Archive of Our Own

It’s not a tradition, not really.

They never planned it, not at all. Not a single word had been spoken about the strangely vulnerable arrangement that Optimus had found himself in, and yet he arrived religiously whenever he could. Every few cycles, he had found himself at Megatron’s doorstep with a medkit and a tired look. Megatron had not said anything about it.

It would be more appropriate to say that Optimus had merely stepped down the hallway. Since the death of Sentinel, preceding a fair trial, Megatron, his now Lord High Protector, had been residing on the same floor in the tower. He had chosen the room just across Optimus’s, citing his reasoning with the fact that it was indeed his job to protect Optimus. He hadn’t met Optimus’s eye when he unconvincingly spewed excuses about their proximity, and Optimus wasn’t sure whether Megatron was trying to spare himself the embarrassment of the alternative or insult him.

“These rooms are too far away to do anything,” Megatron had grumbled. “Why couldn’t you make the rooms closer to cover imminent threats?”

“There’s a room right in front of mine,” Optimus had replied in a confused manner.

“Yes, but it’s right in front of yours,” Megatron complained.

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Are you saying you want me to move into the room in front of yours?” Megatron had asked it in such a rhetorical manner that the Prime wasn’t sure if he wanted a response.

“If you deem it as necessary,” he had shrugged, and Megatron had given him a scowl of disapproval for not playing along with him.

“Do you want me there or not?” he sneered, and Optimus had reluctantly responded with an emphatic yes when his first weary one was not taken so well. Megatron seemed happy to have Optimus admit that he wanted him there, especially when the embarrassment of the choice had presented him with a chance of vulnerability. He had nearly smiled.

Optimus sat up tiredly in his berth. Though the war was long over, there was something constantly lingering at the back of his processor. Constantly, like a wire short-circuited within his interior systems, he felt there was something wrong. It wasn’t a gut-wrenching feeling, and his defense mechanisms did not spike at the migraine, but it was certainly enough to interfere with his recharge habits. When he was commander of the Autobots, he had a much easier time recharging, and he had easily attributed this phenomenon to the exhaustion that overtook him every time he had engaged with the Decepticons. But now, there was nobody to fight. He felt it was easy to relax and let himself not worry, but he wasn’t tired enough to recharge at all. It was an unusual feeling, though not entirely unpleasant. Optimus had found that it was a reminder of what once was, and he knew it was important not to forget it.

He vents wearily and places his servos on his knee joints, pushing himself up with a creak of metal and a grunt. His heavy frame jostled the whole room as he crept through it. He was comically large compared to the furniture that dusted his room, and he was reminded of such. Pushing himself out of bed, he had taken one long stride and hit his thigh strut against the sharp end of the nightstand. He grunts, paying no mind to the sharp cut of scratched paint against his leg and beelines straight for some high-grade.

“High-grade?” Megatron had asked when he had first entered Optimus’s room during their tour around the tower. “You drink that stuff?”

“Yes, it helps me sleep,” Optimus muttered in embarrassment. “I hope you don’t see me as lesser.”

Megatron scoffed. “There is no lesser. You are already less,” he had said. Optimus had smiled because when Megatron insulted him like that, it meant that he really didn’t care at all.

“Have you ever tried it?”

“Once. I don’t care much for the delicacy, though,” Megatron mused. “It weakens me.”

“That is the point, Megatron.”

“Yes, but we don’t all have a Lord High Protector to hang around and provide services, do we?” Optimus had laughed and thanked Megatron, and he had remembered that Megatron’s faceplate scrunched up and smoked with heat.

The tension in his frame thoroughly dissipates when the burning elixir hits the back of his vocalizer. He winces at the burn, the aftertaste lingering on his glossa as he gently places the cup back down. He found, at times, high-grade helped him relax. His frame was insistent, however, in making sure that he stood upright at all times, so a couple of glasses wouldn’t have deemed him as intoxicated, just more loose-lipped and careless. Once he downs another, he gets a sudden off-kilter feeling, and the pain in his thigh grows sharper. Optimus can’t remember the last time high-grade was this painful to his intake, and frankly, he can’t seem to care either. The high-grade does its job at blurring everything and making him drowsy, but it just means his thoughts tunnel vision and fixate on one thing. Optimus may be careless now, but he is still a Prime. He lets that thing go unidentified, however. Perhaps he already knows what it is, but he just can’t seem to stomach it right now.

He places two servos against the counter to steady his bulky frame. The Matrix inside him has dimmed significantly, a sign of urgent recharge. Optimus can’t bring himself to feel tired at all. He shutters his optics and releases the vent in his chassis that he was unaware of holding. It stutters as he heavily exhales. The pain in his thigh permeates through his leg, and he is suddenly all too aware of his tiny room. The furniture practically brushes against his shoulder struts, the counter feels too small for his servos, and the floor is soft. He swallows, and when he blinks again, the bottle of high-grade is completely gone. He can’t remember if he was the one who drank it all—was the nightstand there always so shiny? It must have been a gift from someone because Optimus would never purchase something so annoyingly bright. Normally, high-grade wouldn’t have this dizzying effect on him. In his exhausted consciousness, he concludes that he must have grabbed the heavy bottle—oh, it felt so good, buzzing through his system. He feels his joints relax, and the only sensation that he is hyper aware of is the stabbing pain that guts itself into his processor.

Optimus nearly jumps at the sound of a footstep before he realizes it is his own. His field reaches for something before his thoughts do, and he quickly draws it back in with embarrassment. He was out of his processor to be drinking like this, but the high-grade had already subdued him to a state of no return. Optimus vents in frustration at his own judgments, and he—his processor floods with pain sensors coming from the cut on his thigh. There’s no energon leakage, but he feels as though his leg strut has been torn clean off. He holds onto the counter with a single servo as he moves—oh Primus, the pain was bad, and his berth seems way too small for his frame, and… He found his processor jumping from one thought to another in a nanoklik, and it was beginning to cause pain in his helm. He stumbles clumsily through the tiny room, holding onto whatever is closest to him as he reaches around blindly. He grabs the medkit—or what he thinks is his kit—and lazily makes his way to his hatch.

