Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Optimus' research indicates Prowl is something of an early riser, at least, judging by his propensity to arrive at work earlier than anyone else. It edges on the side of creepy to have this sort of intimate knowledge of a mech he’s only spoken with on two occasions, but Optimus needs the advantage if he has any hope of emerging victorious.

He will not let the Senate have their way.

Optimus arrives at Prowl's assigned quarters with a morning allotment of fuel and pings the door. He could technically invite himself within, but it would be an egregious invasion of privacy.

Prowl opens the door, his face blank of expression, and the sensory panels for which Praxians are known arched high and rigid behind his shoulders. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning." Optimus offers the cube, and Prowl takes it automatically. "I thought you might like to join me in the study. I believe there was a conversation you wished to have?"

"That would be acceptable." Prowl steps out and joins him, gesturing with the cube. "Thank you for the energon. That was thoughtful."

Optimus leads the way, Prowl falling into step beside him. "It did not escape my notice that few were able to indulge in the refreshments provided. This is the least I can do."

"I did notice some tension," Prowl says. "The ascension of a new Prime is not easy for anyone."

"Especially for a Consort who had little choice in their nomination," Optimus agrees. He gestures Prowl ahead of him into the study, which is a private, intimate room and should suit their purposes.

The large, wide windows make it feel far larger than it is, and the comfortable furniture will hopefully put Prowl at ease. It's also the closest thing the manor has to an office, which should make their conversation seem more official.

"There is that," Prowl says. He surveys the room before selecting a chair suited to fit his sensory panels comfortably.

Optimus sits across from him. "I am not unaware of the stressful circumstances. I wish to do my best to mitigate them." He rests his cube on the table beside him. "There are some things we cannot avoid, but there are things we can control in the meantime."

"An apt way of putting it." Prowl takes a measured sip of his energon. "And what will you expect of me, sir?"

"Actually, I am more interested in your answer to that question." Optimus threads his fingers together and rests his hands in his lap. "What are your wants and needs? What are your boundaries? How can I make this easier for you?"

Prowl cocks his head, a slight motion, the barest hint of a frown curving his lips. "I was under the impression what I wanted no longer mattered."

"Perhaps in the optics of those who nominated you, yes. I am not them, however, and I have very different hopes for what I can accomplish. With your aid, of course," Optimus says.

Prowl's frown does not waver. "And what is it you want to accomplish, if I may be so bold?"

"You may, and you may also call me Optimus. If we are to be bonded, I think doing away with titles is a matter of course." Optimus cycles a ventilation, ordering his thoughts in a manner Prowl would most respond to. "Cybertron is unfair, as I am sure you have noticed. The balance of power, the balance of wealth, the opportunities -- all of it is geared toward a select few. I wish to change that."

Prowl's orbital ridges climb upward. "Lofty ambitions. Downright scandalous, if you were to ask anyone else." He touches his chin, forehead furrowed in thought. "There is a lot of corruption, Optimus. It extends into every level of Cybertron rulership.

"And you were working very hard to root it out, were you not?"

At last, Prowl's stoic facade relents, betraying his surprise. "I was," Prowl says, carefully. "Did you investigate me?"

"I looked into all of my nominated Consorts. I wanted to have an idea of who I would be bonding,” Optimus answers. It doesn’t occur to him to lie as it is not something he intends to hide. They deserve to know. “I did not obtain any information that is not a matter of public record, however. Your arrest records, for example. There are also numerous articles on the intranet about your exploits.

"Exploits," Prowl echoes, and there’s a wry curve to his voice. "Yes, the tabloids are fond of my ‘exploits’." He leans back, the clamp of his armor easing. "True, I had made it a personal mission to clean out the rot. It made me as unpopular as it did popular." His frown deepens. "And is probably the reason for my nomination."

Optimus allows himself to relax, reaching for the energon he'd brought. "You got too close."

Anger flashes in Prowl's optics. "That would seem to be the case," he says, his tone tight and careful. "And you think you can make a difference in the face of such corruption?"

"I think I would try, which is better than what many of my predecessors can claim," Optimus says. "With your help, I would be more successful."

"Perhaps." Prowl's optics dim in thought. "I was promoted under the assumption I would clean out the rot, and yet, when I went to the mech in question with my evidence, it was taken and vanished. He did not want to extricate the rot. He wanted me to find the evidence so it could remain." He looks up then, his jaw set, his optics meeting Optimus'. "How can I be sure you're not interested in the same?"

Anger and distaste burn at the base of Optimus' spark. He's known that Cybertron is corrupted, but it still riles him to hear this proof.

"Words will always be meaningless in the face of that," Optimus says, but he lets his field unfurl, allows Prowl to taste as much of it as he can and sense his sparkfelt sincerity. "I can only show my intentions through my actions, if you will but give me a chance. I want a partnership, Prowl, not a subordinate."

Prowl shifts, ever so slightly, and wisps of his field offer glimpses of approval. "It would be rude of me to assume you'll disappoint me without giving you an opportunity to prove otherwise." He relaxes, his armor opening by another fraction, allowing a glimpse at the substructure beneath. "I will work with you, Optimus. If you're half as intent as I think you are, we'll do much good together."

His instincts have proven right once more. Optimus doesn’t bother to conceal the smile, or the happiness in his field.

"Thank you. I appreciate it." Optimus manages to keep his voice steady as he picks up his energon, appetite returned. "To that end, I wish to speak with all of my Consorts on an individual basis, much like this. I would welcome any insight you might have on the matter."

Prowl's brow furrows. He hesitates, and Optimus realizes a fraction of a second later, how that might be interpreted.

"I do not mean to manipulate," he clarifies, careful to choose his words not because he’s trying to avoid the truth, but because he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. "Honestly, you have likely spent more time with them than I have, so you might be more familiar with their personality quirks and what kind of approach they would prefer -- whether privately or publicly, for example."

"Ah." Prowl nods slowly and lifts his own energon, one finger tracing the rim of the cup. "Frank honesty would be the best way to reach Ironhide. He has no patience for political games. Be direct. He'll appreciate that."

Optimus nods and produces his datapad, making the notation. "I can be direct. I assume he is not one for formality either."

"No. It'll only make him feel like he's being manipulated." Prowl drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. "For that matter, Ratchet is much the same. Be blunt and honest with him as well. Tell him outright what you want, and what you plan to offer. Political games are what got Ratchet here. He has no mood for them."

Political games are one way of putting it, Optimus muses. Personal grudges are another. There were two highly skilled medics vying for the position of Chief Medical Officer, and somehow, one of them ended up being nominated as Consort to the Prime for Crystal City, leaving the other with a clear path to promotion.

Curious that.

"You'll have to be patient with him as well," Prowl continues. "He's known for his lack of tact, and he may test you with purposeful disrespect."

Optimus manages a chuckle. "Oh, I can handle a little name-calling. I will consider it great practice for when I begin managing the Senate. Anyone else?"

"Hmm. I don't know the others well, but I have heard rumors of Starscream. Don't dismiss his intelligence." Prowl's gaze turns sharp and knowing. "I suspect he's spent a majority of his life being underestimated. Be careful you don't make that mistake as well."

"Noted."

Prowl tilts his head, considering. “I sense nothing but support from Ultra Magnus, and given what I know of him, I’m certain that support is genuine. Though I’m not sure I understand why. This seems to be the last post a mech in his position would want.”

“Ah.” Optimus does not hide his wince. “Last night’s discussion did not give me the opportunity to address our prior friendship. Ultra Magnus knew me as I was. He managed to get himself elected, though you will have to ask him the specifics of how he accomplished it.”

“He knew Orion Pax?”

Optimus inclines his head in a nod, finger tracing the rim of his half-consumed energon cube. “He did, and I will not speak for him or presume his intentions. But if you sense no hostility from him, that would be why.”

“It explains a lot.” Fortunately, Prowl does not seem bothered by the information. If anything, he looks like he’s filed it away for later contemplation. “It must be a relief, then, to know you have at least two Consorts who don’t immediately despise you.”

“Two?” Optimus asks.

Prowl gives him a wry grin around a sip of energon. “Surely you’ve noticed Hot Rod’s enthusiasm. I think if you don’t take that mech to berth, he’s going to drag you there regardless.”

Optimus chuckles. "I think you may be right. His earnest desire is rather charming."

"That's one word for it," Prowl says, but it's with a bit of a distracted air as his humor darkens. "I do think you should be cautious of Jazz." He pauses, lips forming a thin line before he continues, "I did background checks on everyone out of habit, and his was the only one so clean you could perform surgery on it. There's not so much as a traffic ticket."

Optimus cycles a ventilation. "I had noticed that myself, and while I am not one to preemptively judge, I am also not aware that my ascension to the office of the Prime was not received well by many."

"You think he might be an assassin?"

"I am honestly unsure what to think. I suppose time will tell." Optimus finishes off his cube and tucks it away, to be returned to the refueling room at a later time. Yes, there are servants, but he is perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself. “I am a patient mech.”

“Something that will work in your favor,” Prowl says. “I am interested to see where this goes.”

“As am I.” Optimus stands and offers Prowl a tilt of his head. “I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your day. I am sure you wish to contemplate our discussion in peace.”

Prowl’s lip curls at the corner. “That would be appreciated, yes.” He settles more firmly in the chair, giving the space an approving glance. “This room seems a good place for such things.”

“You should not be disturbed here at least,” Optimus says. “Thank you, Prowl. I appreciate your time.”

He turns to go, but Prowl’s voice snags him before he can palm open the door.

“You aren’t the only one who did some investigating, Optimus,” he says, as Optimus half-turns to glance over his shoulder, Prowl’s chin lifted with pride. “For what it’s worth, I am beginning to believe the Matrix chose well in Orion Pax.”

Optimus offers a smile of his own. “I can only hope that to be true.” The door activates, but Optimus hovers in the aperture. “Thank you, Prowl. I will see you at the evening gathering.”

“Until then.”

Optimus lets himself ventilate a little easier only when he’s down the hall, and far out of range of Prowl’s no doubt extensive emotional sensors. Those Praxian panels are a marvel, and Optimus is certain Prowl’s are among the best. They would have been an asset during his time as an Enforcer.

Three down, seven more to go.

He rounds the corner, only to come to a halt as he nearly runs into Sunstreaker, the golden mech standing in the middle of the corridor with an intent look on his face. It’s hard to tell what he’s been up to, since his hands are empty. Exploring perhaps.

“Prime,” he greets with a lifted chin. “I thought a Prime would take better care of his chassis.” His gaze flicks over Optimus, and his mouth wrestles with a frown that a thin film of respect for the office of the Prime barely restrains. “You need a detailing.”

Optimus’ mouth opens and closes. He glances down at himself, and yes, there are quite a few scratches in his paint. He has not been detailed since his ascension, and while he had a brief polishing session before their very public, verbal vows, he knows he does not match the standards of the elite. For Orion Pax, his current condition would have been considered extravagant.

“Perhaps I do,” Optimus says. “I admit I have not had as much free time as I would like to take care of such things, even before I received the Matrix.”

Sunstreaker makes a non-committal noise and folds his arms, his own paint gleaming and perfect, without a single smudge to be seen. “It’s one of my specialties,” he says. “If you’re interested.”

“You are offering?” Optimus asks, just to be clear. He reaches out, but he doesn’t even need the Matrix to feel the discord in Sunstreaker’s field. He’s pushing himself to speak to Optimus, but the depths of his field screams of his disinterest in actually doing it.

“Yeah.” Sunstreaker lifts his chin, audibly cycling a ventilation. “It would give me something to do at least. I have standards.” The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile that’s as much pride as it is humor.

Well.

It’s as good an opportunity as any, and it’s a benefit Sunstreaker sought him out first.

“I would be honored to put myself in your care,” Optimus says

Sunstreaker looks at him for a moment that drags toward awkward before he nods and turns. “I have everything in my suite.”

“Lead the way.”

They fall into step, Optimus with his hands clasped behind his back and shortening his stride to match Sunstreaker, who only comes up to his shoulder. As Orion Pax, they’d have met optic to optic. Optimus still is not used to how easily he looms without trying.

“Did you train to be a detail specialist?” Optimus asks.

“No. I taught myself.”

“Any particular reason for the interest?”

Sunstreaker slants him a narrow look. “Should there be?”

Optimus shakes his head. “No. I am merely curious. I would like to get to know those with whom I am going to be sharing my future.”

“What does my personality matter?” Sunstreaker asks, and there’s an edge of a scowl peeking up before he smooths it out. “I’m just here to be a trophy.”

Optimus winces. “Perhaps that is the Senate’s intention, or whomsoever nominated you, but that is not what I would like for you.”

Sunstreaker snorts. “Sure.” He palms open his door and gestures for Optimus to precede him. “Primes go first.”

“We are to be bonded. I do not think we need to stand on ceremony,” Optimus says, but he does enter ahead of Sunstreaker because it’s only polite. “For that matter, you should call me Optimus rather than my title.”

“Sure, Prime. Whatever you want.” Sunstreaker points to a chair near the large window, shades withdrawn so the exterior lighting pours into the room. “Sit over there. I’ll get my kit.”

Optimus obeys, lowering into an adjustable seat while Sunstreaker gathers supplies and drags them closer. Optimus is skilled with the basic necessities, but he can’t identify half of the items in Sunstreaker’s arms. If Sunstreaker’s appearance is anything to go by, Optimus will be unrecognizable by the time he walks out of this suite.

“Would talking interrupt your concentration?” Optimus asks.

“No. I can do most of this in my recharge by now,” Sunstreaker says. “Just stay still, trust me, and don’t mind the smell. This stripper reeks, but it’s the best on the market.”

Optimus deactivates his nasal receptors. “Of course. I appreciate you taking the time to do this for me. I admit, I am lacking when it comes to such skills. I had little use for them before I ascended.”

“Well, if most mechs had those skills, I’d have been out of a job. Mechs came to me because they wanted it done right.” Sunstreaker moves behind Optimus, and his dermal sensors tingle as he sprays what Optimus assumes is the stripper. “Whoever shined you for the ceremony did a slag job at it. You should fire them.”

“Perhaps you can help me hire a replacement?”

“Frag that. I’ll just do it myself. Gotta be useful somehow,” Sunstreaker says with a snort. His field, as odd as the harmonics of it are, reek of bitter disgust.

Optimus is careful to keep himself still. “You need not be useful if you do not wish to be. But if there is something you would like to do, I want to encourage that.”

“Don’t think that’s what the Senate has in mind.”

“The Senate and I are going to disagree often in the future, I am sure,” Optimus says. He stares out the window, which overlooks the rather vast grounds behind the mansion where the glitter of the crystal gardens naturally draws an eager optic. “I am aware that acceptance of the nomination is mandatory. Given another choice, you would have likely refused it, correct?”

Sunstreaker goes silent for a moment, his field buzzing against Optimus’. “I’m not supposed to answer that question honestly,” he says at length. “I’m supposed to tell you how happy I am to be here.”

“I would like the truth, Sunstreaker.”

“Is that an order?”

Optimus braces himself, knowing he must tread lightly. “If you need it to be in order to satisfy a restriction, then yes. If you do not want to answer honestly, then no, it is not.”

“Then no, this wouldn’t have been my choice.” Sunstreaker vents in a sharp huff. “But that’s what happens when you don’t have the luxury of choice. When you don’t even own yourself. My brother--”

He silences himself, engine rumbling unhappily.

Optimus glances over his shoulder, but Sunstreaker is out of view, even of his periphery. “Sideswipe,” he says quietly. “I did my due diligence, Sunstreaker. I know of your brother and your time in the pits. You do not have to keep either from me.”

Sunstreaker’s field spikes with fury before it vanishes as if sucked into a void. “You don’t know anything about me,” he says, tone tight and leashed. “All you know are facts, and they mean nothing compared to my reality. So you can take your assumptions and stuff them.”

Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. “Forgive me. I do not mean to assume anything.” Despite his anger, Sunstreaker’s hands do not waver from their confident, rhythmic actions as he takes Optimus’ left arm in hand and continues to peel away the old paint. “You could enlighten me, if you like.”

Sunstreaker grimaces. “No, I wouldn’t like,” he says. “Bad enough I gotta be here, but you want me to tell you all my secrets, too? Frag that.” He chuffs a vent. “I gotta give up everything else. I’m going to keep this.”

His accent, Optimus notices, slips with his growing emotional disquiet, the carefully practiced words sliding into the looser speech of the common mech.

“You do not have to give me anything, Sunstreaker,” Optimus says, only to amend, “Except, of course, for that which is required of both of us in our particular situation.”

“Yeah. My spark.” Sunstreaker’s grimace deepens, his grip briefly tightening before it loosens. He moves around to Optimus’ other arm, leaving bare silver in his wake. “So glad I have no choice but to share it with you.”

“I apologize for that.”

Sunstreaker glances at him, a bit of the anger softening. “Well, you don’t have any choice but to give me yours, too. So I guess I can’t blame you too much.” His orbital ridges draw down. “Though how much I blame you depends on how much of an aft you’re gonna be. Primes don’t have good reputations where I’m from.”

No, Optimus supposes they wouldn’t. Sunstreaker is the Nominate from Tarn and historically speaking, the residents of Tarn have not been treated favorably by the Senate or the Primes. The population is composed of the average mech, workers paid far too little and given even less, their rights stripped to the minimum, as they struggle to eke out a living.

This is actually the first occasion where Tarn has been given a Nominate. Optimus suspects it is due in part to the Senate wishing to quiet the rising tension in Tarn, to give them the illusion of having a voice. That it doubles as adding more friction to Optimus’ cohort, well, they must consider that a bonus.

