving to catch him – envisioning an even crankier, dirtier Prime, aft in the mud – Optimus wrapped his arm around his shoulder and clung to him like a stabilizing buoy.
Megatron stumbled, but did not end up aft in the mud himself. They stood there for a moment, wet and miserable and one bad slip away from sliding down the mountain. Optimus looked up at him and he down at Optimus. There was rain in the creases by Optimus’ optics. Megatron started to laugh.
It was not a dignified laugh. It was a chuckle interrupted by snorts and perhaps something that someone brave might call a giggle. Optimus looked momentarily hurt, but Megatron did not stop, trusting that – yes, a look of understanding and then-
Optimus began to laugh too. It was equally undignified, made all the better by the droplets of mud that had somehow managed to splash upon his face. And then, joy, he tucked that mud-splashed helm into the crook of Megatron’s neck and laughed against the cabling there. Megatron allowed the cloak to drop, until it was resting on his helm and doing a poor job of protecting them both. He wrapped his free arms around his soon-to-be sparkmate's shaking frame and pressed his laughter into his muddy helm.
“Optimus,” he said, when his laughter lessened. “How long have you known me?”
“Forever,” Optimus replied, dramatically.
“Exactly,” Megatron said. “And when in our past have I ever shown myself to care about fancy dinners?”
“Never,” Optimus muttered.
“And in all our history-” Megatron’s voice lifted dramatically. “In all our battles, have I ever been known to be brought low by minor inconveniences.”
“Never,” Optimus admitted. “It was just-”
“And what-” Megtron interrupted, “Might we be able to do in the washracks later?”
Optimus laughed louder. “Clean ourselves?”
“And?”
“Save the evening?” Optimus suggested suggestively.
“Kiss!” Megatron declared. “We had dinner, we watched a movie-”
“Half a movie,” Optimus corrected. It had taken them half the movie to get cash from Dorothy.
“We were momentarily sidetracked by some rain,” Megatron continued. “And now we will go back to base and we will wash ourselves clean and we can kiss. It is your Earth date.”
“It’s like a metaphor for our lives,” said Optimus, with a snorting giggle. “Pause for four million years of rain.”
Megatron rolled his optics. “Alright,” he agreed. “Unwrap yourself from around me, love, let’s march down this miserable mountain together.”
Optimus withdrew his helm. The mud was smeared, probably on Megatron’s cabling. He leaned up and pressed a kiss to Megatron’s lips. He tasted like rain water. “Okay.” he said. “But maybe let’s not do this again.”
Megatron grabbed the cloak and lifted it back above his helm. It dipped under the weight of the rain. “Agreed.”