The first time Megatron had been subject to Prime’s shenanigans was when Optimus actually had an injury in his right shoulder actuator. He had urgently knocked on Megatron’s door.

“What?” Megatron had annoyingly grunted when he opened the hatch to see Optimus holding up a medkit. “I’m not a doctor. Go find Ratchet.”

“He’s busy,” Optimus had said, and Megatron had found out later that he had been lying through his dentae.

“Fine, give me that.” Megatron had snatched the kit and halfway pushed Optimus onto his own berth. “You’re always getting hurt. Just like Orion.”

Optimus smiled. “Some things don’t change.” When Megatron roughly raised Optimus’s right arm strut, he winced. “Not so quick,” he choked out.

Megatron grunted in response, but his touch became much gentler. “It’s not even major. All you need is weld sealant.”

“Yes, well. My right arm is my dominant, so it’s hard for me to—”

“Just spray it on. It’s not hard at all,” Megatron stated impatiently. Optimus said nothing and averted his optics. After a beat of silence and a heavy ex-vent, Megatron grabbed the weld sealant and shook the bottle, spraying the cold aerosol into Optimus’s joint. Optimus had thanked him kindly and left without a word, leaving Megatron confused and slightly annoyed at the time wasted.

The loud hissing of the hatch opening pierces through his audials. His processor pounds against his helm, and his whole frame aches with the weight of the blurred edge between memory and muscle, thought and instinct. He trudges along the pristine hallway, steps echoing in the quiet night. They are heavy and slow, and Optimus’s knee joints threaten to give out with every step. A profound kind of exhaustion overtakes his frame. It’s not exactly the kind of exhaustion he is used to. No, it is not physical at all. His processor puts together the words ‘emotional exhaustion,’ but when he accidentally presses his field past Megatron’s door, he empties his thoughts. Pursing his intake together, he draws his field as close to the Matrix as possible and lazily raises his servo to tap on Megatron’s door.

Before he can even make contact with the hatch, it hisses open and a very annoyed, slightly drowsy Megatron stands before him. Optimus smiles stupidly.

“It’s the middle of the night,” Megatron mutters, shuttering his optics. “What do you want, Prime?”

“How did you know I was coming?” Optimus trails off. He loses the rest of his thought and just looks toward Megatron expectantly. His blue optics shimmer.

“Your field,” Megatron states matter-of-factly. “It’s practically radiating off of you. Are you drunk off high-grade?”

“Mm—no, I just had a sip,” Optimus murmurs. “I need help—medical assistance, doctor.” He raises what’s in his left hand.

Megatron raises a brow ridge. “That’s the mug I gave you for your birthday.”

Optimus looks confused and forces his optics to stare at what is in his hand despite his raging migraine and the pain searing through his thigh. “I must’ve—no, sorry, I must’ve…”

“Grabbed the wrong thing?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re so smart, Megatron.” Optimus does not catch the way Megatron’s cooling fans whirr to life at his drunken compliment.

“What’s the problem, anyway?” he grumbles. “You look fine to me. Other than your processor.”

“My leg,” Optimus vents. He pushes past Megatron, who stares blankly at Optimus’s rude intrusion and welcomes himself onto Megatron’s berth. He winces as he raises his leg up. He almost proudly shows Megatron the cut, like a soldier parading his battle wounds as a means to gain glory.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Megatron remarked, low and flat. He closes the hatch door with a hiss and turns back to Optimus with abject annoyance. “You’re walking fine.”

“But it hurts,” Optimus half-whines, and Megatron suddenly feels the urge to shake him, kiss him, fix him, because, Primus, Optimus never sounds like this. “I need your help. You’re the only one I want.”

Megatron squints his scarlet optics and folds his arm struts. His face plates scrunch up, and any mech in their right mind would place disgust as his expression. No, Megatron is assessing Optimus, wondering if this is some sort of trap. Some sort of prank. It must be because Optimus wouldn’t look at him like that. Like he is helpless. Megatron moves briskly to Optimus, sitting beside him on the berth and grabbing Optimus’s leg with little to no care. He props Optimus’s leg onto his lap, the Prime’s thigh resting on Megatron’s. Optimus smiles, and Megatron returns the expression with a grave frown of his own. “There’s a paint scratch,” he damn near seethes out, like he is ready to gut Prime for waking him up.

“Yes,” Optimus whispers miserably. “It hurts.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Megatron replies dryly. “You’ve had too much high grade. It’s messing with your pain sensors.”

“Mm…” Optimus hums, though not in disagreement. It’s not in agreement either, no. It’s the sound of someone too tired to argue and too wired to stop thinking. His optics dim slightly, unfocusing.

“Still hurts,” he murmurs, slower this time. More slurred. “Even if it’s not real. Does that count?”

Megatron opens his intake to say something, then closes it. What is there to even say to something like that? The implications of such a statement were far too heavy, and Megatron did not exactly want to talk about his feelings for Primus’ sake. He also does not want to lie. He has not lied to Optimus since the fall, and he wasn’t planning to any time soon. So, instead, he places a warm servo on the paint scratch and gently rubs his digits along the line of silver plating. A somber silence befalls them. Optimus is far too buzzed to form a coherent thought, yet the Prime was still spewing prose and being vague about his feelings. Megatron wanted to scoff at the preposterous metaphor that Optimus was heeding, but he remained still by his side. His reasoning? The Lord High Protector has to do his job. But when he sees the way Optimus is slouched against him—broad frame curled up against him like he is afraid of the rest of the world—he doesn’t feel like a protector. He feels like a liar.

He should leave—tell Optimus to sober up and lecture him for getting drunk in the middle of the night when he has the responsibility of all of Iacon resting upon his lone shoulder struts. He should stop dragging ancient ghosts into their quiet, fragile peace.