“My predecessors have left quite a mess in their wake,” Optimus says. “I know it is going to take a lot of effort on my part to change that. I feel I am up to the challenge, but I am also aware that it will not be a quick process.”

“Yeah, well, put in the effort and people will notice.” Sunstreaker moves in front of him and gestures for Optimus to rise. “Legs next.”

Optimus obeys, locking his knees to prevent himself from absently shifting. “Is there anything I can do more immediately?”

Sunstreaker is quiet for a moment as he kneels before Optimus and starts on his right leg. “What do you know about Sideswipe?”

“Very little. Only that he is your brother.”

“Twin,” Sunstreaker corrects, in a voice so quiet Optimus nearly misses it. “He’s my twin. Split-spark.”

Optimus’ optics widen. How it must ache for them to be separated. It is a unique kind of torture to keep twins apart, especially split-spark ones. Why had Sunstreaker been nominated in the first place? Certainly it won’t kill him. It’s a pain and a discomfort, but a survivable one. Optimus has never heard of a pair of twins willingly keeping themselves apart.

Ah.

Willingly.

Still. What punishment is this to force them to near-opposite sides of the planet?

“Is he in danger?” Optimus asks.

Sunstreaker pauses and looks up at him, optics dark and haunted, but the fire of rebellion buried behind them. “Not if I do what I’m supposed to do.”

Foreboding sends a shiver up Optimus’ spinal strut. “I promise,” he says. “If it is within my power, I will do whatever it takes to bring Sideswipe to you.”

Sunstreaker moves to his left leg. “If you can do that, you’ll have my loyalty,” he says. “I mean, there’s a fat chance of it happening, but who am I to tell you what you can and can’t do?” He shrugs, fingers quick and deft as Optimus is stripped to his protoform silver.

“It is not loyalty I am after, though I would not refuse it either. I simply want to make the best of an unfavorable situation.”

“That can mean different things to different mechs,” Sunstreaker says.

“Yes, I am aware. It is why I am asking each of you individually what your best outcome would be,” Optimus replies.

Sunstreaker shrugs again and stands, gesturing for Optimus to sit down and lean back. “I want my brother, and I want him safe and sound. Everything else is secondary.”

“I would also like for you to be happy, as much as can be reasonably expected in the circumstances,” Optimus says. He stares over Sunstreaker’s shoulder rather than directly at the mech’s more than handsome face. “And perhaps we could be friends, if you were interested.”

Sunstreaker leans back, arching one orbital ridge. “A friend with benefits?”

“Only if it was something appealing to you,” Optimus clarifies with a slight smile. “You are quite beautiful.”

“Yeah. That was the point.” Something flutters across Sunstreaker’s face, too quick for Optimus to read, and he leans back into Optimus’ space, stripper in hand. “We’ll see. Now be still. This’ll go quicker if you stop distracting me.”

“As you wish,” Optimus says.

Sunstreaker has given him much to think about as it is, so he stores any further questions, and lets Sunstreaker work. The mech is both talented and efficient, laying Optimus’ bare to the protoform before he gestures for Optimus to rise so that he can begin the first of what he claims will be several layers.

Sunstreaker seems to relax further in the companionable silence, his field less a thing of razor-wire and more a glancing stroke of focus. Bit by bit, Optimus’ armor flourishes under his care, going from protoform-bare, to lustrous shades of silver, crimson, and navy. It’s a design that’s not Orion Pax, and not Optimus Prime recently of the Matrix, but something that combines the two, and Optimus can hardly believe what he sees in the mirror.

He’s a new mech, a mech who looks as though he better fits into his own armor. He stands tall and confident, more like a Prime than the terrified librarian hiding in the derma of one.

"You have performed a miracle," Optimus says as he turns in the mirror, admiring the gloss of his shine from every angle.

Sunstreaker snorts. "No, a miracle is what I'm going to need to fix Hot Rod's garish mess." He eyes Optimus appreciatively. "But I did do a good job."

"That you did," Optimus says. He turns and gives Sunstreaker a warm smile. "Thank you. You have given me a great gift."

"I did it so I wouldn't have to look at your flaws, not any selfless reason," Sunstreaker says, but he ducks his head, and a hint of heat stains his cheeks. "Anyway, Hot Rod is gonna be here soon, and I gotta get set up for him. So..."

"I will be on my way then." Optimus takes one last glance to the mirror - he nearly doesn't recognize himself -- before he heads for the door. "I will see you at the gathering tonight, yes?"

Sunstreaker flaps a hand at him, distracted at best. "Yeah, I'll be there."

"I am glad to hear it. Thank you, Sunstreaker."

Another distracted wave sees Optimus out the door.

That evening, Optimus makes the conscious effort to be first to the dining hall. It gives him more than enough time to discreetly observe his Consorts as they trickle in to join him.

Prowl arrives first, distractedly choosing a seat with his back to a solid wall while his attention is buried in a datapad. It takes him a moment, one marked with a brief flicker of embarrassment, to notice Optimus, and when he does, he audibly resets his vocalizer.

"My apologies, Optimus," he says. "I thought I'd be the first to arrive."

"I thought I would make up for my prior tardiness by greeting everyone as they arrived today," Optimus says.

The corner of Prowl's mouth quirks in a grin. "You know, it's not unlike an old interrogation tactic, to observe the subject's behavior when they're surprised."

"Is it?" Optimus asks, feigning innocence. He can sense nothing of offense in Prowl's field. If anything, he seems impressed.

Prowl actually chuckles. "Clearly, you wouldn't know that though." He raps his fingers on his datapad, head tilted. "I don't think the Senate has any idea what they're in for."

"I shall take that as a compliment," Optimus says as Ironhide and Ratchet stroll into the room, their voices preceding them, clearly engaged in a round of friendly ribbing.

"I'm two whole decades older than you, that hardly makes me ancient," Ratchet retorts as they come into view.

"Two decades wiser," Ironhide says with the sad, sarcastic sigh. "Two decades closer to the rust pile. No wonder ya practically creak."

"The only one creaking here is you! When was the last time you had those slag-poor joints of yours oiled?" Ratchet demands.

Ironhide actually leers at Ratchet. "I get my joints oiled plenty, I’ll have you know."

"You're disgusting."

Prowl coughs into his fist.

The two mechs draw up short and first, glare at Prowl, only to realize they have an audience. Ratchet immediately scowls and yanks out a chair, dropping into it as if the chair itself has offended him. Ironhide doesn't look the least bit ashamed as he puts himself between Ratchet and Prowl, albeit with a lighter touch.

"Good evening Ratchet and Ironhide," Optimus greets, careful to smooth his grin before it emerges on his lips. He's not yet earned the right to tease them. "How have the accommodations been treating you?"

"They're acceptable," Ratchet grunts.

"Gotta be honest, I'm not used to so much frippery, Prime," Ironhide says as he leans back in his chair and slouches. "I mean, it's nice, it's just not my speed."

"Because it's not an energon-soaked trench?" Ratchet goads.

Ironhide's optics narrow. He scratches his orbital ridge, above the left, where a prominent scar gives evidence to a life on the battlefield. "It's no cot in the storage room of the medcenter. Those aren't hardly big enough for two, are they?"

Ratchet bristles.

Optimus shifts enough in his chair that it makes a loud creaking sound. "I had not realized you two were previously acquainted," he says, though he supposes he should have known, Ratchet having spent a good portion of his career as a field medic, and Ironhide a soldier on said battlefields.

"We're not," says Ironhide.

"Passing acquaintances," says Ratchet.

They glare at each other.

Hmm. Optimus doesn’t quite believe them, and judging by Prowl’s amused look, he doesn’t either. There’s a history between the two. Former lovers perhaps? Rivals? Or is it simply one of those friendships that thrive on antagonizing one another?

"I see," Optimus says.

Thankfully, he is saved by Ultra Magnus' arrival, with Soundwave not far behind. The latter offers a curt nod while the former takes a seat beside Optimus with a question brewing in his field, and curiosity pulsing in the thin connection of their spark bond.

"We'll review later," Optimus tells him on a narrow-band transmission, and Ultra Magnus pings an affirmative receipt.

"Thank you for joining us, Soundwave, Ultra Magnus," Optimus says. "How has your stay here been thus far?"

"Adequate," Soundwave says. He sits rigid, as though he does not know any other way to behave, and the tight clamp of his armor makes Optimus’ own cables ache.

Optimus waits, but Soundwave doesn't elaborate further.

"I am disappointed by the lack of connection to the intranet, but otherwise, the grounds are a satisfactory location for rest and relaxation," Ultra Magnus says. "Not that I'm usually inclined to either."

"There's no intranet because they don't want us knowing what rumors are being spread," Ironhide says as he rests his head on his fist. "Or contacting anyone for that matter. This is supposed to be our private time." He drawls the latter, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage," Ratchet says with an approving glance Ironhide's way. "It's a really nice prison you got here, Prime."

Optimus swallows a wince, because he knows Ratchet is right. They have little choice in the matter. They cannot leave. Their access to the outside world is restricted. They may not wear manacles or be surrounded by locked doors, but they are imprisoned all the same.

"I understand the circumstances are unpleasant, but if there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask," Optimus says as diplomatically as he can manage.

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “It’s not about the accommodations, and you know it, Prime.”

“I am aware,” Optimus demurs as laughter precedes Hot Rod’s entrance, with Sunstreaker a few steps behind.

-”--going to recognize me!” Hot Rod sweeps into view, performing a little twirl of delight.

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Sunstreaker drawls, amusement thick in his tone, though the mask of disinterest falls over his face as soon as he steps into the room.

“I didn’t look that bad,” Hot Rod protests as he circles the table, beelining for the empty seat on Optimus’ left.

Sunstreaker scoffs, rolling his optics. “If you’ve ever found a berthmate with that paint job, they must have been blind.”

“Hey!”

Optimus chuckles, only because Hot Rod’s affront seems feigned, as if he and Sunstreaker had been engaging in such witty repartee throughout the entirety of their interaction. Hot Rod’s field bubbles with delight as he bounces up to Optimus and makes no attempt to conceal the fact he’s eying Optimus like a delicious meal.

"Wow. Optimus, you look even better than I do," Hot Rod says with appreciation in his optics. He looks Optimus up and down, grinning. "Sunstreaker does really good work, huh?"

"I was lucky enough to receive his care, yes," Optimus says, and politely scans Hot Rod in return. "You look very nice as well."

Hot Rod beams. "I mean, I looked pretty damn good before, but now I'm gorgeous." He does a little spin in place, his polished spoiler catching the overhead lights. "He even let me keep my flames!"

"Under protest," Sunstreaker sighs.

"I think they are charming," Optimus says with a little pat to Hot Rod's shoulder. "They suit you."

Hot Rod's armor flutters, his field flaring with pride and delight. If Optimus were a lesser mech, it would be too easy to sweep Hot Rod into his arms, and ply the adorable mech with kisses. The urge to spoil Hot Rod rises up in him, until propriety forces the urge back down.

All in due time. There are politics to consider first.

"Yes, yes, he's very pretty," says Ratchet, though at least there is no venom in his voice, consistent with the appreciation in his gaze as he looks Hot Rod up and down. "You do very good work, Sunstreaker. I think you could work miracles even with the rustbucket here." He points a thumb toward Ironhide.

Sunstreaker drops into a chair and raises his orbital ridges. "I think you might overestimate my talent.”

Ironhide's engine grumbles. "Come on now. Why are ya siding with the medic? What’d he ever do for you?"

There is a familiarity between Ratchet and Sunstreaker which speaks to prior knowledge of one another, though Optimus' research has not indicated a connection before. Perhaps it is a question worth pursuing. Every bond, no matter how small, is invaluable.

"You make for an easy target," Prowl says as he skims through a datapad without so much as raising his gaze.

"How's that?" Ironhide demands, visibly affronted.

"Because ya react." Jazz strolls into the room, smiling and radiating cheer. Optimus can't trust it. Jazz's easygoing stride and casual delight rings too false next to Hot Rod's honest enthusiasm.

It pings Optimus' radar, not that he can put into words why. Perhaps it's something that bothers the Matrix. The void that is Jazz’s field continues to unsettle him.

"You're fun to rile," Jazz adds as he swings into an empty seat between Ultra Magnus and Soundwave, sprawling with all the poise of a performer.

Prowl arches an orbital ridge. "Are you equating us to sparkling inanity?"

Jazz's visor sparkles. "If the gear fits..." He flashes his visor in a wink.

Servants begin to arrive in that moment, laden with trays and cubes and decanters, loading the table with all manner of treats and energon to delight a variety of preferences and tastes. Jazz had arrived with less than a minute to spare, but with a quick head count, Optimus realizes they are still shy one Consort -- Starscream.

He glances at Ultra Magnus, who no doubt has done his own count, but Ultra Magnus gives a minute shake of his head -- he doesn't know where Starscream is either. It's impossible for the Seeker to have left the grounds without anyone noticing. Security is far too tight for that. Seeker or not, there are optics watching the airspace.

Starscream must still be in his quarters, choosing to skip the community refueling. It's implied to be mandatory, not that Optimus is going to enforce such a thing. If his Consorts wish to keep that element of control in their life, Optimus can hardly blame them, and he won't pusht.

He'll simply have to seek Starscream out on his own, and hope time will encourage Starscream to befriend the other Consorts. Perhaps having Skyfire here in the future will help, though Optimus knows their relationship is fraught with history.

The servants bow and excuse themselves, leaving everyone to enjoy the meal, but no one reaches for the energon. Every pair of optics turn toward Optimus instead, as if waiting.

"Please, do not restrain yourselves on my account," Optimus gestures to the spread. "Eat as you will. You do not have to wait for permission."

"What?" Ratchet asks with a snort. "No big speech this time?"

Optimus shakes his head. "No, though I am happy to answer any questions you might have for me. I think you might prefer that."

"Questions," Jazz echoes as if he's tasting the word before he pops one of the chewy gummies into his mouth. "Seems weird ta just be askin' the Prime questions, innit?"

"Not Prime only," Soundwave says, his distinct monotone carrying over the sounds of dishes clattering and lids being lifted. "Betrothed also."

Jazz’s glossa flicks over his lips as though catching a stray dribble of the sweet energon filling. "Very true, Sounders. But still not equals, am I right?"

"No equals," Soundwave agrees in a solemn tone.

"Perhaps not in the views of the Senate," Optimus concedes. "It is one of many things I intend to change. I do not wish for anyone to be subservient to me, least of all my own partners."

"Hm." Prowl tips his head as he turns a glass of engex in his fingers. "It's a contradiction, to be a Prime yet not wish anyone to be subservient. You hold the highest position in all of Cybertron."

"A position that only has as much power as the Senate allows," Ultra Magnus says, giving Prowl a keen look. "I think it's unfair to say that the position of Prime is omnipotent."

Sunstreaker flicks off a piece of raw magnesium from a rust-dusted cake. "I think you're arguing over semantics. When you're at the bottom, no one really cares who's the one in actual power. The heel feels the same."

"Huh. A gladiator with a processor. Who would have known?"

Optimus looks up as Starscream struts into the room, making no attempts to conceal his tardiness. If anything he looks proud of it, wings arched high, lips curled into a big smile. He makes a production of his arrival, sweeping in to sit between Soundwave and Ratchet, leaning across the table to grab a treat from the tray nearest Hot Rod, though there is one much closer to him.

"I thought your type had nothing going for you but brawn and murder," Starscream adds airily, the very picture of nonchalance though his optics glitter with thinly disguised mischief.

Sunstreaker's optics narrow. "Give me a chance, I'll be happy to show you." He bares his denta in what might be considered a grin if Optimus is feeling generous. It looks like a threat.

Starscream chuckles and pops the treat into his mouth, his gaze switching to Optimus, challenging, as if demanding to be reprimanded. "The orrery in the conservatory is broken, Prime. What kind of palatial estate is this?"

"I was unaware of the disrepair," Optimus says, and hides a smile when Starscream blinks at him, as if surprised Optimus isn't heading straight for a reprimand. "I will call someone to come fix it at once."

Starscream flicks a hand at him. "Don't bother. I can do it myself."

"Don't those things take very precise calculations?" Prowl asks.

Starscream grabs another treat, flicking it with his glossa before sliding the whole thing into his mouth. "Yep."

"Thank you, Starscream," Optimus says. "I will leave that in your capable hands. If you need any equipment, let me know, and I will acquire it for you."

"I gotta question," Ironhide says as Starscream gives Optimus a surprised look, but says nothing. "Did any battle skills come with that big frame upgrade of yours?"

Optimus cycles his optics. "Battle skills?" he echoes as his attention diverts to Ironhide. "Orion Pax was a librarian, Ironhide. What little he knew of battle came from textbooks."

Ironhide stares at his chest. "That magic artifact inside you didn't come equipped with a strategy guide and military skills?"

Jazz snorts a laugh.

"Not to my knowledge," Optimus replies. Though it would have been quite handy. All of the knowledge and wisdom of the millennia and the past Primes is lodged within his chassis, and as far as he can tell, there’s no way to directly access it.

Such a shame.

"Any halfway decent Prime should be able to defend himself," Ironhide says around a mouthful of very potent engex. He looks Optimus up and down, critically assessing. "You're not that unusual a design. I could teach ya how to use it."

Jazz snorts a laugh. "Ya tryin' to proposition him, Ironhide?"

"Shuddup. Wasn't talking to you," Ironhide says without so much as a sideways glance at Jazz. If anything, he holds Optimus' gaze steadily, as if taking the measure of him. "Well?"

"There is an open space on the grounds we could use for training," Optimus says. "I would be honored to receive instruction from someone with your experience."

