Chapter Text
Orion is stressed out. And damn tired, too, but to have one is half of the other.
He sits in his chair, sinking into it in a way that Ratchet would call slouching, and what he would personally refer to as relaxing. He leans back against the headrest, stifling the urge to, perhaps, screech like a kind of maniac.
He allows himself to groan out loud instead, an act of impropriety he reserves solely for himself within the cover of his office. (It’s been a hellfuck of a few days. He’s allowed this.)
Damn the council. He knew they should’ve just let the mech go when it asked. Tracked it, yes, assuredly, but let it go all the same. Now it’s missing, with no lead, all because someone took one look at it and decided to lock it somewhere in a basement.
(Sometimes, on particularly rough days, he’ll take a moment to just sit in the chair and conjure up a meeting where he’s in a room with the greater half of the upper U.S. military — they’re all arguing over a subject that changes depending on Orion’s mood — and he stands up, clears this throat politely, and then proceeds to cuss out three generations’ worth of upper brass.
Once he’s done, he turns around, sends off his retirement notice to D.C., hands over the base keys to Ultra Magnus along with Alpha Trion’s watch, and then retreats peacefully to a little cabin tucked away in the woods.
Ah, dreams. The world is built on dreams.)
Bumblebee takes this moment of peace to crash his way into Orion’s office, skidding into a table and knocking over a couple stacks of unfiled — well, files. Orion sighs wistfully, dream burst, but not gone, and gathers a little smile for Bee nonetheless.
(Now, Orion doesn’t play favorites, and he never has — Alpha Trion told him a long time ago it was a surefire way to alienate subordinates, and add to the hierarchy gap among the troops. However, Orion has loved Bee since he arrived.
Within Bee’s first thirty-six hours on base, he met his assigned training squad, scored admirably on almost all of his assessments, made friends with Hound, Cliffjumper, and Mirage, best friends with Bluestreak, somehow endeared himself to both Ironhide and Ratchet, and got the twins to quit squabbling about something they’d been arguing about for over four hours.
Yeah. Orion loves Bee.)
Bee takes a moment, hands on his knees, panting raggedly. “Optimus! Guess what —,” and here, he chokes on an inhale, taking a second to regain his breath. “Guess what —,” and there he goes, choking again. Primus. You really would’ve thought boot camp would’ve taught him how to run. “We found it! We found the mech!”
Orion sits upright in his chair, exhaustion falling away for the moment as he reaches for a nearby tablet. “Where was it located?”
Bee responds, still slightly out of breath. “Flight Commander Jazz heard rumors through the lines of unidentified military aircraft spotted over Georgia. So he reached out to the Atlanta base, and they confirmed an unreported aircraft on their radar almost forty-eight hours ago. He already requested copies of the initial report and radar photos, but of course that request gets handed off to you first, sir.”
Orion is already tapping in the number to the Atlanta base, long familiar with the crew down there. Ultra Magnus is typically post commander, but he’s in D.C. right now, leaving Captain Chromia in charge.
It makes sense that Orion and his base wouldn’t have seen the initial report, as it would’ve gone straight to D.C, making its way to them from there. Still. Two days? You would think that message would get priority, since they have, you know, a missing potential space hostile, but well, what can you do. Hell, brass should try getting on that instead for a change.
He checks his inbox after sending off the request for the restricted files, and opens a conversation with Ultra Magnus as he does. He faintly registers Ratchet’s icon floating in the corner of the screen, indicating missed calls.
He spares a moment of guilt for his best friend, because he did miss their weekly check-in. But Ratchet’s call is likely exactly that, and the subsequent messages will consist of various complaints. (Most of which will be on how Orion never picks up when Ratchet calls.)
He’ll reach out later, once he’s heard from D.C. And talked to Magnus. And received the report from down south. And verified and looked it over with Jazz and the rest of his team — and a thousand other little things, things that he’ll remember somewhere down the line.
The little icon blinks at him again. Ah, yes. Ratchet. He’ll call Ratchet back later.
He types away on his pad, notifying all the senior members on base of a meeting, and mentally sorts about three different priority lists as he does.
(He’ll probably forget.)