Instead, he hovers an arm strut around Optimus, servo just above his shoulder strut, hesitating in mid-air. Just one touch, Megatron tells himself, to ground him. Help him come back to reality instead of being high as a kite.

He is snapped out of it when Optimus speaks again. His servo, once close enough to touch Optimus, quickly retreats back to his side.

“How long do I have, doctor?” Optimus asks, voice barely audible. Megatron purses his lips and averts his optics at the pitiful view. Optimus is still conscious, he is still thinking. The pain in his processor has subsided quite a bit, and Optimus dumbly—though not because he is wrong—attributes the newly found relaxation to Megatron’s embrace. He shutters his optics, moving his servo to his thigh and placing it on top of Megatron’s. “Do I have long?”

Megatron’s processor screams at him to pull his servo away from the Prime’s. Optimus’s servo is warm against his. It is comforting, and it grounds Megatron more than it grounds Optimus. When Optimus curls his digits around his, it is a loose hold, as if Megatron moved his servo away, Optimus would just fall apart completely. Optimus, however drowsy and buzzed, feels Megatron’s servo under his. It is cold against his, but he likes the cold. It reminds him that Megatron is real.

“Long enough,” Megatron mutters against better judgment. He remains still, like any touch to Prime would be a sin he would be unable to atone for. He lets the Prime use him as a pillow of sorts.

Optimus shifts, just barely, to press more of his weight against Megatron’s side. He doesn’t do it to burden more, just to anchor himself and feel Megatron’s presence. With this shift, Optimus lets his field press against Megatron’s, grazing dangerously close. Megatron bristles, flinches, even, but allows it. He can feel Optimus’s field, how it trembles, unsteady like a low flame of a burnt-away candlestick. It is soft, and it buzzes.

“I am weak, Megatron,” Optimus hums with purpose. Megatron is surprised at how easily Optimus can get a hold of himself, but when he sees the dilation of Optimus’s optics, he vents. “I need my Lord High Protector.”

“Do you, now?” Megatron drawls lazily. Megatron unconsciously intertwines their digits together, and Optimus lets out a satisfied hum. He gently rubs his thumb along Optimus’s servo. His vents hitch for a moment. Optimus felt like a heavy-weight blanket beside him, exuding all that was warm and fuzzy and—Megatron tenses his jaw and mentally castigates himself for humoring such a weak sentiment.

“Yes. You are not close enough.”

Optimus is practically overheating. High-grade often had that effect on any mech, but with Optimus’s frame, it was like trying to keep a furnace under a seal. Megatron can almost hear his own frame sizzle with the contact when Optimus mumbles something incoherently and tightens his hold on Megatron’s servo. His vents cycle, and his plating shifts to aid with cooling.

“I’m right beside you,” Megatron replies gruffly.

“I mean the room. The room is not close enough,” Optimus murmurs. “I wish the room were closer to mine.”

“It’s—It’s right… what? It’s right in front of yours,” Megatron blinks in surprise.

“Too far,” the Prime huffs with dissatisfaction. “You should be this close,” and he presses his weight even further into Megatron, almost leaning his entire frame against his. The contact stirs something in Megatron’s spark, something once long forgotten and now forlorn. It is old and familiar, but it is quieter. Duller.

“You are being ridiculous,” Megatron grumbles. He tilts his helm back and hits the wall behind him with a small thunk. His optics dim from exhaustion, from lack of recharge. He mulls over his options quickly. It would be easy—logical, even—to guide Optimus to recharge. To disengage, push his heavy frame away, and file this particular encounter under ridiculous things a Prime does when inebriated. Megatron does not move. He keeps their servos linked, brushing idle circles with his thumb along Optimus’s digits.

“What if I suddenly malfunction and you are not there by my side?” Optimus frowns seriously.

“You’re a Prime. You have the Matrix. That’s not how it works,” Megatron reasons reluctantly. He is exhausted, exhausted with Optimus’s shenanigans.

“What if I call for you and you are not there? What if you do not come?” Optimus pouts. Yes, pouts, and Megatron almost smiles at the sight. Primus below, Megatron thinks. He makes a quiet sound of disbelief, and the expression quickly and embarrassingly leaves Optimus’s faceplate.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Megatron grunts.

“You make so many excuses,” Optimus whispers, voice muffled as he shifts even closer. “If you do not want me close, you can just say so.”

“I never said that,” Megatron responds almost instantly. He almost forcibly grips onto Optimus’s servo at this point, like he is scared the Prime will sober up at any moment and come to his senses. He wants to berate himself for the quickness of his response. Somehow, even now, when Optimus was at his most vulnerable, he finds himself desperate for his approval. It was pathetic, but Optimus smiled. Megatron vents. “I will be there.”

“What if you are not?”

“Then you will protect yourself,” Megatron grumbles, half fed up with it all. “You’re a Prime. You’re stronger than I.”

Optimus shakes his head slowly, deliberately. As if Megatron had gotten the answer to his question very, very wrong. “No, just heavier,” he remarks with conviction, voice thick with high-grade.

“Yes, well,” Megatron grumbles. “That often works out in battles.”

“It is not a battle I speak of,” Optimus muses. “Not about physical strength.”

“Stop waxing poetic. Say what you mean.”

“I mean, I am tired,” the Prime whispers, impossibly quiet. His optics are dim and distant, like they are looking past something in the room. Past the future. “Tired of surviving.” He hums quietly and tucks his helm into the crook of Megatron’s shoulder like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like he belongs there.

Megatron feels his spark sink low, but he ignores the feeling in his chassis and scoffs. “You’re drunk.”

“It is true,” Optimus adds. His voice has gone soft, no longer deep and booming and leading as before. So soft that it can be mistaken for nothing at all. “You make it quieter. All of it. You don’t even try, but it is quieter.”

Megatron is silent. He uncomfortably shifts his servo under Optimus’s, his touch sending a burning ray of light through his arm strut. He’s not sure what to feel. It suddenly feels too warm for his own frame, like he is undeserving of something so pure. Yes, in this moment, Optimus was exactly that. Pure.