"Good." Ironhide tips his head back, chugging down the rest of his engex before setting the empty on the table. "That goes for the rest of you, too. We all got targets on our back now, and ain't but a few of you I'd wager could handle yourselves."

"And even those of us who can, there is no harm in learning something new," Prowl agrees.

"Targets?" Hot Rod echoes. Some of his visible enthusiasm dampens, and the look he gives Optimus betrays his worry.

Optimus hates to see even a glimpse of darkness in Hot Rod’s optics. There should be a law against causing harm to such a bright individual.

"You're Consort to the Prime, kid," says Ratchet with a rattling ex-vent. "There are a lot of mechs who can think of a lot of bad things to do to someone like that."

Optimus rests a hand on Hot Rod's shoulder, leaning into the younger mech’s space to offer reassurance in his field. "While Ratchet is not wrong, do not worry, Hot Rod. You will be safe here, and in Iacon. I will do my best to ensure that."

Hot Rod gives him a wan smile. "Not that I don't trust you, Optimus, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to have a few lessons. You know. Just in case."

"A wise decision," Ultra Magnus says. "I would recommend everyone take Ironhide up on his offer for some self-defense lessons."

"First thing tomorrow," Ironhide says. "Best way to start the day."

"I can think of far better ways to begin my morning," Starscream drawls as he tugs a tray of treats closer, clearly laying claim to it.

"I've got a question." Ratchet leans back in his chair and casts a quick glance around the room. "Now, I'm a medic not a mathematician, but aren't there supposed to be ten of us?"

Prowl sits up a little straighter, his datapad flashing into his hands as though he can’t bear to be parted from it. "You are correct, Ratchet. There should be ten, but I am a mathematician, and I count only nine."

"Skyfire had to be retrieved from an off-planet expedition. He should be here within a few days," Optimus explains.

"Ten is an unusually high number of Consorts, isn't it?" Starscream asks, his tone dripping with nonchalance, but his armor slicking tighter to his frame.

Optimus is not unaware of the fraught history between Skyfire and Starscream. He largely suspects it is the reason one of them was chosen. He hopes to have an opportunity to speak with Starscream before Skyfire's arrival. The quicker he can temper possible friction, the better.

"The highest in recorded history," Ultra Magnus answers. He pulls out a datapad and starts to flick through it, he and Prowl moving in an eerie tandem. "Nominus was Prime for several centuries, and Sentinel even longer before him. Cybertron has changed much during that time. We've expanded, and power has shifted."

Prowl lifts his glass of engex, contemplating the swirl of colors within. "What Ultra Magnus means is that there are more mechs fighting for political sway, and to appease them, more Consorts were nominated and approved."

"Political pawns," Soundwave states.

"Yep." Ratchet pops the word and looks further disgruntled, a cloud forming over his head. "Isn't it grand?"

Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. "I am not unaware of the machinations this tradition has invited, but I do hope to change their intent. I do not want pawns. I would like friends and allies."

"And berthmates," Jazz chirps.

"I am not a mech ruled by my interfacing system," Optimus corrects, schooling his expression so as not to frown. Jazz’s jibe sounds playful, but there are harmonics layered in the comment which suggest he’s trying to provoke. "I have no interest in having someone in my berth who is unwilling or coerced.”

Hot Rod grins, and Optimus has all of a moment to dread what the mech is going to say before he leans in and bumps Optimus' shoulder. "But it's different if they're eager and willing, right?" He waggles his orbital ridges.

"Primus," Ironhide groans. "Easy to see who's going to be the favorite, isn't it? I mean, not that I blame ya, Prime. He's pretty."

"Hey," Hot Rod starts to rise, indignant, but Prowl's voice cuts him off.

"If anyone is to be the favorite, it will be Ultra Magnus," Prowl says, one orbital ridge arched as he meets their gaze steadily. "He and Optimus are previously acquainted."

"Wait." Sunstreaker sits up now, optics narrowing. "What do you mean, Prowl?"

Optimus cycles a ventilation as multiple gazes turn on him, and not all are mere curiosity. "Ultra Magnus and Orion Pax were friends," he says before Prowl can answer for them, though he’s sure bringing this truth into the light is Prowl’s intention. "I apologize. I meant to address this sooner, but Prowl is correct. That does not mean I intend to play favorites.”

"Are," Jazz says with a little curl of his mouth, a grin that's not a grin. "Are friends. Orion Pax isn't gone, no matter how much they tell you he is." He points at Optimus' chassis. "That mech is right there, with a Matrix wrapped around him."

"I would like to know how that happened," Ratchet says. "You talk a nice game about not playing politics, but somehow you managed to get your pal into your cohort?"

Optimus opens his mouth to answer, but a spike of barely contained anger startles him, rising first from the thin corona around his spark before it registers from beside him. Ultra Magnus’ engine rumbles quietly, and he speaks up.

"Optimus had nothing to do with my appointment," Ultra Magnus says. "I was the one who contacted the relevant parties and ensured I would be nominated. Optimus had no idea until he received the final list of his approved Consorts."

"You volunteered?" Sunstreaker asked, his voice thick with shock.

Ultra Magnus nods. "I did."

"Why?" Prowl asks.

Optimus busies himself with selecting some of the treats and piling them onto a plate. This is Ultra Magnus’ truth to share. He doesn't want to give any appearance of having coached or manipulated his friend.

Ultra Magnus vents a quiet sigh. "Because not only do I feel I can effect more change in this position, I also know Orion Pax, and I knew if we -- if Cybertron -- has any hope of the new Prime keeping Orion's gentle spark, he'd need support he could trust, before the Senate and the power corrupted him."

This is the first time Optimus has heard of corruption. He speaks before he can temper himself, Orion Pax surging forward as he slants a look at Ultra Magnus. "You worried I would be corrupted?"

"History suggests it is inevitable for all those who take the office of the Prime," Prowl says.

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and all that," Ratchet says. "And rumor has it, the Matrix has a sentience into itself. Maybe Magnus has a point."

Ultra Magnus gives him a long, apologetic look. "Orion was a good mech. Is a good mech. It's not Orion I didn't trust, but what something as powerful as the Matrix could do to him.”

“And so, what, you decided to protect him? Out of the goodness of your spark?” Starscream asks, his vocals layered with disbelief, but something else in them. Something almost like envy.

“I am pragmatic enough to recognize that my motivations are two-fold,” Ultra Magnus replies without missing a beat. “In this role, I can not only look after a dear friend, but I can accomplish my own goals of working toward the betterment of Cybertron.”

“How altruistic of you,” says Prowl.

Beneath the table, Optimus rests his hand on Ultra Magnus’ knee with a light tap as he gives Magnus a look from his periphery. They will discuss this later.

Magnus, for his part, doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic.

“Perhaps it is also selfish,” says Ultra Magnus. “However, if this is an issue with any of you, I ask that you approach me about it, and not think ill of Optimus. He had no idea of my machinations.”

Who could it have been, Optimus wonders. Who had Ultra Magnus conspired with to place him here, at Optimus’ side? Who would have cared? He knows Senator Shockwave had been one of those Ultra Magnus had approached, but Shockwave on his own would not have been convincing enough.

“It doesn’t matter what you do and don’t know, Prime,” Starscream says, his lip curled as his wings arch high. “The truth is that you already like Ultra Magnus. The rest of us are just the nuisances the Senate put in your way.”

Ratchet scoffs. “Speak for yourself, Seeker. I was a highly respected medic.”

“Is was the operative term here?” Starscream asks. “Because it seems highly unusual to me that someone so skilled and respected should be reduced to berthmate.”

Anger flushes Ratchet’s field, his jaw visibly tightening.

“Come on, this is supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it?” Hot Rod asks. “Being the Prime’s Consort and all, I mean.”

“Ahh, youth,” says Prowl with a shake of his head.

“Colony mech,” Soundwave tilts his head toward Hot Rod. “Knows nothing better.”

“True,” Prowl concedes.

Hot Rod scowls and crosses his arms. “Just what the frag is that supposed to mean?”

“There may have been a time the Prime Consort was as near respected as the office of the Prime itself, but it has not been so in recent history,” Optimus says quietly. “There are layers upon layers of politics, and none so thick as those involving the nominations of the Consorts. They are not my stories to tell, but it might behoove you to speak to the others, and learn why they are here.”

Some of Hot Rod’s outrage deflates. “Not all volunteers, I guess.”

“Not by the true definition of the word,” Optimus concedes gently. He raises his gaze to the others. “For that matter, I do encourage you to speak to one another. The political game wants us to be at odds, to hate one another. Let us not do their work for them.”

“I think the Matrix chose your new designation well,” Starscream says with an arched orbital ridge. “You’re optimistic to think we’ll all be friends.”

“Are you saying it’s too much of a challenge?” Prowl asks, and there’s provocation in his voice, his gaze steady and measured as he looks at Starscream. “Is it beyond your ability, Starscream?”

Starscream rolls his optics. “I’m not going to fall for an obvious goad.”

“Aren’t you?” Jazz challenges.

Fields clash throughout the room, twisting and tangling with invisible bursts of emotional lightning. At least this time, it is not aimed at Optimus himself.

“This is stupid,” Hot Rod says into the rising tension. He snags a tray of treats and pops two into his mouth before he tucks the tray against his chest. “You guys keep talking about how I’m too young and too inexperienced to understand what’s really going on and whatever, but from where I’m standing, everyone in here is acting like a bunch of sparklings.”

Starscream’s jaw drops.

Jazz snickers into his hand.

Prowl’s mouth snaps shut with a click of denta on denta.

“Well,” Ultra Magnus says into the following silence. “Hot Rod might have a point.” He glances at Ironhide. “Training you say?”

“First thing in the morning,” Ironhide says. “Can’t think of a better way to work out this tension, if you ask me.”

Hot Rod laughs. “Umm, I can.” He looks up at Optimus with a wink.

Judging by the chorus of groans from around the table, no one’s overly offended. Optimus manages a smile. Hot Rod is irrepressibly charming. Resisting him is going to be one of the hardest things Optimus will have to do.

“And with that, I’m calling it a night.” Ratchet leverages himself from his chair as if purposefully trying to make every joint creak. “Especially since it looks like I’m going to be patching up a bunch of idiots in the morning.”

“We’re lucky to have you,” Optimus says diplomatically. “I have heard nothing but good things about your talents.”

“Sure.” Ratchet snorts. “You’ll probably change your mind once you get within reach.” He flicks a hand at the room at large. “We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” Optimus says, both to Ratchet and to Ironhide. “Thank you for the offer. I must admit, I am eager to learn how to protect myself.”

Ironhide’s lip curls in a smirk as Hot Rod muffles a laugh behind his hands. “Y’know, Prime. I’m startin’ to think you’re trying to be enticing on purpose.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Optimus demurs.

“Sure ya don’t,” Ironhide says, but the twinkle in his optics is the most playful he’s been since they first met.

Optimus considers it a win.

The communal gathering winds down not long after, the Consorts saying their goodbyes and drifting out of the dining hall to their respective quarters. Only Optimus and Ultra Magnus remain, though Hot Rod does linger, making his exit at a slow pace, as if hoping Optimus will invite him to share his berth if he waits just a moment longer.

Not yet.

Finally, the door clicks shut behind Hot Rod, and they are alone.

“That could have gone worse,” Ultra Magnus vents as he relaxes in the chair, losing his stern posture.

“Which part?” Optimus sinks lower into his own chair and drags a half-eaten tray of treats closer. He tosses a handful into his mouth.

Ultra Magnus tips his head. “I could make a list.” He chuckles, but it’s raw and tired. “They took our prior acquaintance with more grace than I expected.” He eyes Optimus peripherally. “I should have known it would be Prowl to bring it up.”

“I told him earlier today, and he also admitted he’d run background checks on all of us prior to his arrival.” Optimus nibbles on another treat, considering. “He’s practical enough, however, that I think I can win him to our side through my deeds.”

“True.” Ultra Magnus’ lips thin together. “I have concerns.”

“About?”

“Jazz.” He rests a hand on the table, fingers drumming a rhythmic beat. “I think Prowl is right to be suspicious. All of my research has been as useless as yours, and I don’t like unknown quantities.”

Optimus tilts his head. “You think he’s dangerous?”

“Very. But whether or not that danger is directed at you or I or any of us…” Ultra Magnus draws in a heavy ventilation. “Jazz has a mask, a very, very good one, and I’m not ashamed to admit how wary I am of what it hides. Be cautious around him.”

Optimus hums and finishes off the last treat, sucking his fingers clean in such a way he’d never show the others. “I doubt the Senate would be so bold as to put an actual assassin forward as a Consort Nominate.”

“Then your faith in them outstrips mine.” Ultra Magnus shakes his head. “I don’t think Jazz is an outright assassin, but nor do I think you should trust him. He’ll say whatever he thinks you want to hear, even if it’s not what he wants or intends for himself.”

Optimus frowns. “He’s already a Consort. He doesn’t have to do anything to ensure he has a place. What would be the point of ingratiating himself to me?”

“The same reason any of the others might try it -- to gain your favor and have all the power.” Ultra Magnus rubs his forehead. “Though if that’s what he’s in for, it’s not for his own sake. I think someone’s pulling his strings.”

“Like most of my Consorts,” Optimus sighs. His own head starts to ache, and he knows, this ache is not leaving anytime soon. At least, not for the length of this month. He has an extraordinary task ahead of him, trying to win these seven Consorts to his side.

He pauses and gives Ultra Magnus a faint smile. “Have I mentioned how grateful I am that you would sacrifice your own aspirations for my sake?”

“My reasons were selfish as well. It was hardly a sacrifice.” Ultra Magnus’ words are dismissive, but his field flutters with warmth.

Optimus works his intake, cycling a ventilation. “I suppose not, given that you were concerned about the Matrix corrupting me.”

Ultra Magnus vents a sigh. “I should have mentioned that to you sooner.” His field turns apologetic as he looks at Optimus. “Orion Pax is one of my dearest friends. His spark has always been a kind and generous one. But history has shown what power can do to a mech. I didn’t want to see that happen to you.”

“Some might argue I am not Orion Pax anymore,” Optimus says quietly.

“I suppose that depends on your definition.” Ultra Magnus leans on the table, hands clasped, optics troubled. “I will always see the echoes of Orion Pax in you even if I am the only one. Cybertron needs Orion Pax to temper Optimus Prime.”

Optimus runs a finger around the rim of his cube. “And if Orion Pax is gone and all that’s left is the Matrix, running the spark of Optimus Prime?”

“It won’t come to that,” Ultra Magnus says, his voice firm and determined. “Other Primes have fallen because they didn’t have anyone who truly supported them. That won’t be the case here. I am by your side, Optimus, for both our sake, and for Cybertron’s.”

The band around his spark that is Ultra Magnus’ presence seems to vibrate with his words as if proving his sincerity.

“Thank you,” Optimus murmurs. “I am lucky to have someone like you watching out for me.”

Ultra Magnus straightens, his gaze shifting elsewhere as though embarrassed. “You don’t have to flatter me. I’m already yours.” He rests a companionable hand on Optimus’ shoulder in an awkward pat. “Save those flirtations for one of the others.”

“You think I’m not genuinely attracted to you?” Optimus lays his hand over Magnus’ before his friend can pull away. “I may not view you as a romantic partner, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind to your appeal. Any mech would be lucky to have you, and I’m luckier still that you’ve chosen me.”

He looks up, meeting Ultra Magnus’ gaze, trying to push sincerity into every wisp of his field. He does not hold romantic feelings for Ultra Magnus, true. He has never harbored deep fantasies of taking Ultra Magnus to his berth either. But he does love Ultra Magnus, and he does treasure their friendship, and it was no hardship to spark bond with Magnus, just as it’ll be a pleasure to take Magnus to berth, should they both desire it.

Those truths do not make their relationship any lesser than whatever Optimus might earn with the other Consorts.

Ultra Magnus’ field wobbles before it surges with affection, washing over Optimus in a wave of warmth. “And that, my friend, is why this was no sacrifice.”

He leans down, brushing his lips over Optimus’ temple. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is another busy day.”

“And a painful one, if Ironhide has anything to say about it,” Optimus says. “Good night, Magnus.”

“Rest well, my Prime.”

Ultra Magnus departs, and Optimus is not too ashamed to pick over the rest of the treats, selecting all of his favorites and stashing them away. Some habits are not forgotten, no matter how quickly the change in status.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Ultra Magnus is no longer in the medclinic by the time Optimus returns to it, but Ratchet is still present. The counters and tables are covered by medical supplies as though Ratchet’s emptied out every drawer and cabinet in the entire clinic.

“I went to replace one of Ultra Magnus’ filters and couldn’t find it. This place is a mess. There’s no organization to it at all,” Ratchet grumbles in answer to Optimus’ unvoiced question. “Thank Primus we’re only here for a month.”

“Feel free to take over. I cannot think of a single person who would complain,” Optimus says as he surveys the mess. He debates offering to help, but he suspects this is an outlet for Ratchet.

“They can complain all they want, but this is going to be organized and useful by the time I’m through,” Ratchet says with a snort. He eyes Optimus. “Were you looking for me or…?”

“Ultra Magnus actually, but now that I am here, I do have a request.”

Ratchet drags his hands free from where they’d been digging in a crate and rests his fingers on the edge of it. “I’m listening.”

“It is nothing so serious, only Skyfire has just arrived and he looks as though they have dragged him here straight from an asteroid. I do not think a check-up would be out of order.”

“Oh, this is going to be interesting,” Ratchet says with a snort. He pulls something out of the crate and rests it on the counter. “Does Starscream know?”

Optimus tilts his head. “I take it you are familiar with their history?”

“Most of us are. It’s a messy one.” Ratchet shakes his head, his orbital ridge wrinkling. “I’m sure the political entanglements don’t make it any cleaner.”

