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It had been eight-hundred years, and-. It hadn’t.
This was the thought Megatron kept having every single time he looked at them.
He had gone through four million years of war — what was a measly eight hundred? War passed by quickly, though, when you were used to it. When you were at the head of it. Megatron had spent four million years trying to conquer his home, and eight hundred years running from it. Literally.
He was safe from the hand of Cybertron, now, and he wasn’t completely sure how to feel about it. The selfish part of him said he should be thankful for his escape from death, grateful for the forgiveness of his former friends, enjoy being captain once more of the Lost Light. But the other part of his spark, the one that held the weight of billions of swaying blue sparkflowers, said otherwise.
Rodimus had almost seemed surprised when Megatron stepped down from his co-captainship. “Huh..... you’ve changed, Megs. If you didn’t already have a Rodimus Star I might just’ve given you another!”
Megatron had felt an odd prickling in his optics at this. Then, of course, Rodimus had tacked on: “Now move over I want the captain’s chair again.”
Megatron had briefly considered moving rooms with the change, but ultimately decided not to. Of course, this meant he would have to clean up the damage and vandalism that had been inflicted on his habsuite over his- absence.
(Every time, it stung. “A few weeks,” Minimus had said. A few weeks.)
Minimus himself had led him to his hab, apologizing in advance for the mess they were sure to see. Sure enough, the room had been thoroughly trashed by mutineers giddy off of their victory (or maybe just looking for something of Megatron’s to destroy since they couldn’t hurt him themselves). Megatron couldn’t blame them — it must have been cathartic.
He wished they had at least left his desk intact, though. (Really, how was a desk to blame for his war crimes? His datapads, maybe — but a desk?)
Megatron sighed as he surveyed the destruction, and then glanced to his side. Even with the Magnus armor and all of his steely control, Minimus clearly loathed what he was seeing in front of him and was holding back from hunting down all those responsible for such a mess and forcing them to clean it up while in their alt-modes — Megatron could tell by the way his mouth tightened.
“It’ll be fine with just a bit of work, I’m sure,” Megatron said, patting Minimus on the arm. Minimus pulled his arm away — not out of malice, instead looking plainly surprised.
However, that emotion was hurriedly covered up, and Minimus frowned. “That sounds suspiciously close to exaggeration. You know how I feel about exaggeration.”
“On the contrary; I said ‘I’m sure,’ rendering my assertion that the room will be alright as a statement of opinion, not fact, therefore less likely to be exaggerated.”
Minimus stared at him again (he was doing that a lot, lately). Then, he made a funny little sound, turned pink, and covered his mouth with a hand. “Erk- Um. Yes, well, that was a good joke. You have... improved.” With that, he quickly turned away and started gathering up broken pieces of datapad scattered across the berth.
Megatron blinked at the back of his head, unsure how exactly to process such a response. Had Minimus just.... laughed?
He would have to keep pondering the question as the two of them began their work, scrubbing paint off the walls, disassembling the ruined furniture so it could be moved out of the habsuite and disposed of, picking up the broken glasses of engex and their sticky contents—it was a difficult endeavor, but one Minimus obviously enjoyed.
Some part of Megatron smiled to see Minimus in his element, but another part of him was feeling suspiciously off. Every surface in the room, even the parts that had been wrecked, was coated in a light layer of dust. Minimus sniffed at this and pulled a feather duster from- from somewhere; Megatron just stared at the thin grey residue and felt out of touch. He had just found Ravage’s old bed, kicked underneath his berth, when a sudden, startling ache washed over his frame. As he stood up, the room swayed minutely, his vision fuzzing out for a moment. It felt like there was a pressure imbalance inside his head, pushing up against the back of his optics before retreating, leaving a disturbing emptiness that made his head throb. Megatron sat heavily down on the berth, one hand over his optic.
Minimus stopped what he was doing as well, turning to face him with a puzzled look. “Why did you stop?” His expression shifted, catching the accusatory tone in his voice. “I- I mean,” he cleared his throat, “if you’d like to take a break, that would be amenable.”
Megatron sighed, trying to muster up a smile for Minimus. He didn’t know if it came across well—Minimus only looked awkwardly stricken when their optics met.
“I apologize, Minimus. I... I suppose my frame isn’t what it used to be.” His smile turned reminiscent in a way Minimus had never seen before. “Hah, and Ratchet always told me if I didn’t rest enough, my legs would rust right out from under me. I would love to tell him he was wrong—it’s my head that’s going, not my legs.”
Minimus tilted his head to one side like a turbofox. “Er, if you want to tell that to Ratchet, you know where his hab is. Unless you would like me to accompany you...?”
Megatron blinked at him, looking completely bewildered for half a second before understanding dawned over him. “Oh, no Minimus—I mean a different Ratchet. The Ratchet who,” he waved his hand vaguely, “you... you know.”
A quiet expression had settled onto his face, still and somber and incredibly strange to Minimus. Megatron—this didn’t feel right. This didn’t feel like Megatron—not the one who started out stubborn and rude and slowly transformed into a person startlingly new and unlike anyone Minimus had ever met before. He didn’t even look quite the same; his frame was far more worn, aged and faded like he had lived a full life in the time Minimus had taken to just get over him.
And, well. He had, hadn’t he?
Minimus looked about the room, at the messes that waited to be tidied up. He looked at the shelves that had been covered in dust but now were completely clean. He looked at Megatron: unavoidably altered but undoubtedly the same bot who regarded Minimus with soft looks whenever he thought he couldn’t see, rubbing his weary face with lines under his optics that were old but new to him—and Minimus set down the feather duster.
He sat down on the berth next to Megatron, who glanced up with a look of curious surprise. “I would like to hear about this different Ratchet.”
Megatron blinked at him. Minimus felt himself blush a bit. “Er, that is, if you are alright with sharing that information—if the memories are too difficult for you to recall, please do not feel obligated-“
Megatron put a hand over his where it lay flat on the berth between them, effectively shutting Minimus’s processor off mid-thought.
“That... sounds nice, Minimus.” He smiled. “Thank you.”