“I wonder if you will wake up sober and still mean such a thing,” Megatron vents.

“I will,” Optimus utters drowsily. He shifts his helm, tilting it upwards to stare at Megatron. He smiles at Megatron, albeit a little wryly. He lets a pause hang between them before he speaks again. When Megatron meets Optimus’s optics, he feels an intense urge to run away. How could Optimus look at him like he was the only one worth looking at? Optimus’s stare had a way of ruining Megatron, and it felt as though he was staring straight through his spark, tearing apart the weaponry surrounding his frame and straight to his core.

Megatron shifts, gently releasing Optimus’s servo and moving Optimus’s thigh off of his lap. His touch is reverent, worshipping almost, like he is handling something so fragile that he can hardly bring himself to ghost it with his servos. He slowly sets Optimus’s leg down onto the berth. Optimus is limp, and he almost whines at the loss of contact. Megatron, exhausted, responds with a low grunt of warning.

“Stay still,” Megatron warns. “You’re overheating and halfway offline.” His vents stutter from how close they are, how warm Optimus is, and how heavy his frame feels along his side.

“I’m fine,” Optimus whispers back, his voice soft and syrupy. He doesn’t sound fine. He sounds dreamy, his optics hazy, his words cotton-thick and tender. “You feel nice—like one of those recharge blankets.”

When Megatron’s audials pick up his voice, he lets out a vent he had not known he was holding. Like a sigh of relief, that Optimus was still with him. Megatron scoffs, but there is no real venom in his tone. It is more fond than anything. “You’re delirious. I should knock your processor straight.”

“Please don’t,” Optimus mumbles. He hums quietly, voice vibrating through both of them where their sides meet. “I quite like it like this.”

“Like what?”

“You, holding me,” Optimus whispered vaguely. “Do you like me? I think you do.”

Megatron’s processor short-circuits at the question, and he realizes he doesn’t exactly have an answer to that. There were layers to their relationship, unspoken, heavy tensions between them. It wasn’t exactly a matter of ‘liking’ Optimus, but neither was it tolerating him. Megatron raises a brow ridge and looks down at Optimus, the pitiful mech. He was curled on Megatron’s side like it was natural, like he was a puzzle piece that Megatron didn’t know his intricate web of wires was missing. The weight of Optimus was heavy, but it wasn’t a burden, Megatron decided. He knew what burdens were, carried them on his back with shame and guilt for vorns. Optimus was no burden.

“You’re fragged out of your processor, Prime,” Megatron mutters. He shakes his helm and vents. His voice, though low, was not unkind at all. He couldn’t bring himself to cover his words with the shield of sarcasm and cruelty, not at this hour when his own processor could hardly function. When Megatron notices the slight frown on Optimus’s faceplate, his tone shifts. “How’s your leg?”

Optimus blinks slowly, cycling his dim, hazy optics and focusing them onto his thigh. The thought takes a while to come to him, like it had taken the long route through his processor. He glances down at it, as if he had just been born yesterday.

“Oh,” he says with such profound realization. “Still there.”

“Obviously,” Megatron scoffs. “I mean how it feels. Does it still hurt?”

“No,” Optimus frowns. “It’s warm.”

“That’s good. Means your systems are compensating.”

“Means you touched it.”

Megatron’s optics flare in surprise. “That’s not how that works,” Megatron huffs.

“Maybe not for everyone else,” Optimus replies vaguely. He shutters his optics and raises a lazy servo, moving his arm strut to Megatron. Before Megatron can even muster up a protest, Optimus’s servo is in his again. Megatron does not flinch. Instead, his frame floods with a new kind of warmth, and he is too weak of a mech to push away this unwelcome happiness.

Optimus shifts. He smiles like a lazy, carefree mech, leaning on the High Protector like a weighted blanket. Megatron found it endearing and familiar. He had grown to respect the Prime as a leader, but it was nice, sometimes, to get a reminder that it was still Orion underneath the heavy plating and honor. Optimus’s field is gentle now, curling lazily against his own like a cat lounging in a sunbeam.

“I don’t even want to know what you mean by that,” Megatron grumbles. He squeezes Optimus’s servo, a contrast to his sarcastic words. A warning that he is about to release it. “Perhaps you should get back to your berth. We are wasting time here.”

“No, we’re bonding,” Optimus counters, voice warm and tangy, pressing his helm lightly onto Megatron’s shoulder. “Don’t leave me.”

“Primus, help me,” Megatron mutters to himself without heat or anger. He sighs through his vents, the kind of sigh that should be followed up with a string of protests. Instead, he shifts to make room on the already cramped berth. “Lie down, since you are so adamant about not moving.”

“Mm..” Optimus hums softly, letting Megatron gently bring him down to the berth. Their frames, too large for the small recharge station, are forced to press against each other. Optimus does not seem to mind, even going so far as to nuzzle against the crook of Megatron’s shoulder. Megatron, however, is conversely very sober and hyper-aware of every phantom touch that Optimus blesses his cold plating with. Optimus drapes an arm strut around Megatron’s waist and brings his leg strut to rest across Megatron’s. “I think this is most secure. There is no way anyone can attack me like this.”

“Are we still on that?” Megatron says lazily. “You are incapable of walking a few steps down the hall, so this is what we have resorted to?” Despite his words, he does not move away from Optimus. The closeness was certainly new, and Megatron had never experienced another mech’s limbs entangled with his, especially not on a cramped berth. Megatron can feel every slight adjustment in Optimus’s frame, every moment when Optimus carelessly allows his field to interact with Megatron’s. It’s disarming.

“Yes. It’s a security precaution,” Optimus whispers.

“Very professional,” Megatron says dryly.

“It is,” Optimus counters. “You’re a shield. A very sturdy one. Premium build. Excellent craftsmanship.”