“Being forced into proximity will not make it easier either.” Optimus cycles a ventilation. “I am on my way to tell Starscream now, if he is not otherwise occupied. I only wanted to see if you would look in on Skyfire first.”

Ratchet pulls out a bundle of carefully tied cabling, adding it to another stack. “And get an idea of his mental state while I’m at it?”

“If it is medically relevant,” Optimus says. “I do not intend for you to spy on him, or help me manipulate him. I simply want to make this easier for both of them.”

“Huh. Pretty sure you actually mean that.” Ratchet lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Sure. I’ll finish up here, and then go check on Skyfire. Might do him some good to see a friendly face that’s not yours.”

“I appreciate it,” Optimus says. “And thank you, by the way, for attending to Ultra Magnus’ maintenance. He has a bad habit of neglecting himself when he thinks his other duties are more important.”

Ratchet waves him off. “Taking care of mechs is what I do. Anytime.” He grabs the crate and sets it on the ground before lifting another in its place. “Now you better go before I rope you into taking inventory for me.”

Optimus obeys, pleased Ratchet is open enough with him to tease. It’s great progress. Perhaps a true friendship can be born here after all.

He returns to the kitchens, where he’d last seen Starscream, a tantalizing scent on the air, far thicker and richer than it had been before. Hot Rod’s laughter floats out into the hall, and rather than peek around the corner, Optimus strides directly inside, wondering if perhaps they need a taste-tester.

There’s a batch of energon goodies on the counter, steam curling around their plump shapes, the sparkle of various metal shavings giving hint to their flavor. Starscream stands at the oven, peering in at another tray of baking goodies while Hot Rod carries an armful of dirtied bakeware to the sink. He lights up when he sees Optimus, his spoiler giving a delighted wiggle.

“Optimus!” Hot Rod grins. “Just in time. You get to be my first volunteer.”

“I think he means victim,” Starscream drawls, tossing the tease over his shoulder. “I hope your tank is made of stern materials, Prime.”

“Don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Hot Rod dumps the bakeware into the sink with a clatter. “This batch is perfect.”

“This time,” Starscream corrects. “Or so he thinks.”

“So I know!” Hot Rod argues with an adorable pout. He scoops up one of the treats and bounds up to Optimus, holding it out. “Here. Try this. I swear it’s good.”

Optimus’ spark pulses warm with affection. He thinks he might be a little head over heels for Hot Rod already. “I am happy to volunteer,” he says, and takes the treat -- sprinkled with magnesium if he’s not mistaken -- popping it into his mouth.

Flavor explodes over his glossa, the magnesium crackling in his oral lubricants, before the thin membrane pops and sweet energon floods his mouth. It’s rich, with a bit of a crackle to it, like low-caliber engex. There’s a delightful sweet-sour tang to it as well.

Hot Rod looks up at him, simultaneously wary and hopeful.

“It is delicious, Hot Rod,” Optimus says as the flavor lingers, and he eyes the trays of treats, wondering if it would be too forward to request a few more. “Thank you.”

Hot Rod beams. “Let me get you a sample of all the flavors. You can tell me which one is the best.”

“Flavor preference is a matter of taste, kid,” Starscream says as the oven dings. He dons a pair of gloves and removes another tray, resting it on a cooling platform.

“Duh.” Hot Rod rolls his optics and selects a few treats from the cooled tray -- one from every different flavor. “That’s why the second tray is for dinner tonight. I want to see what everyone else thinks. Experiments require large data-sets, right?”

Starscream’s lips curve with amusement. “At least you were paying attention.”

Hot Rod shrugs. “It was interesting. I don’t want to be a scientist all the way, but yeah. It was interesting.” He offers the tray to Optimus. “Try the blue ones.”

“I will try them all,” Optimus promises, and he does select the blue one, sprinkled with selenium he thinks. It sparkles in the overhead light.

Starscream lingers nearby, hips cocked against the counter, arms folded over his cockpit. “There was a transport earlier,” he says as Optimus tastes the blue treat and finds it has an odd cooling sensation that makes it no less delicious. “Can I assume Skyfire is here?”

Optimus chews and swallows. “Yes. He is resting at the moment. They must have retrieved him straight from a research site.” He dusts off his hands with an offered washcloth. “He is down the hall from Soundwave if you wish to speak with him.”

“Is he coming to dinner tonight?” Hot Rod asks, trying to urge an orange-drizzled treat toward Optimus. “I want to meet him.”

“If he is not too tired, I do think he plans to join us,” Optimus says.

“Why do you want to meet him?” Starscream asks.

Hot Rod shrugs. “Because he’s the only Consort I haven’t met yet? And he’s a big shuttle. And he’s gone to a bunch of different planets?”

“All good reasons,” Optimus says.

“Mm.” Starscream makes a non-committal noise before he plucks the plate from Hot Rod’s hands and turns to set it on the counter. “I’ll finish up the treats, Hot Rod. Why don’t you go find something else to do?”

Hot Rod’s optics narrow. “If you wanted to talk to Optimus privately, you only had to say.”

Starscream rolls his optics. “Fine. I want to have a private conversation, so please go find somewhere else to be.”

“Fine, I will.” Hot Rod huffs, but it’s playful at least. “I’m going to go find Jazz and see if he’ll race me. Someone around here has to have some speed other than me.”

“Good luck,” Optimus says. “Jazz is notoriously difficult to find.”

“I’ve got a good instinct for this kind of thing.” Hot Rod winks and rises on the tips of his feet to press a kiss to Optimus’ cheek. “Let me know if you like the other flavors, okay?”

“I promise.” Hot Rod grins up at him, adorable and genuine, before he’s gone, leaving Starscream and Optimus alone in the kitchen.

Starscream becomes very busy removing the treats from the tray and shifting them to a cooling rack.

“I do not know the full extent of what happened between you and Skyfire, only rumor and official accounts,” Optimus says when it becomes clear Starscream has no intention of starting their conversation. “This must be difficult for you.”

“To a degree you couldn’t begin to fathom, Prime,” Starscream says, his back to Optimus as he starts on the dirtied dishware, the running solvent a quiet rush of noise. “Though Skyfire didn’t have a choice in it either.”

Optimus pulls out one of the stools and sits, the plate Hot Rod had prepared for him within reach. “I will not ignore the obvious either. We are both aware that Skyfire’s presence here is a result of the Senate’s machinations. They hope to destabilize my cohort and as a result, undermine my support structure.”

Starscream snorts. “I think you’re giving that pack of power-hungry Empties too much credit.” His wings arch high, betraying his tension. “Or maybe they’re stupid enough to underestimate me. Either way, whatever happens between me and Skyfire will be private and on my own terms. I’m not giving them a show to drool over.”

“If there is anything you need, ask and I will do my best to accommodate you,” Optimus says. “Even if that means I facilitate an appropriate distance between yourself and Skyfire.”

“Thanks, but I can handle it. We need to work things out eventually.” Starscream pauses, his head turning a little as he stares into the distance. “Maybe it’s even for the best that circumstances are forcing us to.”

“Perhaps.” Optimus takes one of the silver-dusted treats, the scent of which is divine. “I know it has only been a short while, but have you given any further thought to what I can do to make this more tolerable for you?”

Starscream turns off the solvent with a squeak and looks over his shoulder. “The things I want I can’t have, and no, I haven’t figured out what I’ll accept as a substitute.”

“Cybertron, as a rule, has been designed to only accommodate the wants of a few,” Optimus says with a sigh. He nibbles on the treat, the sweetness of the silver lingering on his glossa. “I knew this as Orion, but was not in a position to make a difference. I am now, and I intend to do everything I can.”

Starscream leans back against the counter, idly running a cloth over his solvent-damp hands. “Why Prime,” he drawls. “That’s almost treasonous of you to admit. If you’re not careful, the Senate is going to find out you’re too much trouble, and we might all see the shortest Prime tenure in Cybertronian history.”

“I am aware of how carefully I will need to tread,” Optimus admits. “I will have to balance how hard I push, but I also know it will be much easier with allies, specifically intelligent allies who are not afraid to upset the status quo.”

Starscream’s lips curve in a smirk. “Like say, nearly a dozen Consorts who were shoved into your cohort because they were trouble-makers.”

“Exactly.” Optimus manages a small chuckle. “The Senate picked every one of you because you were all intelligent, attractive, and most importantly, prone to mischief. They want us to be so busy bickering we are not paying attention to what is going on, and I especially will be more malleable.”

“I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when they realize that they’ve pretty much handed you the means to their end.” Starscream barks a laugh. “Honestly, Optimus. That’s all you had to say. You want me to help you make a fool of the Senate?”

“I suppose that would be an unavoidable byproduct,” Optimus admits. “Ultra Magnus being here is an unexpected boon. There’s no one who understands Senate law better. But I intend to rely on you and Prowl to figure out how to circumvent it.”

Starscream’s ailerons flutter, and there’s no disguising the pride in his field. “Well, I am known for getting around a few roadblocks or two.”

“Or more,” Optimus says. “The Senate thinks your only value is in being a nuisance. But I think your intelligence and your pride are your greatest assets.” It’s flattery as much as it is genuine.

Optimus admires Starscream’s strength, his determination, his unwillingness to accept the status quo without a fight. He’s fearless, and he’s brilliant, and if Optimus can make him an ally, there’s very little he thinks he can’t accomplish.

“Well,” Starscream says as he pushes out of his lean, arms unfolding from their defensive posture. “You certainly know how to flatter a mech, and I think you even mean it.” He grins. “I guess we’ll have to see.”

“I look forward to it.”

“I suppose I do, too.” Starscream flicks his hands at Optimus. “Go on then. Find someone else to convince. I have treats to finish.”

Optimus chuckles. “See you at dinner, Starscream.”

He leaves. It’s important to him that his Consorts know they can ask him to leave, or be friendly with him. He wants them to have whatever boundaries they deem are important, so he intends to let them draw the lines.

“Optimus!”

He startles, turning toward the voice as Hot Rod abruptly pounces on his arm, wrapping around it and beaming up at him.

“You’re free now, aren’t you?” Hot Rod asks.

“What happened to finding Jazz?” Optimus asks, amused, as Hot Rod falls in step beside him, still wrapped around his arm, his field warm and suggestive.

Hot Rod rolls his optics. “No one can find him. Ever. I don’t know where he goes or how he’s so good at hiding, but he just disappears.”

“I see,” Optimus says. “So you decided to lie in wait for me instead?”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping!” Hot Rod looks up at him, face set with certainty. “I just wanted to make sure I caught you before you got too far.”

“I believe you.” Optimus pauses near one of the large windows overlooking the garden, flush with newly spawned crystals in a variety of colors. “Did you need something?”

A touch of heat stains Hot Rod’s cheeks. “You have to spark bond with each of us before we go back to Iacon, right?”

“That is correct,” Optimus says as Hot Rod’s field drizzles anticipation and a touch of insecurity against his.

Hot Rod slides a hand down Optimus’ arm until he can tangle their fingers together. “You probably already got your bond with Ultra Magnus, so why don’t we go ahead and get ours out of the way?”

Optimus cycles his optics. “Are you certain?”

Hot Rod barks a laugh, but there’s warmth in it. “Optimus, I think everyone here in the manor knows how much I want you. I’m absolutely sure.” He leans in to Optimus’ warmth. “I mean, unless now isn’t a good time?”

Honestly, Optimus can’t think of a reason to refuse. He has no actual plans before the gathering tonight, and he doesn’t want to engage in more conversations and come across as pushy. Besides, Hot Rod is correct. Optimus has nine more political sparkbonds to complete, and the sooner he can manage them, the better.

Hot Rod’s enthusiastic consent makes it seem less like a trial and more like a pleasure.

So Optimus returns Hot Rod’s warm smile and says, “Would you like to go to my quarters or yours?”

Hot Rod’s joy could have powered the estate for a month.

His bond with Hot Rod settles in quite nicely along the layers of Ultra Magnus already nestled around his spark. Ultra Magnus’ steady influence joins with Hot Rod’s cheerful enthusiasm, and Optimus thinks of both as a balm to the more complicated bonds soon to come.

Optimus had not expected discretion from Hot Rod, so he’s not at all surprised when Hot Rod struts into the dining room like he’d just won the Duryllium Cup at Nova’s Stadium. He’s got a spring in his step, he’s radiating delight, and there’s not a single mech in the room who can’t guess why.

Optimus would be embarrassed, if Hot Rod’s pride and delight hadn’t sung so strongly through their bond. It’s infectious.

“Dare I ask what has him in such a fine mood?” Skyfire asks as he leans in from where he sits next to Optimus, temporarily taking Ultra Magnus’ seat.

Optimus breathes a quiet laugh. “Hot Rod is truly delighted to be here, and equally delighted to seal the agreement between us this afternoon.”

“Ah.” Skyfire’s optics glisten with amusement. “Adorable.”

“Quite.”

Optimus had, after a short stasis nap and a long soak in the oil baths, gone to retrieve Skyfire, wanting to personally escort the shuttle to their nightly gathering. If Starscream’s been by to talk, Skyfire made no mention of it, though he did admit to Ratchet giving him a thorough maintenance check.

Hot Rod slides into the seat on Optimus’ other side and grins. “Hi, Optimus,” he says before he leans over and sticks out a hand toward Skyfire, completely in Optimus' personal space. “You must be Skyfire. I’m Hot Rod. Nice to meet you!”

Delight ripples in Skyfire’s field as he accepts Hot Rod’s hand, nearly dwarfing it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Hot Rod.”

“If you need anything, let me know. I’ll be happy to help,” Hot Rod says, still shaking Skyfire’s hand before he adds in a softer voice, “Also, if you have any embarrassing stories about Starscream, I really want to hear them.”

Optimus winces, but Skyfire merely smiles, a soft haunted smile. “I appreciate the offer, but perhaps Prime would like his personal space back?”

“I would,” Optimus says.

“Oops.” Hot Rod ducks his head, but there’s a gleam of playfulness in his optics. “We’ll catch up later.” He winks and pulls back into his own space.

“I look forward to it,” Skyfire says as more Consorts trickle into the dining hall -- Prowl and Ultra Magnus together, deep in discussion, with Starscream and Sunstreaker trailing behind, the former looking freshly painted and polished.

Skyfire, beside Optimus, goes still, his field nonexistent. Optimus can feel the weight of expectation in the moment, when Skyfire and Starscream look at each other, their optics locking. Starscream nods, only once, and Skyfire echoes it.

Nothing is said.

Ultra Magnus takes the seat on the other side of Skyfire. Starscream sits between Hot Rod and Sunstreaker. Prowl pulls out a datapad as he sits beside Ultra Magnus. The quiet murmur of conversation continues, but Skyfire’s shallow vents seem to echo in Optimus’ audials.

“Are you all right?” he murmurs.

Skyfire studies the table, but glances askance at Starscream before hastily shifting his gaze to Optimus. “He looks well,” Skyfire says with a thin smile. “I’m glad to see it.”

Ironhide and Ratchet arrive, loud and boisterous as they jostle one another, Soundwave and Jazz in their wake. The latter are a curious pair, and they are not in conversation with each other, but they are nearly in step. Jazz is all smiles as he plops into his chair, and Soundwave says nothing as he takes his own.

“I’m glad you decided to join us, Skyfire,” Ratchet says as he sits and tosses Skyfire a crooked grin. “Despite how tired you are, I mean.”

“It seemed appropriate,” Skyfire says. “I appreciate your concern.”

“Your late arrival is unprecedented,” Prowl comments, finally glancing up from his datapad. “The Senate must have been very keen to have you in the Prime cohort to break with tradition like this.”

Skyfire sits back, a small frown wrinkling his orbital ridge. “So it would seem, though I can’t fathom a reason why. I’m just a scientist, a xenobiologist to be more specific. I don’t know what I have to offer.”

“Hey, my claim to fame is that I volunteered. It’s not like I’m bringing anything useful to the table,” Hot Rod says with a shrug. “You’re way more qualified than I am, if you look at it that way. Not that I’m, you know, completely useless. Right, Optimus?” He beams.

Optimus’ lips twitch into an indulgent smile. Temper Hot Rod’s bright personality? He can’t imagine doing so.

Prowl arches an orbital ridge. “Made your claim already, have you, Hot Rod?”

“Was I not supposed to?” Hot Rod tilts his head, mischief in his optics.

“It must be done eventually. The rules are rather inflexible on that point,” Optimus says, and spreads his hands, giving Prowl a wry look while Hot Rod grins beside him. “After all, there is protocol to consider, yes?” He keeps his tone dry.

“Protocol,” Ratchet echoes, and bends over, pressing his forehead to the table as he laughs. “Spark-sharing and protocol are two things I never thought I’d hear in the same sentence.”

Hot Rod leans over and pats Optimus on the arm as if sympathetic. “Don’t worry, Optimus. It didn’t feel like protocol to me.”

“Thank you, Hot Rod. I appreciate the reassurance,” Optimus says, heat stealing into his cheeks despite his attempt to act unperturbed. The fact that Jazz outright cackles, and Starscream hides a snorted laugh doesn’t help. “However, I do mean to avoid worries of favoritism.”

Ironhide barks a loud laugh, rocking back in his chair as his field bursts with glee. “If there is a single mech in this room who is feeling neglected by you finally berthing Hot Rod, I’ll eat my old tires.”

Hot Rod beams.

“Congratulations,” Starscream drawls.

“Thanks! I--” Hot Rod pauses, and his optics grow wide with alarm. He leaps from his chair, startling everyone at the table. “I forgot to get the treats!” He rushes from the table before anyone can say anything else.

“Treats?” Prowl echoes.

