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There’s no sight quite like a contented seeker, Megatron muses to himself. Partly for its rarity: seekers are strange, restless things at the best of times, as if their processors can’t quite cope with being on solid ground, and have to pour all that eager flight energy somewhere. And Starscream is worse than most, in that respect. He’s an open flame – ravenous, splendid, unpredictable, and likely to change course at the slightest breath of wind and singe anyone who dares to try and contain him.
But right now, the fire is comfortably banked, glowing just enough to warm those around it. Starscream is draped over the arm of Megatron’s throne, legs dangling lazily down, and he is, against all odds, asleep there. Megatron can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. It starts as a smirk (he’s not the least bit surprised that Starscream didn’t get further than that before passing out; he and Megatron put the throne to inventive use last night), but softens as he looks down at his second-in-command. Starscream is so still. There’s a strange vulnerability to it.
It’s deceptive, of course. As soon as Megatron reaches towards him, Starscream’s optics slit open in a way that reminds Megatron of Ravage.
“My lord?” One browridge raises, and Starscream turns to track the progress of Megatron’s hand with interest. Behind Megatron, the officers on the first shift are starting to trickle into the command centre. He can sense their gazes on their leader and his second.
He is Megatron, and he is not about to deny himself simply because a few underlings might see. Unconcerned, he reaches out and trails his fingertips over the edge of Starscream’s wing. Slowly; he lets himself relish the graceful, familiar sweep, the heat in Starscream’s optics as he watches. Megatron’s fingers trace a shoulder vent and climb the slender column of Starscream’s throat, barely ghosting over the delicate cables there…
… and his hand comes to rest against Starscream’s cheek.
There is a moment of tension, with the optics of his army at his back and Starscream’s quick ventilations warm against his wrist.
Then Starscream’s optics drift shut, and he leans into the touch.
There is a kind of power in this, too, Megatron supposes, that Starscream can show off how the Emperor of Destruction touches him as though he’s something precious. And there is a kind of power for Megatron, that his troops can see he has the second-most dangerous Cybertronian alive purring his engines in Megatron’s hands.
But now Starscream is uncoiling to reach up, looping one arm around Megatron’s neck, pulling himself close so that his cockpit glass slides enticingly against Megatron’s chest. And for a moment, the optics on them and the sounds around them, and all the little calculations of advantage, all melt away.