Megatron scowls. “I’m flattered,” he mumbles sarcastically and flatly. Megatron presses his field against Optimus. It comes off as an attempt to let the Prime know he was thoroughly annoyed and exhausted, but Optimus’s processor is too fuzzy to interpret anything. Instead, he hums lightly at the warmth of Megatron’s field and presses his back in thoughtless affection. Megatron’s faceplates burn up.

“You should be,” Optimus murmurs, almost smugly. His voice is muffled against Megatron’s shoulder plate. “Mechs would pay me to say that to them.”

“Is that right?” Megatron scoffs. “How blind they are. Do they pay to be crushed by your weight while you cycle high-grade and vent into their neck cables?”

“No. That’s just reserved for you,” Optimus vents.

“I tolerate it,” said Megatron. He snakes an arm strut just underneath Prime, servo ghosting over his waist. He doesn’t let it drop, almost waiting for permission.

“I’m glad,” Optimus chuckles quietly, voice low and warm against Megatron’s neck cables. “I was testing you.”

“You are testing my patience.”

Optimus smiles and closes his optics in satisfaction. “It is holding up surprisingly well.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Megatron asks, venting an aggravated sigh. He carefully and gently places his servo along the curve of Optimus’s waist, keeping his optics trained on the touch. If Optimus were to react at all, he would retreat. Instead, Optimus does not stir, and Megatron brushes an idle thumb along his waist.

“Not when I’m comfortable.”

“You are just like Orion,” Megatron says with a roll of his optics, though it lacks any real venom. “Always smug. Like you won something.”

“I have,” Optimus responds pleasantly. “A Megatron-shaped pillow and heater. All in one.”

“I will throw you off this berth.”

“You won’t.”

“Don’t test me,” Megatron grunts. He tightens his grip on Optimus’s waist and closes his optics. “Recharge.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Recharge,” Megatron repeats, and he glares down at the top of Optimus’s helm—pointlessly because Optimus’s optics are already half shuttered and dimmed. Optimus’s spark pulses once, slow and lazy. He smiles and, for the first time in a very long time, finds himself easily falling into recharge against the now warm plating of Megatron’s shoulder strut. He is content, comfortable, and full. Optimus offlines and falls into recharge, stilling and growing cold against Megatron.

A stillness falls over them, quiet and untouchable save for the low hum of the base’s power generator and the cooling fans above them. Megatron lets out a careful vent, cautious as not to stir the slumbering Prime. He dares a glance downwards, watching the mech in his arms look so relaxed and trusting and happy. It was a strange sight to see the serious Prime look so slack in his arms. Something about the sight unspools the tightness in his spark, and he lets himself shutter his own optics.

Their fields intertwine, a subconscious tether. Even in stasis, it is warm, gentle, tender.

Megatron keeps his servo along Optimus’s back strut, stroking him idly as he dims his optics and lets the world melt away around him. The Prime, tucked closely underneath his neck cables, remains still. Their chassis’ touch, limbs intertwined together in an intricate web of wiring and plating. It was enough to make Megatron’s processor, infuriatingly sober at the time, spin. The last thought in his processor is the way Optimus’s back strut arches at his touch.

Optimus awakens to the blaring in his HUD system. He is suddenly struck with a flood of warnings, alerts, and damaged systems, and he shoots up in the recharge berth and grabs his own processor, servos gripping it tightly enough to cause enough external damage to forget about the pounding in the back of his processor. There were warnings of split energon lines, minor internal leaks, and tangled wiring. His spark pulses erratically, disoriented from the sudden rush of input. He grits his dentae and vents shakily, trying to ground himself. Primus below, the pain was killing him. He squeezes his optics shut and tries to relax himself, but the quick pulsing of the Matrix is overloading his systems. He feels like his processor has been split in two. How much high-grade had he drunk?

The room is dim and quiet. Optimus’s optics adjust to the lighting. His sensors recalibrate themselves, and—the berth beneath him is warm. There’s a shift in the mattress.

“Easy,” comes a voice, gravelly and husky with the scratch of early recharge. “You’re fine.”

Optimus turns his helm to see a very tired Megatron, lounging back on the bed with his optics halfway shuttered. Clearly not a morning person, Optimus thinks to himself as he sets his processor straight. It dawns on him that he is in the same recharge bed as Megatron and—what happened last night? He shakes his helm and tries to close the HUD signals as they consistently pop up and flood his sensors. His optics recalibrate, and he glances around.

The room was not his own. That is the first thing he realizes. Limited edition Megatronus Prime merchandise littered the once barren walls. The furniture is much more extravagant, littered with lines of red, silver metal gleaming with the intruding beam of sunlight through the cracked window. The faint smell of high-grade clung to his frame like a guilty secret.

“Megatron,” Optimus says formally, clearing his vocalizer. His faceplate scrunches in mortification and smokes, tinging a heated red. He shifts to create a much-needed distance between the two and pulls his field impossibly close. The lack of Megatron’s field, he realizes, makes him a lot less warm.

Megatron grunts and sits up, leaning back against the headboard of the berth. He rubs the back of his helm and blinks his optics, adjusting to the dim light and the glow of Optimus’s Matrix. It casts blue light across his plating, and it is annoyingly bright to look at. He has completely sobered up, given how conversely different the Matrix is now that it is less dim. “Optimus,” he mumbles, recharge laced in his voice.

“There’s more than last time,” Optimus says absentmindedly, staring at the walls of the room. He tries so deeply to avoid the throbbing in his processor as well as the elephant in the room. Each pause between the two served to create more awkward tension, and Optimus was sure that he had devastatingly made a blunder last night, given that Megatron held the same regard for silence as he did. He holds back a smile as the corners of his intake curl up. The walls are almost entirely purple, with the number of posters and decals placed meticulously beside each other. “The strongest Prime to ever live.”

Megatron averts his optics in embarrassment. “Have you sobered up?”

“Ah, yes,” Optimus remarks. “Hungover, but yes.” The worst of the headache had passed, and his HUD was no longer plagued with alarms and red alerts. Instead, his frame was overcome with sluggishness, and the long-dreaded pure exhaustion nestled its way into his limbs. He felt the kind of tired that wasn’t just physical—it was embedded, like rust in his joints. Each movement was a negotiation with gravity, and his actuators responded with the delay of a second, as if he were operating on a slowed timecode. Even his processor felt like it was muddled in molasses—dense, heavy, and pointless.