Starscream’s lip curls with an indulgent smile. “I taught him how to make some energon goodies, and now he’s determined to not only be the best at it, but turn all of you into his test subjects.” He lifts his chin. “I should hope there’s no one here who intends to be cruel.”

Starscream doesn’t see it, but Optimus does, the way Skyfire gives Starscream a keen look, as if seeing him in a new light.

“You’d have to be some kind of monster to try and break that kid’s spark,” Ironhide drawls as he scoops up a glass of engex and gives it a healthy chug. “I’m with Starscream on this.”

“I find it curious. I didn’t think you’d be the sort to indulge a mech like Hot Rod,” Prowl says.

“And what sort is that?” Starscream asks, his tone light, but an edge to his field that threatens the light atmosphere. “The sparkless Seeker sort?”

“No, the sort who has a reputation for being unfriendly,” Prowl says. He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, but Optimus can recognize a not-so-subtle prod when he sees one. Prowl is still investigating each of them in his own way. “Realistically speaking, Optimus is the only one whose favor you should be trying to win.”

“Maybe Starscream just wants to be nice,” Sunstreaker growls, surprising everyone with his surge to Starscream’s defense. His tone edges toward outrage before he sinks back into his chair. “Not everything has a fragging agenda.”

“Considering where we all are, it’s hard to believe mechs might want to be kind,” Skyfire murmurs, perhaps not intending to be heard, but in the conversational lull, it’s loud enough to capture attention.

“And maybe someone should spend more time trying to find out the truth than poking at a bunch of baseless rumors,” Starscream says with a pointed look at Prowl. “Just ask your damn question, Enforcer. I don’t have any interest in games.”

Prowl lifts his chin, meeting Starscream’s stare without flinching. “Were you trying to replace the Winglord?”

Optimus cycles both his audials and his optics. Yes, he’s heard of the rumors, but he’s also dismissed them as quickly. Starscream is hungry to effect real change, yes. He’s eager for knowledge and discovery. But Optimus, in all his research, has not seen anything to give truth to the rumor Starscream is secretly trying to replace the Winglord.

Is Prowl pursuing this line of questioning for Optimus’ sake or his own? Is he trying to quell a personal distrust in Starscream?

“No, I wasn’t,” Starscream says, arms folded, jaw set. “And I’m not using Hot Rod if that’s what you’re trying to imply. Sunstreaker is right. I’m being kind to Hot Rod because I like the kid, and I don’t think there’s anyone in here who could fault me for that.”

Ultra Magnus cycles a ventilation. “He is a force to be reckoned with,” he says. “I do believe we’re all in agreement to be eager to try whatever he brings, yes?”

“Of course,” says Prowl, as smooth as polished crystal. He goes so far as to offer Starscream a conciliatory smile. “Thank you for your honesty.”

Starscream smiles back, all denta. “You’re welcome, Prowl. Anytime you want to question my motivations, you know where to find me.”

Prowl tips his head, acknowledging the reply, but not commenting further. His gaze returns to his usual datapad, his engex, as if hadn’t just poked at an open wound in the middle of their dinner. Starscream turns and murmurs something to Sunstreaker, who scowls but the hint of color in his cheeks suggests it is complimentary.

“I’m back!” Hot Rod’s boisterous cry heralds his return as he bursts inside with a tray held high over his head, like a triumphant athlete and their prize-winning trophy. It does wonders to break the tension, distracting everyone from Prowl and Starscream’s interaction.

He brandishes said tray with a beaming smile and sets it down in the middle of the table, having to wiggle between Soundwave and Prowl to do so.

“I made enough for everyone to try at least one of every flavor,” Hot Rod continues, bubbling over with this enthusiasm. “Tell me which ones are your favorite so I know what to make in the future. All right?”

Optimus doesn’t know if it’s Starscream’s glare, or genuine affection on the part of everyone else, but a chorus of agreement rises from the gathered Consorts.

Hot Rod beams at them, and Optimus thinks it’s rather interesting that he’s the Prime, but Hot Rod is the one who has everyone wrapped around his finger.

It has a secondary effect as well in that Hot Rod’s antics take everyone’s attention, and no one stares too hard at Skyfire or Starscream, and they only stare at each other when they think the other isn’t paying attention. No one looks at Prowl either, for that matter, and if there’s a simmering tension lingering in the atmosphere, no one comments.

Potential arguments and drama are averted.

For now.

After his training session with Ironhide, Optimus seeks out Skyfire, ignoring the aches and twinges coursing through his frame. He hopes that the shuttle has had enough rest for a reasonable conversation. He doesn’t want Skyfire to be out of the loop any longer than necessary.

Skyfire is easy to find. He hasn’t ventured out of his quarters, and he opens the door to Optimus’ polite ping, offering an equally polite nod.

“I suspected this conversation was coming after my talk with Ratchet yesterday,” Skyfire says as he gestures Optimus inside, keying the door shut behind him. “Please, have a seat.”

Optimus selects one of the chairs near the large, uncovered window, which opens to a private balcony. Skyfire’s quarters are the largest in the manor, even over Optimus’, which given his size, was the only assignment Optimus insisted upon.

Technically, Skyfire has the Prime suite, and Optimus has the room which might have been Skyfire’s, but he’d taken one look at the dimensions of the rooms and quietly switched them when no one was paying attention.

“I hope Ratchet did not alarm you too much,” Optimus says.

Skyfire shakes his head and sits across from him, the padded stool offering an ominous creak. “He only let me know you’d want to speak to me in private to allay any concerns I might have. He said you’re the one who asked him to look in on me.”

“Yes. I hope you did not take offense to that.”

“I appreciate it.” Skyfire grimaces and rubs his right shoulder. “I’d had a piece of space grit in my joints for a month, and Ratchet worked it free.” He lowers his hand and gives Optimus a steady look. “I’ll admit, I don’t really know why I’m here.”

Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Why you were chosen to be a Consort?”

“Yes. I’m on no one’s list when it comes to political importance.” Skyfire spreads his hands a bit helplessly. “I’m a researcher who spends more time off Cybertron than on.”

“I wish I could tell you that the Senate saw something in you which could be of help to Cybertron, but that would be a lie.” Optimus rubs his temple, trying to ease an ache that hasn’t shown itself, but will soon enough. “They hoped your relationship with Starscream would lead to enough friction to distract me from interfering in their political machinations.”

Skyfire frowns. “I should have known.” He vents a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping. “We’re all but pawns,” he muses aloud before he looks at Optimus, head tilted. “I’m as trapped as you are.”

“I am the Prime. I do not think many here would share your assessment of me,” Optimus says. “I am technically the one with the power.”

“Really?” Skyfire leans back. “How many of us were you given a say in choosing?”

Optimus glances out the window, where the darkening sky and rolling cloudwork hints of the acid rains soon to come. “I’m told it is not the Prime’s place to choose his Consorts.”

“It damn well should be, but interesting that it’s not.” Skyfire snorts, his field sparking anger before it cools into a simmering irritation. “You’re just a figurehead.”

“It is what they intend for me to be, but unfortunately for the Senate, I do not intend to be placated by pretty mechs with a tendency to be temperamental.” Optimus sits straighter and catches Skyfire’s gaze. “I intend to fight for what Cybertron deserves, and change the laws which have done harm to so many of the mechs who live here.”

“Bold ambitions.”

Optimus gestures to himself. “I was a data clerk. I have studied Cybertronian history. I was not as unfortunate as other classes, but I saw enough. It needs to stop.” He pauses to gather himself before the angry tide rolls over him. It is good practice for the fight to come. “The Senate gave me a distraction. I intend to return with a united, fighting force the likes of which they have never seen.”

Skyfire’s orbital ridges climb higher. “I don’t think bold is even strong enough for what you’re trying to do. I don’t envy the task you have in front of you.”

“Neither do I,” Optimus says with a dry chuckle. “I know political machinations are not your forte, and I would not force your participation upon you. Simply tell me what I can do to make this situation tolerable for you, and I will do my best to accommodate it.”

It becomes Skyfire’s turn to stare out the window. “Ideally, I’d go back to my research. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do with my life, and the mere thought of never being able to pursue it again is my greatest fear.”

“I would never think to keep you from your research,” Optimus says, pushing sincerity into his field. “The Senate might have something to say about the freedom I give to my Consorts, but I am determined to fight for every one of you to have as much of your own life as I can reasonably give.”

“That would be ideal,” Skyfire says. “I don’t envy you that fight.”

Optimus sits back, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “I have many fights ahead of me. There are many things I intend to change, including the entire Consort selection process. It needs to be, if not abolished, then restructured from the start. No more forced consent.”

“It cannot be consent if it is forced, no matter how manipulated,” Skyfire says.

“Precisely.” Optimus flexes his fingers before rubbing his palms along his thighs, trying to quell the rising fury within him. “I have never had any interest in partners who did not want me in return, and that I am required to bond with mechs who do not have a true choice…” He briefly shutters his optics, drawing in another vent. “It is anathema.”

“You are as trapped as we are,” Skyfire muses aloud. “You’re a good mech, Optimus. I don’t think the Senate anticipated the Matrix choosing a good mech.”

“To be fair, I did not anticipate being chosen,” Optimus says. “But I have been, and I cannot change that, so I must do my best with the opportunity I have been given.”

Skyfire vents slowly, and some of the tension visibly eases from his frame. “You know, I spent the whole flight back to Cybertron worried about what my future was going to be. I might even admit to being afraid of what it would be like to be tied to a grounder mech.” He pauses and a small smile curves his lips. “It looks like I have nothing to worry about.”

“I am relieved you think so.” Optimus returns Skyfire's careful smile. "I would like to be friends if that is at all possible."

Skyfire gives him a wry look. "I take it most of the mechs here have been rather reluctant."

"Some might even say hostile," Optimus says. "They are not to blame, and I completely understand, but it has made for an awkward atmosphere."

"I've felt it," Skyfire says, and his field flushes warm with sympathy. "I would like to be friends, too."

"Thank you." Relief flushes through Optimus, and he smiles as he stands. "I will let you get back to your day. I am sure you want to wander around. Did someone point you toward the library?"

"Ultra Magnus passed me a map of the grounds," Skyfire says. He rises with Optimus, walking him to the door. "I hadn't realized it came fully equipped with a laboratory. Nothing like what I'm used to, of course, but enough to keep me occupied."

"You are welcome to it. If there is anything you need, let me know. I am sure I can have it delivered."

"I may take you up on that," Skyfire palms open the door for him, and Optimus steps through it, pausing to turn as Skyfire adds, "Prime, how much do you know of my research?"

It's a curious question. Optimus' orbital rides wrinkle. "Very little, though I would be happy to learn whatever you wish to share. Why?"

Skyfire hesitates, his field rippling indecision. "I have finely tuned sensors. It's necessary for a xenobiologist prone to interstellar travel. I tend to pick up on things most mechs wouldn't realize."

"Is there something I should be worried about?" Optimus asks.

"I don't know." Skyfire frowns. "I hesitate to cause trouble where there isn't any, but I also know you're a Prime the Senate wouldn't like."

Optimus cycles a ventilation. "Information is the best defense. If you have concerns, I would like to hear them."

"It's not a concern so much as an observation." Skyfire rubs his forehead, his shoulders slumping. "Were you aware Soundwave is hosting two symbiotes?"

Optimus blinks. He knows, of course, that Soundwave is a carrier mech and likely to have them, but Soundwave had not introduced any upon their first meeting, so Optimus assumed he had none.

"I was aware it was a possibility," Optimus says, choosing his words carefully. He doesn't want Skyfire to think he has erred. "There is nothing to be worried about, however. Carriers are quite protective of their symbiotes. I am sure Soundwave will introduce them to everyone soon enough."

Skyfire sags with evident relief. "I've studied a bit about carrier culture. Protective is putting it mildly." He manages a wan smile. "I'm glad I didn't overstep."

"Not at all, I assure you." Optimus returns the smile. "Enjoy the rest of your day, and I will see you at dinner tonight."

"Of course. See you then, Prime."

"Please," Optimus says before Skyfire can close the door, "Call me Optimus."

Skyfire smiles. "I will."

He is, at least, one less mech for Optimus to fret over. The Senate might have intended for Skyfire to become a source of strife, but clearly, they've underestimated both Optimus and Starscream. If anything, Skyfire will be a great support for Optimus.

For now, however, he must find Soundwave. Not because he is upset about the symbiotes, but because he's worried that Soundwave felt the need to conceal them. Who knows what lies the Senate have fed him, or others, to make him think they must be kept secret.

It takes some searching. Soundwave is not in his quarters, the gardens, or the study, despite the latter being the last place Prowl saw him. Neither is he in the training arena observing Ironhide and Sunstreaker's daily spar.

Instead, Optimus finds Soundwave trying to evade a circumstance which would be amusing given any other situation.

"--a maintenance check to everyone here. You're the last on my list," Ratchet is saying as Optimus walks into the clinic, the medic's voice thick with exasperation. "That click I keep hearing in your chassis is driving me nuts."

"Scan not needed," Soundwave insists from the other side of the counter, keeping it between himself and the scanner-wielding medic. "Health optimal."

"Are you a trained medic? Are you hiding a medical degree I don't know about?" Ratchet demands, rolling his optics. "Because if you were, you'd have fixed that hitch in your vents by now."

He lifts the scanner like it’s a weapon, and Soundwave reacts as though he’s been threatened, backing up against the wall, his armor slicking tight to his frame.

Optimus walks between them before this can escalate further, holding up his hands. “Ratchet, I am sure you have the best of intentions, but I suspect I understand why Soundwave is being resistant.”

“I’ve dealt with my fair share of recalcitrant patients. He wouldn’t be the first,” Ratchet drawls, but he lowers the scanner.

Optimus turns his attention toward Soundwave, who is eying the open doorway. “You have precious cargo,” he says. “You fear if Ratchet knows, then I will as well, and you will be forced to send them away, or worse, see harm befall them. Correct?”

“Them?” Ratchet echoes before he lightly hits his forehead with his palm. “Of course the fragging carrier came with symbiotes. You could’ve just said so, damn it.”

“He was not sure he would be allowed to host them,” Optimus says, half to Ratchet, but to Soundwave as well. “Am I correct?”

Soundwave doesn’t move, but he jerks his head in a nod. “Affirmative.”

The scanner clatters to the countertop. “No wonder I’ve been hearing odd noises in your chassis. They’re probably ten kinds of uncomfortable in there. Do you even let them out?”

Soundwave’s visor dims. “Rarely.”

“They must be going crazy,” Ratchet grumbles, and he scrubs his forehead harder. “Primus save me from complicated political nonsense and their consequences. I need a drink.”

“Now might be a good time to retrieve one,” Optimus suggests gently.

“Yeah, because you probably want to talk about this I bet.” Ratchet waves a dismissing hand. “Fine, fine. I’ll go get that drink. But no touching anything. This is my domain, you get me?” He gestures to the entire clinic at large.

“I promise,” Optimus says, amused.

Soundwave jerks his head in a nod.

“Good.” Ratchet pauses by Optimus on his way out, leaning in to say, “When I come back, you and I need to talk, too. We only have so much time, and I’d rather get this taken care of sooner rather than later.”

Optimus furrows his ridge. “This?”

Ratchet gives him a wry look. “This,” he confirms, and taps Optimus’ chassis with his knuckle, right over his central seam. “I know Hot Rod already got his. My turn’s next.”

“We can discuss that later,” Optimus says, heat stealing into his cheeks. Why does he have so many bold Consorts?

Ratchet barks a laugh, and then he’s gone, leaving Soundwave and Optimus in the clinic, the door shut behind him to offer them a bit of privacy.

“May I meet them?” Optimus asks once the silence has grown stale. “I promise I intend them no harm, only that they are important to you, and so I would like to know them.”

There’s a pause before Soundwave pushes off the wall and his dock clicks open, two cassettes popping out and unfolding into smaller Cybertronians -- symbiotes. One is a black-armored feline, the other a red-armored flyer. They perch on the desk between Optimus and Soundwave, eyeing him with evident wariness.

“I am Optimus Prime,” Optimus says, trying for his gentlest smile. “It is a pleasure to meet both of you. Might I have your designations?”

The flyer hops forward, cocking their head to the side. “I’m Laserbeak,” they chirp and tilt their head toward the feline. “He’s Ravage.”

“I can introduce myself, ‘Beak,” says Ravage with a chuffed vent. He sits on his haunches, and his amber gaze seems to cut through Optimus. “Don’t mind her. She hasn’t met a mech she doesn’t think is a friend.”

“I would like to be a friend,” Optimus says, addressing both of them rather than Soundwave. He knows how most of Cybertron would treat symbiotes, as if they aren’t thinking beings in their own right, but Optimus knows better. “I know how important the relationship between a cassette and their carrier is. I would not think to supplant or prevent it. In fact, I will do whatever it takes to ensure the three of you can remain together.”

“The Senate may not approve,” says Ravage.

Optimus inclines his head in acknowledgment. “They may not, but it is one of many things for which I am willing to fight, and I know my approval will supersede their censure for this.”

Laserbeak hops closer to the edge of the desk, her head tilted. “You’re a good mech,” she says. “I can tell. Soundwave can tell, too. He just didn’t want to believe it.”

Ravage hisses at her. Soundwave shifts, moving closer to the desk, making gestures as though trying to urge her back into his chassis, but she ignores both of them.

“He was worried you’d make us go away, or someone would hurt us,” Laserbeak continues, shoulders strong and brave. “Soundwave protects us, and we protect him. That’s what it means to be what we are.”

Optimus lowers himself down to one knee so that he is not looming over both symbiotes, putting them at the same optic-level. “You will not be separated so long as I have any power in me.”