Megatron ponders his choices for a moment, his processor slowly coming to life with clarity from his morning weariness. He could take Optimus to Ratchet—that would be the correct thing to do—or he could allow himself to be selfish just this once. Perhaps, he decides, Optimus would do better in a familiar room with a warm atmosphere rather than the cold, dreary air of a medical facility. A justifiable excuse but a poor one nonetheless, Megatron holds up a cube of fresh energon. “Here,” he says grudgingly.

“Thank you,” Optimus nods slowly and tiredly. He gently takes the energon from Megatron’s servos and pops it into his intake. It helps the wear in his struts, but does little to nothing for the splitting and constant helmache. He tries not to meet Megatron’s optics, opting to stare down at the berth instead.

Megatron scoffs. He seems reluctant to bring up the events of last night, and he’s certainly sure that Optimus doesn’t remember most of it. “Recharge well?”

“Yes, actually,” Optimus says pleasantly. “Better than usual. Perhaps the high-grade helped after all.” He lies through his dentae, attributing the successful night to his mistake rather than Megatron’s sacred company. How could he be honest, though? It was embarrassing, mortifying, and humiliating to say anything of the sort, and the situation was already embarrassing, mortifying, and humiliating. The air is awkward. Neither of the two mechs wanted to bring it up, Optimus just having a clouded, foggy memory of the events, and Megatron not wanting to perturb Optimus with the expectations that had formed in his processor after what the Prime had clumsily let slip last night.

“Premium craftsmanship,” Megatron mutters, his intake curling into a small smile. He tilts his helm and looks at the Prime, savoring the embarrassed, heated look on his once-composed, calm faceplate.

Optimus groans softly. “So we’re doing this.”

“What?” Megatron says, feigning innocence. “Your words, not mine. Perhaps I should etch it onto a data pad. Make it permanent. Maybe a plaque on my wall will do.”

“Please, do not feel obligated to cause more embarrassment than I have already done,” Optimus vents, turning his helm away from Megatron. Megatron aims his optics at the faint wisp of smoke rising from Optimus’s faceplate. It’s endearing, his dear friend feeling as if he had ruined everything when Megatron had not looked toward him with less fondness. If anything, it was more.

“Oh, please,” Megatron says, leaning his helm back on the headboard with a weary vent. “You stagger into my quarters in the dead of night, demand medical attention for a nonexistent injury, and drunkenly confess your need for my proximity. My cause for embarrassment is clearly overshadowed by yours.”

Optimus squeezes his optics shut as if he believes that if he forces himself offline, he can spare himself the humiliation that will come to follow. He is practically curling into his own dignity like it is armor that still fits him. “I do hope that is the most embarrassing thing I said.”

“There was more, but that’s for my own audials only,” Megatron laughs quietly. Not in mockery, but rather fondness. “It was very flattering, Optimus.”

“I was inebriated.”

“All the more reason for me to believe you were being honest.” His tone is almost smug, and Optimus winces with humiliation. Optimus shoots him a look—sharp, tired, and wounded at the edges. He looks as if he is about to argue, but the fogginess in his processor short-circuits his next thought. Optimus physically feels his pride dent, like a pin thrown at a balloon without warning.

“I crossed a line, Megatron,” he vents stiffly, breaking the awkward pause. He straightens his posture, as if he is trying desperately to reclaim any dignity still remaining in his frame. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have imposed. It was inappropriate.”

“Don’t duck away into professionalism,” Megatron scoffs. He is almost surprised at Optimus’s words. “Since when do you care about protocol?”

“Well, that’s—” Optimus frowns, pausing for a moment. “I don’t. I meant that I crossed a line as a friend. I’d hate to make you feel any sort of discomfort, and it seems I’ve subjected you to some as of last night.”

“As if, Prime,” Megatron mumbles. “You didn’t do anything. I was the one who let you in the room.”

“You didn’t exactly have a choice,” Optimus counters. “I was a mess.”

“Therefore, easier to throw off the berth,” Megatron says dryly. “I opened the door for you. Quit blaming yourself. It’s so… unbecoming of you.”

Optimus furrows his brow ridge in concentration. He aims his optics downwards, something brittle behind the blue biolights. Not quite doubt, but also not quite fear. Just an old instinct, one that seems to flash warning signals when he deems himself one word from overstepping. He stays silent, and Megatron stares at him expectantly before scoffing.

“Don’t go so quiet,” Megatron says, almost gently. “You were much more talkative mumbling philosophies into my chassis.”

Optimus winces and opts not to speak.

“Megatron,” he mimics in a low, sleep-drenched voice. “You make the quiet quieter.”

“Please stop.”

Megatron smiles, watching Optimus bury his faceplate into his servos and groan. “Sorry. It was funny,” Megatron says dryly. He grunts, stretching his arm struts heavenward and feeling the pop of his struts. He doesn’t take his optics off of Optimus, watching him with a glint of amusement. Gently, almost cautiously, Megatron nudges his field towards Optimus’s, just barely kissing the edge of his heavily drawn-in aura. “Very poetic. I almost wrote it down.”

“You’re very calm about this,” Optimus vents, breathing out a sigh. “Though not exactly easily allowing me to keep my dignity.”

“It’s not something to lose your processor over,” he shrugs. “You stumbled in, mumbled something vaguely sentimental, and passed out. I’ve seen worse.”

Optimus glances at him. “Yes, I suppose. But nonetheless, an intrusion and an embarrassment.”

“You are so adamant about placing the blame. For what reason is there to feel guilty?” Megatron scoffs. “You don’t have to be the perfect Prime when you are with me.”

“Yes, I guess you’re right,” Optimus sighs, and Megatron rolls his optics towards the sky at the show of melodrama. Optimus allows his field to open up a bit more, and their tethers press against each other in a mutual warmth. He clasps his servos together and nervously fiddles with his digits. “I suppose I am afraid that you will lose respect for me. As a leader.”

Megatron wants to bark out a laugh, but he suppresses himself for the sake of Optimus’s feelings. “I don’t like how formal you make us be, Optimus. We were best friends before the… fall,” he says, stumbling on his words. It is a sore subject to him, and Optimus knows how guilty Megatron feels about it, despite his constant reassurance that he understood. “I know you.”

“I could hardly care less if you were a perfect leader. I am surprised you can even manage at all,” Megatron continues, gesturing with his servos. Optimus gives him a look of mock offense, but smiles at the endearing insult. “Orion used to be careless, constantly reckless without abandon and regard for the mechs around him, including myself. You’ve come a long way, and I admit I have spent time grieving the past. But I still like the mech you’ve become. All versions of him, drunk or not.”

Optimus’s smile falters—not from hurt or offense, but because they land somewhere in his spark where he has kept guarded since the betrayal. His optics soften and dim, and he drops his gaze, ceasing all movement in his servos. “If we aren’t formal, then what should we be?”

Megatron scoffs and aims his optics to the window, glaring burning fire at it in angry concentration. “I would have no say in the matter. I can hardly call myself your friend after what I did. It is up to you.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll change your mind on that.”

“No,” Megatron grunts firmly.

Optimus glances over at Megatron, the tension in his frame ceasing to trouble his struts with stiffness. He can tell that Megatron’s tree of regrets is planting itself and sprouting branches of doubt in his processor, so he clears his vocalizer and gently presses his field further into Megatron’s. He doesn’t linger his optics on Megatron’s guilt-ridden frame, only letting the warmth and forgiveness in his field speak silently between them. “I’ve long forgiven you for that.”

“I know. It is still a weight I have to carry, whether I like it or not,” Megatron grunts stiffly. “I’d rather not speak on the matter.”

“Alright then,” Optimus offers. “Then… what do you want me to call you? A coworker? A friend?” A lover?

“I don’t care,” Megatron sniffs. “As long as you call me something.”

Optimus shutters his optics in thought. He withdraws his field from the range of Megatron’s. If Megatron had felt the lack of warmth from Optimus, he hid it well. Optimus needed some kind of isolation to keep his processor on straight, and Megatron’s looming presence was not helping the Prime focus. He had a few options, Optimus decided, on what to respond to Megatron with. He could bare his soul naked, let his spark do the speaking. Primus knows he would have a lot to say. Just the mere thought of raw emotion left him dizzy, however. Or… he could do what he usually did. Deflect, deny, and ignore. He was good at that, always was. Even as Orion, he kept his unwelcome feelings at bay no matter what. Any ounce of feeling towards Megatron seldom escaped his intake, and he was adamant to keep it that way to not ruin what friendship was left between them.

But after Megatron’s words, perhaps that friendship was not as cut and clear as he believed. If there was no foundation to a relationship like he had thought, and their new frames had subsequently squashed any past endeavors they had held for each other, a fresh start would be made. The hopeful, optimistic part of the Prime salivated at the idea. A fresh start means there could be nothing to ruin. After last night, after his embarrassing show of vulnerability and Megatron’s insistence that he had not disgusted him at all, he could only bring his servos together and whisper hymns that he was correct. That Megatron had meant it.

His servo twitches in anticipation, and his processor blanks, almost as if he had inadvertently stopped himself from overthinking it and just allowed the words to spill out of him like a dam broken from strong currents of energon. He clumsily pushes his field into Megatron’s, trying to convey some unspoken affection that his bumbling intake would speak too awkwardly. “I suppose a lover would do,” he mumbles, wincing as the foreign words release from the tip of his glossa.

Megatron does not respond immediately. He slowly lifts his gaze and rests his optics on the trail of smoke gathering above Optimus’s helm. He quirks his intake up a bit but allows it to fall. Though he doesn’t pull his field away from the Prime’s, he also does not smile. No, he doesn’t dare to smile. Megatron had to make sure his audials were dialed to the right frequency. His best friend—if he even had any right to call him that—not only allowed him the honor of reconciliation, but he wanted more. Megatron isn’t sure whether Optimus is stupid, naive, or both.

“You mean that?” Megatron manages to strain out, his voice low and guarded. He says it slowly and deliberately, beckoning Prime to come to his senses and deal an emotional punch in his gut that he so deserves.

“Why would I say it if I didn’t?” Optimus questions.

Megatron stares at him—not accusingly, just in a state of limbo. Disbelief is etched across his faceplate. He’s thought about this moment before, playing and replaying every possible outcome and future, every hypothetical situation in which he may be able to hold Optimus’s servo and call him his own. He had imagined Optimus asking him like this, but he had not realized it would be so fragile. So real.

“I guess so,” Megatron grumbles. “Is it just my premium build or my excellent craftsmanship that struck your fancy?”

“You always hide behind crude humor and sarcasm,” Optimus remarks with slight disappointment. Megatron hadn’t meant to offend the Prime, but he was not experienced with this. Any words that found their way out of Megatron’s intake became awkward and unfitting.

“I suppose you left me speechless,” Megatron manages to choke out. “It is a big ask, you know.”

“What, to be my lover?”

“Yes,” Megatron agrees. “For you to have such faith that blinds you to reality is a bit disquieting, but I suppose I’m not surprised. You always saw the best in me.”

“You haven’t answered my offer,” Optimus fumbles out nervously.

Megatron blinks, his optics flickering as if he were booting up for a reply. He clears his vocalizer, the sound odd and rattling for a mech so used to gruff efficiency.

“Yes, I’ll be your lover,” Megatron says, stiffly sincere. His voice does not waver for once, and he allows himself to feel pride about the way he so surely stated his stance. “Do you always have to make things so melodramatic?”