Laserbeak’s field pushes at his, like it’s trying to peel beneath the layers. “I believe you,” she says before turning her head at what would be an awkward angle to a bipedal mech. “Listen to him, Rav. Really listen. Not just with your audials.”

“I’ve been listening. I’ve heard pretty lies before,” Ravage says, and his voice gives nothing away, not disinterest or anger or confidence. “We’ll see what he actually does.”

Soundwave moves even closer, his dock popping open. “Come,” he says, gesturing to them once more.

“See? Even now he’s worried,” Laserbeak says with a roll of her optics and a flicker of amusement in her field. “He’ll get over it. I hope I get to see you again, Optimus.”

“You as well. It was nice meeting both of you,” Optimus says.

Ravage gives him a long, searching look. “I’ll be watching,” he says.

They return to Soundwave’s dock, folding into their cassette mode, and Soundwave doesn’t look relaxed until his dock closes with a quiet click. His visor goes briefly dim, as though he’s communicating with them, and then he looks at Optimus.

“Secret maintained. Punishment deserved?” he asks.

“Of course not.” Optimus rises back to his full height. “You were protecting your family. If you wish for me to keep this secret, I will do so. You should tell the others in your own time.”

“Understood.” Soundwave’s armor loosens a few degrees, ease filtering through his field. “Generosity appreciated.”

“It is common decency, Soundwave.” Optimus gentles his tone. “I cannot begin to understand what sparkache you bring with you, but I intend to never add to that burden.”

Soundwave nods once. “Time will tell.” At last, he seems the most relaxed he has ever been in Optimus’ presence. Perhaps not to the same degree as Hot Rod, but Optimus’ own armor loosens, as if he’s been echoing Soundwave’s tension.

“It will.” Optimus retreats a step, if only to give Soundwave some space. “Shall I send Ratchet back to you? Let him fix whatever odd rattle has him so riled?”

Amusement bubbles up in Soundwave’s field before it softens again. “Affirmative. Care appreciated.”

“You’re welcome.”

Optimus departs, feeling as though he’s tallied two victories today. He’s on the road to making an ally of Soundwave, and Skyfire seems already to be in his corner.

If he can have a congenial conversation with Ratchet, it will be quite the successful day.

It’s not Ratchet he finds when he goes looking, however, but Prowl, who intercepts Optimus on his way to the kitchens. The former Enforcer’s expression is one of determination, his hands clasped behind his back, and his sensory panels held at attention.

“Are you busy, Optimus?” Prowl asks.

“I was only looking for Ratchet, but I suspect he’ll find his way back to the clinic whether I find him or not,” Optimus says. “Is something wrong?”

"No. I only wanted to speak with you regarding our circumstances," Prowl says, every inch of his posture and his tone ringing with formality. "There are certain expectations of us that I would like to see fulfilled."

Ah.

Optimus finds himself straightening, echoing Prowl’s frame language, and it isn’t until this moment that he realizes he does such a thing often. Perhaps it is a side benefit of the Matrix?

Something to explore later.

"I understand." Optimus gestures to the corridor before them. "Wherever you would feel more comfortable, lead the way."

"My quarters are fine." Prowl falls in step beside Optimus, hands still tucked behind his back. "I have done my research, and had several conversations, and spent a lot of time considering the facts. I've come to the conclusion that you are the leadership Cybertron has needed for a long time."

Pride warms Optimus' spark, though he measures his reply. "Thank you. I appreciate your confidence in me. I hope I do not disappoint."

"With my help, you won't," Prowl says, a statement of fact rather than an assertion of belief. His confidence is reassuring. "I think if we work together, we can effect the change Cybertron needs."

Optimus nods. "I believe that as well."

Prowl gives him a wry look. "And if I am beside you, I can keep an optic on you, to ensure you don't stray." He pauses in front of his door and looks up at Optimus, jaw set. "Make no mistake, Optimus Prime. This is a tentative trust, one which may eventually grow into a friendship."

"That is my hope. I shall do my best to be worthy of it," Optimus says. "Thank you for allowing me a chance to prove my intentions."

"I think we're all making the best of an impossible situation," Prowl says. He pauses a moment as if restructuring his thoughts before adding, “I feel I should apologize for my behavior last night.”

“Toward Starscream, you mean?”

Prowl flinches almost imperceptibly. “I have had my fill of mechs seeking to trample others for a small taste of power. I was worried for Hot Rod, but my assumption was built on a baseless rumor. I could have found a more tactful way to express my concern.”

“I agree you could have been a touch more graceful, but there’s something to be said for clearing the air of misconceptions,” Optimus says. It’s a thin line to tread, hoping to maintain peace between his Consorts, but also, not come across as an authoritative figure. “I do appreciate you looking out for Hot Rod.”

“He’s the one who worries me the most, from a political standpoint. He’s charming, but potentially a liability,” Prowl says with a quiet sigh. “If there’s a weakness in your support, rest assured your enemies will find it.”

Optimus makes a non-committal noise. “I think he will come to surprise you.”

“I certainly hope so.” Prowl lifts his chin and squares his shoulders. “In any case, I wanted to get that apology out of the way before we move into the next stage of our relationship.”

Optimus glances at the door to Prowl’s hab-suite. “You mean the spark bond.”

The smile Prowl gives him is wry. “It’s required of us, isn’t it?” He turns, keying the door to his quarters open, inviting Optimus with a gesture. “Shall we?”

Well.

It is much better to be invited than to request.

Optimus steps inside.

Chapter Text

“You look pleased. Care to share why?” Ultra Magnus asks as he leans in toward Optimus, the soft comment hidden to the overall chatter at the dinner table.

Optimus lifts a glass of engex and sips it, feigning nonchalance. “I completed my spark bond with Prowl earlier today,” he says, behind the glass. “And judging by the looks Ratchet’s giving me, I’m likely to connect with him as well.”

Ultra Magnus’ orbital ridges lift. “So soon? I’m impressed by your diplomacy, Optimus.”

“I relied on their practicality. I don’t know if it’s really diplomacy,” Optimus says with a little laugh. “One might even call it manipulation.”

“Playing to your strengths and their interests is hardly manipulation,” Ultra Magnus says with a snort. “It’s called negotiation. There’s a difference. I’m sure both of them would agree. Neither seem the type easily manipulated.”

He has a point. Prowl is far too keen, and would read through double-speech in a sparkbeat. Ratchet wouldn’t stand for it either, because if there’s one thing Ratchet does not do, it’s hold his glossa. He speaks his mind without an ounce of tact.

“Fair,” Optimus says. He lowers his glass, grabs one of the treats from the tray Hot Rod has passed around -- his second batch of experiments. “I spoke with Soundwave as well. I’ve left it up to him to tell the others, but pretend to be surprised when you learn he has two symbiotes with him.”

“Frankly, I’d be more surprised if he didn’t,” Ultra Magnus murmurs, and he slants a look at Soundwave, sitting quietly between Skyfire and Prowl, contemplative and focused on his meal. “If he introduced you to them, there’s a fair chance he is beginning to trust you.”

“I hope so,” Optimus sighs.

“As do I.” Ultra Magnus drags a decanter closer, refilling his own glass and topping off Optimus’. “We’re at the halfway point, Optimus. I know you want to do this on their terms, but the closer we get to the departure date, the less anyone will have a choice about it.”

Optimus pushes the glass further away, the taste souring. “I know.”

Ultra Magnus’ field touches his, gentle with understanding and sympathy. “It’s not a position I envy you for, but take spark. The atmosphere tonight is better than it was at the beginning. Clearly, you’re doing something right.”

Again, Magnus has a point.

Optimus looks around and sees Jazz in deep, playful conversation with Hot Rod, over their recent race apparently, while Soundwave and Skyfire have struck up a quiet exchange. Starscream and Skyfire steal glances at one another but Starscream is also deep in heavy debate with Prowl and Ratchet. Ironhide’s regaling Sunstreaker with some story or another, and while Sunstreaker looks bored, he isn’t missing a single word of the tale either.

They are getting along in a way which seemed impossible based on that first night. Perhaps they are not ready to call each other friend but there is a path to it here.

“Truly it is only Jazz who remains the most elusive. I feel I have a handle on what everyone else desires from me,” Optimus says. "Meanwhile, I'm still not convinced I've actually met Jazz, just the persona he wants to show me."

Ultra Magnus frowns. "It may be that you won't ever truly know him. At least, not before the bond must be completed."

"I fear you're right." Optimus sighs and drags his engex back into reach, taking a long sip of it. Engex does not affect him as strongly as it used to, thanks to his upgrade and the Matrix he assumes.

How unfortunate.

"Perhaps one of the others will form a strong connection to him at least," Optimus murmurs. It is his greatest hope that all of the Consorts will get along by the time they return to Iacon, perhaps even form friendships.

If, over time, more should develop, Optimus would be in support of that as well. He knows he'll love them all eventually, in his own way, but romantic feelings may never develop. They are political bonds, after all. Optimus won't begrudge them finding love amongst each other. In fact, he'd encourage it.

"Move over, kid. I need to borrow this chair for a second." Ratchet's gruff voice catches Optimus' attention, and he turns to see Hot Rod grumbling as he gets up, and Ratchet sinking into the chair on Optimus' left.

"Evening, Ratchet," Optimus says, and knows he failed to conceal his amusement when Ratchet gives him a wry look. "I apologize for missing our conversation earlier. I was intercepted by Prowl."

"Yeah, I can tell." Ratchet raises his orbital ridges, but his mouth is pulled in a sardonic grin. "Can't hide much from an old medic with over-powered passive sensors."

"Ah. I see." Optimus takes another drink, though it doesn't do much for him. He's not embarrassed, per se, he simply wasn't expecting it.

Ratchet sits back in the chair, the perfect picture of ease. "So if you're not too exhausted from that, what say you and I get our turn over with, hm?"

It's not a ringing endorsement, but Optimus supposes it is the best either of them can hope for in the immediate present. They are still but strangers, for all that they've had a few conversations. Trust and genuine affection will have to come later.

"I feel well enough. I am assuming your scans tell you the same," Optimus says. "I hate to be trite but... your quarters or mine?"

Ratchet snorts, his field brimming with amusement. "Your berth is bigger, isn't it?"

"Technically, Skyfire has the largest, but likely so, yes." Optimus gives Ratchet a long look. "Are you sure you will be comfortable there?"

Ratchet stands, stretching his arms over his head, cables creaking from the action. "I'll have to get used to it eventually, right?"

Optimus frowns. "No. This need only be a one-time occurrence unless you choose otherwise."

"And that's why I'll be comfortable." Ratchet grins, razor-sharp and keen.

Ah. A test then.

Optimus stands as well, though he turns and briefly leans in to Ultra Magnus, "I will see you tomorrow, my friend. Duty calls."

"Good luck."

He'll need it.

Optimus steps away from the table, Ratchet already several steps ahead of him. "Good night, everyone," he says. "I will see you all throughout the day tomorrow."

More than a few keen pairs of optics follow him out, though no one is bold enough to comment. Starscream might have, were he not distracted by the glances he and Skyfire continue to non-subtly exchange. The two of them are, for the moment, more interesting than Optimus and Ratchet leaving together.

"You asked me what I wanted," Ratchet says once they are in the relative privacy of the corridor. "Well, I want to keep being a medic, and I want to keep working in my clinic. If you don't deny me those things, then you won't have any problems from me."

Optimus nods. "Understood. I would not refuse you either, and if I can help at all with the clinic, let me know." He pauses to cycle a ventilation. "Protocol will require you reside with me in Iacon, but I will ensure you can spend as much time as possible at the clinic."

Ratchet waves him off. "Yeah, yeah. I know there are things out of both of our control. I'm only worried about the things you can do. Got me?"

"Completely."

"Good. So long as that's clear." Ratchet rubs a hand around his face and sighs. "I'm not thrilled I have to bond with pretty much a stranger, but it's not really your fault either, so I won't hold it against you."

“I appreciate it,” Optimus says.

Optimus pauses outside his habsuite. "This is a bond of political convenience. I will not begrudge you seeking true affection in another."

"I'm an old mech, Optimus," Ratchet says with a wry grin. "Political bonds are just about all I have to look forward to." He tilts his head toward the door. "Gonna let me in?"

Optimus keys in the code, the door sliding open as Ratchet precedes him inside. "I do think you underestimate your appeal. If we had met under better circumstances, I might well have been naturally drawn to you."

"You don't have to flatter me. I'm already where you want me." Ratchet chuckles. "Look, I've seen how you've treated everyone so far. Hot Rod sings your praises, and Prowl has already given you his trust. That's enough to convince me." He perches on the berth without hesitation.

Perhaps with time, Ratchet will understand how sincerely Optimus finds him appealing. He suspects there is a deeper reason for Ratchet's dismissal of it, rather than the standard distrust of someone who is a relative stranger.

"I hope to be worthy of that trust," Optimus says.

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge and pats the berth beside him. "You can start by sitting next to me. We're gonna need to be a little closer to bond, you know. I promise I don't bite." He playfully bares his denta.

Optimus chuckles, tension bleeding out of him. He's so worried about offending or hurting the Consorts, it has made him overly tentative.

He sits. "Biting is indeed something that should be saved for much later," Optimus says, and Ratchet's chuckle deepens into a laugh, his field ripe with amusement.

"I knew there was more beneath the poise," he says. "It might help, you know, if you're a little more yourself around us."

"I will keep that in mind," Optimus murmurs and offers Ratchet something of a wry grin. “I admit, I was awkward with social interaction as a data clerk, and the Matrix did not equip me for societal niceties like it should have.”

Ratchet tilts his head. “So you defaulted to stiff formality?”

Optimus vents a quiet laugh. “It seemed prudent given the new responsibilities on my shoulders. I did not know what would earn me respect and what would cause ridicule.”

“Having that thing inside you doesn’t help either.” Ratchet hums thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “It changed more than your frame, I’d wager.”

Given that he often refers to the mech he was as “Orion Pax” as though they are two entirely separate persons, yes, Ratchet is quite right.

“I was gifted with a new name, true,” Optimus says, quietly cycling a few ventilations. “It did not tell me how to draw the line between Prime and Optimus or if I even needed to draw a line, say nothing of where Orion Pax exists, if he does at all.”

Ratchet’s field brushes against his, and the way it yields to Optimus speaks more than all of their interactions. “If you ask me, we’d like to see a bit of Orion Pax and Optimus. Save Prime for the Senate, yeah?”

The Matrix hums in Optimus’ chassis, and he can only assume it is a sort of approval. “Yes,” Optimus says. “I will certainly try.”

“Good.” Ratchet's lips quirk in a grin and he gently taps Optimus' central seam. "So are you going to open up and show me what you got, or am I going to have to work harder to seduce you?”

Optimus laughs for what feels like the first genuine time since he’d taken the Matrix. “Consider me seduced.”

Optimus wakes to a knee in his abdomen and a grunted apology as Ratchet climbs over him and stumbles for the door.

"Not ready to be the source of gossip yet," Ratchet mutters as he blows a kiss over his shoulder. "See you later."

Optimus waves him off, still disorientated from the abrupt wake-up, and rolls over on his other side. The fatigue has a stronger pull than he's used to, and he falls back into recharge, only surging back online when his alarm chimes a reminder to meet with Ironhide for his daily training.

He still wakes groggy, like he’s having a hard time coming online, and wonders if having a fourth bond settle into place might be to blame. He’s a Prime, his spark augmented by the Matrix, but he is also expected to bond with the highest number of Consorts in history. Can his spark support that many bonds, no matter how tertiary they are?

It’s a question he supposes he’ll have to ask Ratchet. Too bad his berthmate has already escaped, despite spending quite the pleasant night in Optimus’ berth. Unlike Prowl, Ratchet had wanted to stay beyond the bond, just to “see what else Optimus has to offer”.

Cheeky medic.

Optimus’ lips curve in a smile. Yes, Ratchet is quite appealing, different in how Hot Rod is appealing, but Optimus appreciates them for their differences.

He drags himself out of the berth, and indulges in a cursory rinse in the private washrack. No point in polishing up if Ironhide is going to leave him covered in dents and scratches. He’s a relentless teacher, insisting Optimus learn to defend himself from all manner of threats.

Optimus appreciates it as much as he’s beginning to loathe it. Never has he ached so much from physical exertion. The newly upgraded shape of him can only do so much.

He reads the daily news over a cube of midgrade, and checks his very limited message account. The last he’d received had been his notification of Skyfire’s arrival. He doesn’t expect there to be anything further, but he’s pleasantly surprised to find a message waiting for him.

It’s a notification, and brief for all that, but it’s good news. Chromia has accepted the position as captain of his Primal Guard, and will meet Optimus upon his return to Iacon. She’s already on her way there to start hand-selecting members to serve in the Guard, which is standard procedure according to Optimus’ research. The safety of the Prime is paramount.

He must inform Ironhide.

Optimus saves a copy of the notification to an external datapad and makes his way to the training pit on the eastern side of the grounds. To get there, he must pass by the sitting room, and voices float out to him from the open doorway. Normally, Optimus would pay this little mind, but it’s early, and one of the voices has Starscream’s distinct… pitch.

He pauses just before the threshold and peeks inside, both of his orbital ridges climbing upward when he sees Skyfire’s broad form, his wings pointed toward the doorway. He can’t see Starscream, who must be seated across from Skyfire, but he can hear the Seeker speaking. They are using low tones, and were Optimus not augmented by the Matrix, he might have never heard them at all.

“--scientist not a politician. I don’t know how to play the game,” Skyfire says quietly. “Nevertheless, I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be so manipulated, and yet, here I am, manipulated once more.”

“We both were and are,” Starscream replies, and his tone is bitter. Hurt. “But I shouldn’t have blamed you for things that weren’t your fault. I was the one who raged. I shouldn’t have tried to turn you into a soldier in my private war.”

Skyfire sighs, and his wings droop. “I would have gladly fought at your side, but I never understood the battle, Star.” Optimus catches a whiff of the shame in Skyfire’s field. “I think a part of me didn’t want to see it.”

Optimus steps back from the doorway, deliberately turning his attention away from the intimate conversation. This is not his to know. They are having the conversation everyone knows they need to have, and it doesn’t seem to be getting heated or violent.

If they want to share the particulars of their pain with him, they are welcome to do so, but Optimus won’t betray their trust by listening further. Hopefully, their discussion will remain amicable and productive. He hopes everyone else will show them the same respect by keeping their distance and not interrupting.

Optimus leaves them to their conversation, buoyed by the forward strides being made all around the estate. His relationships with various Consorts are improving, they are forming friendships among one another, and animosities are being set aside.

The Senate will be out of their processors with frustration as soon as they realize their carefully constructed machinations have failed.

A nearby door slides open, startling Optimus from his thoughts. He turns to look, and his optics widen in surprise as Ironhide steps out of the larger, communal washrack, a billow of steam accompanying him. His dark armor fairly glistens as he distractedly rubs a meshcloth over his head, but he notices Optimus immediately and breaks into a huge grin.

Optimus swallows over a lump in his intake and is ever grateful for the extra boost in self-control the Matrix has given him because there is something monumentally attractive about a recently cleaned and polished Ironhide. Sunstreaker must have tackled the older mech at some point as well, because the black of his armor is so lustrous it has a pearlescent sheen.

“Ya look exhausted, Prime,” Ironhide says, waggling his orbital ridges. “Can’t keep up with the rustbucket?”

Optimus cycles his optics for a moment of control and quietly chuckles. “The gentle ribbing between yourself and Ratchet will never cease to amuse me, Ironhide.”

“Notice you’re avoiding the question.” Ironhide slings the meshcloth over his shoulders and squints at Optimus, the scar bisecting his left optic only adding to his appeal. “Do ya need an acid raincheck on training this morning?”

“Would you think less of me if I said the answer was yes?” Optimus asks. He’s more than a little exhausted. Is it too much to ask for a day’s reprieve?

Ironhide tosses his head back and laughs. “I’ll let ya slide just this once, but I won’t be so easy on you tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” Optimus says, and thinks of the datapad tucked in his subspace. “In lieu of training, perhaps we can talk? There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

Ironhide cocks his head to the side. “That sounds formal for a friendly chat. Am I gonna like what you got to say?”

“I hope so,” Optimus says.

Ironhide shrugs and wraps his hands around the ends of the meshcloth, tilting his head toward the corridor. “Let’s take a walk. You need to work out the kinks the old mech left ya with.”

“I will refrain from discussing any kinks I might still have,” Optimus says, and inwardly preens when Ironhide chuckles.

Optimus follows Ironhide out the door and onto one of the various paved paths around the estate, all designed for the casual stroll.

“So,” Ironhide says, “What do ya want to talk about? And don’t bother with any of that political double-speak. Say it like it is, Prime.”

“Very well.” Optimus produces the datapad from his subspace and hands it over. “Chromia has agreed to be Captain of the Primal Guard. By the time we return to Iacon, she will be waiting for us.”

Ironhide stares at him, stopping in his tracks. “I… seriously?” He takes the datapad with something like awe in his expression.

“Her acceptance letter is there.” Optimus points to the datapad. “I meant it when I said I would like for you to be together in whatever capacity I can manage. Once you and I have completed our political bond, there is nothing to stop you and Chromia from pursuing your conjunx bond.”

“You’re serious,” Ironhide says, still staring. He has yet to power on the datapad, but his grip on it makes the device creak.

Optimus tucks his hands behind his back and cycles a ventilation. “I am. I want everyone to be happy as best they can, and for you, that means being able to be with Chromia.”

“Transfers like this don’t happen overnight,” Ironhide says, giving the datapad a shake. “You were considering Chromia before you knew I’d be your Consort. What kind of coincidence is that?”

“A fortuitous one.” Optimus briefly scrubs his forehead as he admits, “I also suspect the Senate was aware of my interest in Chromia and thought it would cause strife to have you as a Nominate by assuming I was the sort of mech to be possessive of my Consorts.”

Ironhide snorts. “That you aren’t puts you in the minority, Prime. You do realize that pretty much every other Prime in history would’ve cut off their own hand before they considered sharing their cohort with anyone, right?”

“I am aware,” Optimus concedes. “I do not intend to be like any Prime before me. Perhaps it’s because I am of a different stock than my predecessors, and I come with a unique perspective. I don’t know why the Matrix chose me, but I intend to do right by that choice.”

Ironhide eyes him. “And you have Ultra Magnus to set ya right if ya start to veer off course.”

Optimus manages a faint smile. “I am ever grateful he volunteered to take on that burden.” He pauses, humor dimmed by the decades upon centuries of historical research in his memory. “Power corrupts. I know I’m not immune to it, so as a precaution, I intend to surround myself with mechs who will temper me.”

Ironhide turns the datapad over in his hands, still without turning it on. “Prowl tells me yer a mech we can trust. Ratchet seems to think so, too. And now this?” He taps the datapad’s screen before looking up, meeting Optimus’ gaze. “I think I can get behind ya, too.”

“I appreciate it.” Optimus settles more comfortably in his frame, letting his armor loosen. “I hope I can rely on all three of you to keep me on the right path.”

Ironhide snorts. “Oh, there’s no worry of that. I’ll put you in yer place if ya even think about becomin’ another Nova.”

“Good.”

“That bein’ said…” Ironhide tucks the datapad into his subspace and plants his hands on his hips, giving Optimus a rakish grin. “We gotta get that bond out of the way eventually, right? So I’m claimin’ ya tonight. Make ya forget all about that rustbucket of a medic.”

Optimus chuckles. “I think your playful rivalry with Ratchet is going to be an endless source of amusement for me. Thank you, Ironhide.”

“Weird thing to be thanked for, but you’re just weird, I’m noticin’,” Ironhide says with a shrug. His grin widens. “I’ll see you tonight then, Optimus. I’m lettin’ you off the hook for trainin’, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be lazy.”

“Fair enough.”

Optimus watches Ironhide go, amusement tugging at his lips. Relief at yet another success lightens the heaviness in his spark. It’s enough to embolden him toward the most complicated designation on his list.

Reluctance initially stays his feet. He stands on the path, soaking up the quiet solitude, and bracing himself for the complicated conversation to come.

Jazz will remain his most challenging Consort yet, but it is a challenge Optimus must meet, so he sets out in search of the elusive musician. The one thing he knows for certain is that Jazz tends to seek out places of solitude, places the other Consorts don’t frequent. The roof is the first obvious choice, but Optimus would rather save said climb for last.

He follows the path back to the east door when his audials catch the distant strains of music. They seem to be coming from his left, so Optimus stays on the pathway, following it around the western corner of the manor, toward the crystal gardens.

If there is a place one might find solitude, the gardens would suit. They are massive, and cover a large acreage of the grounds. They’d been sown by Solus Prime, if Optimus remembers correctly, and each Prime thereafter has brought new crystals, turning the garden into a riot of color. Optimus regrets not having any on hand to add, but he supposes he can always return later and do so.

The music is lovely, but no tune Optimus is familiar with. It sounds improvised, as though the musician is trying something new to discover the best sound. It is how he finds Jazz, sitting near the center of the gardens, not on the bench but on the ground, quietly strumming a small vibro-guitar.

Optimus approaches at an angle, but he’s quite sure Jazz has been aware of him for quite some time. Nevertheless, Jazz performs a believable startle when Optimus steps into view, and gives Optimus a sunny smile.

“Hiya, Optimus,” Jazz says with a cheerful strum of his fingers across the vibrant strings. “Want to join me for a private performance?” He waggles his orbital ridges.

Optimus sighs.

“Are you not tired of this?” He sits on the nearby bench, not within reach of Jazz. “These games?”

Jazz tilts his head, still idly playing, though much quieter now. “Games?” he echoes, and his smile doesn’t falter. “I don’t know whatcha mean, Optimus. This is who I am, down to the very spark of me.” He grins, and it doesn’t reach his visor.

“The only one who genuinely wants to be here is Hot Rod,” Optimus leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. “He can’t lie to save his spark, and I’m grateful for that. You, however, I suspect are so good at lying that you have almost convinced yourself it is the truth.”

Jazz hums and looks down at his instrument, gently plucking one string after the other, like a warm-up scale. “That so?” His voice is light, unoffended.

It’s as false as the persona he continues to offer.

Optimus rubs his forehead before he continues, “It should not surprise you that I researched all of my Consorts before departing for the estate. I wanted to know what to expect from the Senate’s machinations.”

“All the better to get to know us!” Jazz chirps and flashes another blinding smile, his frame leaning forward. His voice lowers as if conspiratorial. “I’m curious whatcha found on me. How charming do they say I am, hm?”

“Your file painted a very pretty picture,” Optimus concedes as Jazz preens. “You are an exceptionally talented musician. You are quite beautiful. You have a lot of friends, and you are charming. You are, in effect, the perfect Consort.”

Jazz chuckles, and a faint color tints his cheeks. “Aww, Optimus. You’re such a charmer. You know you don’t have to flatter your way into my berth.” He strums the guitar faster, no longer a series of scales, but an upbeat song now. “All you have to do is ask.”

Optimus tilts his head. “If I thought asking would get me genuine consent, I would have done it already.”

“Since when does ‘yes’ mean anything less?”

“When it is under coercion.” Optimus rubs his left thumb along the palm of his right hand, watching Jazz carefully for any tells. “I am under no illusions about the motivations behind most of my Consorts. This is making the best of a situation out of our control. I can talk about consent and willingness all I want, but the truth is, there is the idea of privilege being attached to those who come to my berth.”

Which still makes genuine consent a question. If those who refuse are worried that they will lose Optimus’ friendship or favor, they may pretend to be willing so they don’t lose their position and protection. Or they may feel obligated to please Optimus for fear of the consequences otherwise, and hide that fear behind a false-consent.

It is Optimus’ greatest fear that any of his Consorts would come to him willingly, while secretly loathing their time in his berth.

Jazz tilts his head. “Huh. Then I guess you’ll never really know if any of us are there because we wanna be.” He pauses and strums one last time. “Well, except the kid. Hot Rod genuinely worships the ground you walk on.” He leans over to put the guitar to rest in the case at his side.

“And you?”

Jazz stands, performing an elaborate stretch that highlights his flexibility and the polished lines of his frame. He gleams in the false-light, and while it’s not quite a Sunstreaker-level sheen, it’s clear he’s been making an effort to keep up his appeal. He is quite alluring, but Optimus knows enough to recognize when he’s being manipulated.

“Me?” Jazz tilts his head and stares up at the sky. “I am Jazz, Consort to the Prime, and I’m lucky to be invited into his berth. I mean, Optimus is handsome, and kind as far as I can tell, and probably sincere if I’m lucky.” Jazz looks at him then, lips twisted in a wry smile. “At least he’s not Zeta.”

A chill races through Optimus’ spark. Zeta’s cruelty is a well-known secret. There are no official records of Zeta’s misdeeds, because a Prime can ensure such things are not kept, but the rumors are plenty. Rumors, even, that his death had been no accident, but the machination of Consorts unwilling to endure his abuse any longer.

Perhaps mentioning Zeta is Jazz’s way of warning Optimus.

“I am sorry,” Optimus says, bowing his head a few degrees. “If it were in my power to release every one of you, I would.”

Jazz shrugs, waving a hand through the air. “Don’t hang too heavy on that guilt, Optimus.” He moves closer, gives Optimus a distant pat on the shoulder. “We’re all prisoners.”

“Yet, I am the one with the power,” Optimus argues.

Jazz’s visor flashes in a wink as he turns back and picks up his instrument, slinging the case over his shoulder. “Damn it,” he says, but he’s not looking at Optimus, he’s looking off into the distance. “You just have to be nice, don’t you? They’re going to eat you alive.”

“Let us hope that is not the case,” Optimus says.

He watches Jazz go, vanishing deeper into the crystal gardens, whistling as he does. For once, Optimus feels more settled after a conversation with Jazz. He thinks he might have made some progress, caught a glimpse of the mech behind the mask.

There may be hope for them yet.

Optimus lingers in the crystal gardens for a while longer, enjoying the peace, the soft chiming of the crystals as they bump and jostle in a faint breeze. He thinks about what he’d like to contribute, one of the lesser grown strains of altaite for example.

Distantly, music starts up again, Jazz perhaps seeking peace of his own.

Times like these, Orion Pax would have buried himself in the archives, deep in the darker, dustier sections where few cared to look. There he could have distracted himself with unchronicled truths and historical accounts, and lost himself in times gone past. He would not have been disturbed.

Optimus Prime has no such recourse. Especially here at the Prime Estate.

The closest he can manage is the on-site library. It is better than nothing, so Optimus rises from the bench and makes his way inside, Jazz’s music following until the door closes behind him.

He passes Hot Rod in the kitchens once again, alone this time, frowning as he stares at the oven as though it will bake his treats faster. He spies Prowl in the sunroom, bent over a datapad, face pinched with contemplation. But it is Skyfire he stumbles upon in the library, the shuttle tucked away in the sciences section, a genuine mound of datapads stacked around him.

His field is the gentlest and most content Optimus has sensed since Skyfire’s arrival. Granted, he has only been here a few days, but a low-grade anxiety had accompanied Skyfire at first, and it is gone now. Perhaps his conversation with Starscream had done much to ease his worries.

“Hello, Optimus.” Skyfire smiles at him. “Looking for something to read?”

“Looking for something familiar. I admit I miss the archives.” Optimus takes a seat near Skyfire, scanning the shelves for something appealing. “How are you today?”

“Better.” Skyfire shifts, resting his hand over the datapad currently in his possession. “Starscream and I cleared the air, so you can stop worrying about that potential issue.”

“I am glad you two are working toward friendship again,” Optimus says. “I am sure it must be a relief to you as well.”

Skyfire rests his knuckles against his chin, wingtips fluttering. “It is. Our friendship was something I treasured, and it broke my spark when it collapsed the way that it did.”

“You do not have to share the details with me. I am relieved you will have each other in these unfortunate circumstances.”

“So am I.” Skyfire smiles, soft and sweet, as if he’s calling on a memory that always sparks joy. “That being said, what were you looking for in here? Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”

Optimus hums and gives another longingly glance to the rows upon rows of datapad, feeling spoiled for choice. “I honestly had nothing in mind. I will take a recommendation if you have one, and if you do not mind the quiet company.”

“I can think of a few.” Skyfire grins and leans over to his own stacks, pondering them. “What genres do you prefer?”

“Honestly, I will read anything.”

Skyfire chuckles. “Oh, don’t tell me that, or I’ll have you reading xenobiologist’s texts just to have someone else to debate with.”

“Interplanetary diplomacy with organic species is probably something I will have to attend in the future. Xenobiology would be a good place to start in my preparations for that,” Optimus says.

“You may regret inviting my babble,” Skyfire teases, but he sits back and digs into his subspace, producing a well-worn datapad. “Here are the first three introductory volumes to the species we are most likely to encounter.”

“Are they your personal copies?” Optimus asks as he accepts the datapads -- much heavier than he anticipates, likely one of the older designs, which are known to be sturdier.

“They are, but I trust you will be respectful with them. It’s in your spark to handle such things with care and respect,” Skyfire points out. He settles into his chair, pulling out his datapad once more. “I also have snacks.”

Optimus chuckles. “You planned your afternoon well.”

“I planned not to leave the library until it was time for the evening refuel,” Skyfire says wryly. His field ripples amusement. “I myself am focusing on historical accounts of the nomenclature behind the surrounding star system.”

Optimus squints at him. “You’re reading mythology regarding the constellations.”

“Yes, I’m reading fictional tales.” Skyfire laughs genuinely, and it is a wonderful sound. His openness is unbelievably charming. “See? I’m not some stodgy scientist alone.”

“I never assumed you were.” Optimus grins and powers on the well-worn datapad. “If you should have any rust sticks, I would not refuse.”

Skyfire holds out a box.

Optimus is polite enough to only take a few.

There’s something to be said for spending an afternoon buried in stacks of information alongside a mech as quiet as yourself. It’s nostalgic, and comforting, and Optimus feels a part of him settle, down to his very spark.

He and Skyfire speak very little, only occasionally commenting to each other about their respective materials. Instead, they sit in a mostly peaceful silence, passing a box of rust sticks back and forth between them.

Time passes too quickly for Optimus’ comfort, an alarm soon chiming to remind him of the lateness of the hour. He sighs and powers down the datapad, stretching to ease the kinks in his frame from being too still.

“It is that time,” he says, reluctantly. “Thank you for loaning this to me. I found it quite fascinating.”

“I am surprised you stuck with it.” Skyfire waves him away. “Keep it. At least until you finish it, I mean. I trust you’ll keep it safe.”

Optimus inclines his head. “Thank you. I will.” He tucks the datapad safely away. He knows all too well the value of a collection of important information. “There is something we should discuss if you have a moment.”

“We’re going to the same place. We have plenty of time,” Skyfire says. He begins making tidier stacks of his accrued datapads. “It sounds serious.”

“Only so much as it needs to be for our circumstances,” Optimus says with a sigh. “Before we return to Iacon, I do need to form a spark bond with each of the Consorts, not dissimilar to an amica bond.