“It’s the becoming of a Prime, I guess,” Optimus shrugs, trying and failing to hide the delight that shoots through his spark and brings his finials to life. The confession and acceptance, he thinks, were a lot easier than he thought. He was expecting a breakdown from his part and a harsh rejection from Megatron’s. If not that, perhaps a dramatic, theatrical performance in which they bound their sparks together for eternity. But this—it was casual, quiet, and intimate in the privacy of Megatron’s merch-decorated room. It was almost anticlimactic, but such a thought did not grace Optimus’s processor as all he could come to think about was Megatron’s intake and why it was not against his own.

The thought was ridiculous, intrusive, and impossible to shake off. It wasn’t like Optimus had never kissed a bot before—they haven’t, at least. It would be different this time, much different. The memory of brief, careless brushes came back like static, a ghost-code reminding Optimus that he had perhaps been here before, on the brink of emotional rawness with Megatron. Megatron doesn’t speak either, just idly sitting there, burning holes in Optimus’s frame with his glowering red optics. His field grazes Optimus, as if he is silently asking for something. It isn’t warm, but it isn’t cold either. It’s neutral, buzzing with the perception of a thousand futures.

“So… so now what?” Optimus asks awkwardly. He cringes at the way he says it, his vocalizer crackling from disuse during their silent escapade.

Megatron tilts his helm, still looking at Optimus with an unreadable, smoldering expression. “Depends. Are you asking as a Prime or as my lover?”

Optimus’s spark fizzles. “Does it matter?”

“If you’re asking as a Prime,” Megatron drawls, “then as your Lord High Protector, I’ll give you a checklist. A speech, probably. Maybe reconstruction plans for the day.” Megatron takes a deep breath and vents heavily.

“What’s the other option?” Optimus asks wearily. Just hearing his duties for the day after a night of heavy high-grade and a morning of head-splitting hangovers has left him exhausted.

Megatron doesn’t answer him verbally. Instead, he carefully leans forwards, back no longer pressed against the headboard of the berth, and reaches out. His servo meets Optimus’s, slow and deliberate, like he is giving the Prime a chance to back out. When Megatron sees that he does not, he leans closer and presses his intake against Optimus’s.

This kiss is awkward. It’s too quiet, and there isn’t enough desperation to really call it passionate either. Their fields bump awkwardly against each other, both trying and failing to convey some sort of affection. No, the kiss is gentle. It’s more of a question than a claim. Their lips meet with cautious pressure, neither of them sure what they can take. It was certainly a surprise to Optimus how gently Megatron was holding his faceplate, thumb idly running along the side of his finial. Their fields pulse together, syncing in unspoken relief. Optimus leans into it, and the throbbing in his processor finally quiets down. The kiss has no possession behind it—not yet—but there was a fullness to it. A quiet declaration carved between frames.

Optimus opens his optics as Megatron pushes his glossa past his lips, and he makes a small sound of surprise. Megatron furrows his brow ridge and keeps his optics tightly shut. Optimus watches the way Megatron’s faceplate shifts with each movement, the way his intake mashes against his own with intense focus and precision. Optimus vents softly, caught off guard by how insistent Megatron’s movements became, watching him with dazed and hazy optics.

There’s no heat, no desperation. Just two old, worn-down mechs relearning how to want. When they part, it’s barely a breath between them.

“Close your optics next time,” Megatron scoffs, folding his arms and getting off the berth with far more calm than he actually feels. Optimus, however, is dizzy. His processor spins, and he follows Megatron’s movements across the room as if he were a lifeline.

“Why did you stop so fast?” Optimus complains, sliding off the berth onto his slightly shaky stabilizers. “I was enjoying that.”

Megatron huffs out an annoyed laugh. “I could tell. You were like a cooling fan about to fail.” He stops short of his cluttered desk and keeps his gaze trained on the gleaming silver of the desk. Optimus steadies himself on the ground. “It was audible.”

Optimus narrows his optics, but he ultimately decides to take Megatron’s suspiciously cautious words as a compliment. “There was a question.”

“You were about to short-circuit. One of us has to have a semblance of restraint,” Megatron lies. “And I didn’t want to overstep.” The second statement was the truth. Megatron had noticed Optimus’s hesitancy and his lack of movement when he had leaned in and forced their intakes together. It made him nervous, and the branches of doubt seemed to rear their ugly heads and sprout in his processor at the realization that the kiss was very much one-sided.

Optimus gazes at him in disbelief. “You—Megatron. You had your glossa in my mouth.”

“Yes, I was there,” Megatron says dryly. His field, pulled close to his spark, flickers with betrayal. Was Optimus mocking him?

“You can’t overstep beyond that,” Optimus smiles. He vents softly, pushing his field in hopes of tangling their tethers together. Megatron falters at the warmth but allows it. “You were very focused. Intense. Surprisingly good.”

“Surprisingly?” Megatron sneers with offense, glaring back at Optimus as if it had been an insult to his name. He turns slowly to Optimus, his expression unreadable. He narrows his optics when he sees Optimus’s stupid, gorgeous smile, not sure whether or not he wants to punch him. He had a very punchable face, Megatron decided. “Are you mocking me?”

“No. Wouldn’t dream of it,” Optimus remarks kindly, which somehow just serves to piss Megatron off even more. He tilts his helm to try to gauge Megatron’s expression—not that it’s easy. Megatron scowls like he is debating between affection and violence.

His plating shifts with tension, shoulders rolling like he is trying to shrug off something clawing underneath his armor. Megatron slams his field outward, aggressively pushing his field against Optimus’s in a sudden movement, taking a step closer to Optimus as if to present him with a challenge. It’s hot. Not angry, but too much, the way everything with Megatron goes. The warmth engulfs Optimus, overwhelms him, and his processor spins like a merry-go-round. Optimus reels back in surprise, holding himself steady and staring at Megatron with unmistakable awe.

Megatron falters for a moment, field coiling around Optimus like smoke and static. He retracts it a bit, fearing it to be too much. When he sees Optimus’s look of worship, however, all bets are off.

Megatron grits his dentae in a low growl. “Get back on the berth.”