“Ah.” Skyfire nods. “I was aware this was a necessity. It’s not ideal, but you are trapped in this as much as we are. Do not trouble yourself over a requirement we both must meet.”

Optimus’ shoulders sink with relief. “Your understanding is a treasure to me, Skyfire. I appreciate your patience.”

“I suspect few of those here have been so kind,” Skyfire says dryly. “When would you like to complete this?”

“I have prior arrangements tonight, but otherwise, my schedule is open to you,” says Optimus.

Skyfire stands and stretches to ease his own tense cables. “Tomorrow then,” he says. “It’ll be a pleasure to know you better.”

He sounds as if he means it.

“I feel the same way,” Optimus says. “Come. Let us go to dinner.”

Skyfire offers him his elbow. “Shall I escort you, my Prime?”

Optimus chuckles. “I would be honored.”

It’s an old-fashioned style of courting, but Optimus admits, he’s charmed by it. There’s a sense they have genuine affection for each other, rather than the interaction the Senate has forced upon them.

He thanks Primus the Senate had been so short-sighted as to nominate Skyfire.

Starscream seems glad for this as well. The moment they arrive, Skyfire escorts Optimus to his seat, only to take the empty one beside Starscream, the two of them instantly leaning in toward each other with a long-time familiarity. Starscream’s wings twitch cutely, and the small smile on his lips is the most adorable thing Optimus has seen in quite some time. It’s as if all the rough edges have been softened by their reconciliation.

It’s beautiful.

“See? It’s not all terrible endings,” Hot Rod says as he leans in toward Optimus, nudging him gently in the side. “You should cut yourself some slack, Optimus.”

“You’re right.” Optimus favors Hot Rod with a smile. “It also seems I have you to thank. I hear you’ve been championing me to the others.”

Hot Rod beams, his spoiler twitching up and down. “I’m only telling them the truth as I see it. It’s not like I’m lying.”

“I know.” Optimus rests a hand on Hot Rod’s shoulder, letting the outer edges of their fields knit together in a show of affection. “I mean that I appreciate you and all you’re doing for me. It brings me great comfort.”

Hot Rod’s smile grows larger, his face coloring with delight. The urge to sweep him up into a kiss is overwhelming. Optimus restrains himself, but only just.

Hot Rod taps a playful rhythm on Optimus’ chassis. “When this is all over and I can be in your berth whenever you let me, we are going to have so much fun,” he says with a playful wink before he draws back and leaps to his feet. “Alright, my mechs, guess what I found today?”

“Primus,” Ratchet groans, snatching the nearest decanter of engex and pouring himself a liberal glass. “What is it this time, kid?”

“You out of energy, old mech? Not as young as you used to be?” Ironhide teases.

“Shuddup.”

“Go on, Hot Rod,” says Prowl. “We’re listening.”

“Thank you, Prowl.” Hot Rod flashes him a winning smile before he scoots out from the table and fetches a nearby crate. He hefts it up and drops it with a solid thunk on the table, but not before Sunstreaker quickly rescues a tray of treats. “This is full of games we can play.”

“Games?” Skyfire leans forward, intrigue written in the vibrations of his field.

“Yep! Better than sitting around and staring at each other over engex like we always do, right?” Hot Rod peels off the lid, tossing it over his shoulder where it clatters to the ground. “There’s Battlefield and Peril and Syndicate and Fullstasis and some other game that I’ve never heard of, plus a few sets of cards.”

“Battlefield?” Ratchet asks. “Toss me that one, kid. It’s old enough even you should be familiar with it, Ironhide.”

Ironhide rolls his optics, but he clears a space on the table between them. “Bring it, rustbucket. I’ll show you why I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

“What do you say, Skyfire? Would you like to try a round of Fullstasis with me?” Starscream asks, already leaning across the table to dig in the crate himself.

“Sure,” says Skyfire, and soon enough, Hot Rod is distributing games all around the table, with Prowl and Sunstreaker and Soundwave taking part in a rousing battle of Praxus Fold’Em while Ultra Magnus and Optimus invite Hot Rod to join them for a game of Peril.

It is only Jazz who does not join the festivities when normally he would be one of the first to volunteer. He waves off Prowl’s invitation to join their group, offering a wan smile.

“Actually, I’m not feelin’ that great,” he says, holding up his hands as he backs away from the table. “Think I’ll take a rain check on that.”

“What? Not feeling well?” Ratchet leans back in his chair to see around Ironhide’s bulk, eying Jazz suspiciously. “What are your symptoms?”

Jazz waves him off. “Calm down, medic. Think I’m just tired. Didn’t recharge well, you know how it is. Holster your scanner.”

“I haven’t even pulled it out,” Ratchet protests, and lets the chair thunk back into place. “Honestly, the way all of you flee a standard maintenance check is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t insist on bullying mechs into it,” Ironhide points out.

“It’s not bullying to care about someone’s physical welfare,” Ratchet snaps. “Now make your move or consider the game forfeit.”

In the midst of their bickering, Jazz vanishes, escaping the medic’s threatened scan. Optimus frowns, concerned, but knows better than to give Jazz chase. Whatever thoughts occupy Jazz mind, he won’t be comforted by Optimus seeking him out.

“I’ll check on him later, if he’ll let me,” Hot Rod says whilst he contemplates the board in front of him, face pinched with concentration. “If not, I’ll make Soundwave do it. They get along for some weird reason. A mech who talks too much, and a mech who barely talks at all.”

“I suspect it has something to do with their respective backgrounds,” Optimus says. “I appreciate you keeping an optic on him, however. I don’t think he would welcome my concern.”

Hot Rod gives him a keen look. “He would if he thought it was what you wanted.”

“That’s very insightful of you, Hot Rod,” Ultra Magnus says. He doesn’t quite manage to hide the surprise in his voice, though there’s a new respect in the way he looks at their youngest companion. “You are more perceptive than you let on.”

“I volunteered for this, but the Senate would’ve never nominated me if I didn’t have more than a pretty face.” Hot Rod grins and winks. “Promise there’s a bit more up here than baking skills and being cute.” He taps his head for emphasis.

“I am glad you are finally comfortable enough to show it,” Optimus says. “Now I do believe it’s your turn.”

Hot Rod groans and peers at the board. “This is more complicated than it looks.”

“Diplomacy often is,” Optimus says with a laugh.

Amusement is, in fact, what seems to be floating around the common room. Optimus sneaks glances on occasion, pleased to find his Consorts getting along and having fun. There are friendly rivalries of course -- Ratchet and Ironhide have made it into an art -- but for the most part, everyone is having a pleasant time.

“This was a good idea, Hot Rod,” Optimus says as the hours draw later, and they’ve moved on from Peril to Syndicate. Ultra Magnus is currently sweeping the board with them. “I should put you in charge of all activities for the rest of our residence here.”

Hot Rod grins and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I’ll see what I can do, though I don’t think scheduling time in your berth should be my responsibility. I might not be so unselfish if that were the case.”

Ultra Magnus barks a laugh.

Optimus demurely picks up the dice to roll them. “No, perhaps not,” he says.

“Especially since he’s mine tonight,” Ironhide declares his hand lands on Optimus’ right shoulder, his grip firm. He leans in, pressed against Optimus’ back, an appealing, strong heat, and peers over his left shoulder. “This kinda game goes on all night, Prime. Don’t we have an appointment?”

“We do indeed,” Optimus says while Hot Rod gapes. Ultra Magnus takes the opportunity to lean over and the properties from Optimus’ hand.

“I’ll take care of these for you,” he says.

“That’s not fair!” Hot Rod splutters. He lurches across the table, snatching up the fake creds Optimus has accumulated. “I’m claiming these then.”

“It seems I am free of my obligations in this game,” Optimus says. “Ultra Magnus. Hot Rod. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

“Have fun!” Hot Rod chirps.

“Oh, he will,” Ironhide says with more than a little swagger.

“Did you win against Ratchet?” Optimus asks as they make their farewells and slip out of the common room. Ironhide takes the lead, not toward Optimus’ hab, but to the one assigned to Ironhide.

“That depends who you ask,” Ironhide says.

Optimus chuckles. “Fair warning then. If you play against Ultra Magnus, you must be prepared to lose. Repeatedly. Try as we might, neither Hot Rod nor I could emerge victorious.”

“Really?” Ironhide rubs his chin, contemplating. “I’ll have to see about that then. Don’t think I’ve gotten Magnus in the ring yet either. Might be I should do that sooner rather than later.”

“Let me know when you do. I would like to observe,” Optimus says. He pauses outside Ironhide’s door, waiting for him to input the code, but doesn’t yet enter.

Ironhide stands on the threshold and looks at him. “Change your mind? Because I don’t think that’s really an option.”

Optimus shakes his head. “No, I only…” He pauses and cycles a ventilation. “You and Ratchet have something of a rivalry, and while it was his decision to spend the entire night in my berth, I would like you to understand--”

Ironhide grabs his hand and yanks him inside. “You think too much,” he says, as Optimus stumbles into the room, still surprised how well Ironhide can match his strength. “Let’s just get the bond outta the way first, then we’ll see if either of us want to go for more, all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

Ironhide’s still holding his wrist, but it has gentled as he tows Optimus toward the berth. There’s no hesitation, no thinly concealed anger. Beneath the primary waves of his field, there’s acceptance, resignation, but no animosity toward Optimus. The spark merge will inform him better, but as far as Optimus can tell, this is as consensual as either of them can manage.

“There are some things that shouldn’t be a competition,” Ironhide says as he backs Optimus toward the berth and cages him in with brawny arms, the scar over his optic glinting in the overhead light. “But even if it were, we both know I’d win, right?” And he waggles his orbital ridges, confident and teasing, and Optimus’ reservations melt away.

“I suppose there is only one way to find out,” Optimus says.

Ironhide grins.

Chapter Text

“You look tired,” Ultra Magnus murmurs as they sit in the sun room, watching the simulated sun rise over the red-banded arch of simulated mountains.

It had been a brilliant idea, to turn the largest window in the sun room into a holographic display, but there’s a sense of uncanny valley to it. Optimus knows it’s not real, so the view doesn’t settle his spark as much as a real view might.

“It’s difficult,” Optimus admits, only to Ultra Magnus, here in the relative privacy of the early morning. As far as he knows, they are the only ones awake.

“Which part?”

Optimus sighs and rubs along his central seam. “Four spark merges in close succession,” he says. “I know the Matrix is built to support these bonds, but it still takes a toll on my spark.”

“I imagine it does.” Ultra Magnus frowns and leans in, pressing his shoulder to Optimus’, his field warm with comfort. “And worse, we do not have the luxury of time to space them out.”

“Yes.” Optimus swallows another sigh and shutters his optics, absorbing the peace Ultra Magnus offers. “Skyfire has already agreed to seal our bond tonight. That leaves four others to approach.”

Ultra Magnus hums contemplatively. “I would suggest Soundwave or Sunstreaker then. It will hopefully give Starscream and Jazz time to approach you on their own terms.”

“I agree.”

Optimus sips his mid-grade, and puts aside thoughts of his Consorts and their eventual bonding. He allows himself an hour of quiet companionship, a break in the political flood through which he’s been wading. The toll is not only physical.

If this is a small taste of what awaits him when he returns to Iacon and begins to fill his role as Prime, Optimus does not look forward to his future.

Often he wonders what Primus’ plan is to have chosen someone like Orion Pax at all.

The peace cannot last forever. Eventually, Optimus rouses and parts ways with Ultra Magnus, to their respective, self-appointed duties. Optimus has his morning training session with Ironhide, remarkably normal given their activities the night before.

“Y’know as soon as we get back to Iacon, Chromia’s gonna want to train ya, too,” Ironhide says in the aftermath of their daily routines as they share a bottle of coolant between them, and Optimus stretches to ease the ache in his cables.

“She will not consider your training sufficient?” Optimus asks.

Ironhide snorts. “How many times do ya think I’ve beaten her in a fair fight?”

“I suspect the answer is close to zero.”

“And you’d be right.” Ironhide tips the bottle back, taking a healthy swig, before passing it to Optimus. “She’s merciless, too. Just fair warning.”

“I appreciate it.” Optimus takes his own share and returns the bottle to Ironhide so he can finish it. “I only have myself to blame. I wanted the best.”

“You want to stay alive. She’s the best way to do it.” Ironhide grins, beaming with pride over the femme he loves.

Optimus hopes he can find a relationship like theirs some day. Maybe it will be with one of the Consorts. Maybe it will be with someone else. He doesn’t know. But he’d like to imagine he might have a chance in the future.

“I will not discount the invaluable skills you have taught me either.” Optimus straightens, ignoring the creak and crackle of cables and struts stretched to their limits. “Between the both of you, I will be the most trained Prime Cybertron has ever seen.”

“Good. Means you’ll live long enough to enact some of that change you keep talking about,” Ironhide says. He crushes the empty coolant can with a single fist.

The sight of it runs a little shiver down Optimus’ spinal strut. Ironhide is easily one of his strongest Consorts, and Optimus can’t help but find that more than a little appealing. His attraction to Ironhide is not feigned in the slightest.

“That is my hope,” Optimus says. His face flushes so he turns away, only to see Sunstreaker approaching with determination writ across his pretty features.

“Uh oh, here comes trouble,” Ironhide murmurs behind Optimus. “I think he’s got optics on you.”

“So it would appear,” Optimus replies as he tilts his chin and greets Sunstreaker with a smile. “I think you are a little late for the lesson, Sunstreaker, but I am sure Ironhide is willing to linger for more.”

Sunstreaker scowls. “I don’t need training,” he says. “But your paint looks terrible. Did you purposefully frag up the beautiful job I did on it?”

Optimus blinks and glances down at himself. Yes, he’s a little scuffed, and yes, there’s a long mark along his right arm, but that’s the usual wear and tear. There’s nothing outrageous about the state of his paint.

To be fair, Sunstreaker by contrast is gleaming perfection.

Come to think of it, Optimus distinctly recalls seeing a general increase in the appearance of his Consorts. Most of them look freshly painted and detailed, with only the occasional scuff, which never lingers for long. This has to be Sunstreaker’s doing, as no one else has come across as vain enough to consider their paint a priority.

Well, perhaps Starscream and Hot Rod to certain degrees. They cannot match Sunstreaker’s dedication, however.

Is it a kind gesture or does Sunstreaker simply have such high standards, he can’t abide for the mechs around him to be in what he would deem a shoddy state? Or is it an expression of nervous energy? Optimus doesn’t know Sunstreaker well enough to guess.

“I apologize,” Optimus says. “I do not have your talent for maintaining my polish. I did not intend to malign your gift.”

Sunstreaker rolls his optics and locks his fingers around Optimus’ wrist, tugging him forward with an unexpected strength. “Come on. I’m going to fix it.”

Optimus stumbles along in his wake before he gets his feet under him. “I would have come if you had only asked,” he says, waving farewell over his shoulder to a snickering Ironhide.

“This is me asking,” Sunstreaker says as he tows Optimus into the manor and toward his personal quarters, though his pace slows to allow Optimus to walk beside him. Only then does he release his hold on Optimus’ wrist. “I see you’ve already been with Ratchet and Ironhide and... others.”

He can’t read Sunstreaker’s tone, whether it’s judgmental or jealous or something else entirely. Sunstreaker’s field is odd to him as well. It doesn’t flow quite like the others. Perhaps it has something to do with his being a twin.

“I’m required to bond with every Consort before we return to Iacon,” Optimus points out.

“And what if we don’t?” Sunstreaker asks.

Optimus pauses mid-step, and Sunstreaker stops with him, looking up with his jaw set. “What do you mean?”

Sunstreaker folds his arms, setting his stance. “I know what they’re holding over my head, the ones holding my leash anyway. I wanna know what the Senate does if any of us put our feet down and refuse.”

It surprises Optimus that Sunstreaker is the first to ask.

“I will likely have no consequences,” Optimus says after a moment. “I am Prime, and there is no such thing as refusal for me, but if one of my Consorts were to refuse, it would be considered a failure. I may lose credibility on the political stage. My Consorts however…”

“What would they do to us?” Sunstreaker demands.

Optimus scrubs his forehead, venting quietly. “I imagine it is an unpleasant fate. It would be considered akin to treason.” He cycles another ventilation. “And if we do not willingly complete the amica bond, it will be done by force.”

Sunstreaker’s optics widen, his field spiking with alarm. He stumbles, his back hitting the wall. “Force?” He visibly pales.

“It has not been needed before, but I have no doubt they wouldn’t hesitate. We are bonded by rule of law, after all. It is too late,” Optimus says quietly.

“It’s always too late,” Sunstreaker mutters, and his voice is bitter, sharp. “It was too late before the bonding ceremony.” He looks up at Optimus, mouth twisted in a sour grin. “There’s really not much difference between the Senate and a crimelord, is there?”

“Not when it comes to this, no,” Optimus says. His spark aches for Sunstreaker, but they are both trapped by these circumstances. “I promise you, Sunstreaker. I will do anything in my power to free you of your other chains.”

Sunstreaker lifts his chin. “So that you’re the only one holding the yoke?”

“So that when I break the ones compelling us, you will be fully free,” Optimus corrects. “Will you tell me what it is that binds you?”

Indecision wars in Sunstreaker’s face. He abruptly spins on a heel and starts walking again. “Not here,” he says.

"Lead the way."

Sunstreaker takes him not to his own hab-suite, but to Optimus'. He doesn't question it, only keys in the code to allow them entrance. Sunstreaker chooses to sit in the small sitting area, rather than on the berth, and Optimus joins him, seated across to allow the golden mech his space.

"You need say nothing if you do not wish it," Optimus says, but Sunstreaker gives his head a sharp shake.

"I'm telling you because they told me not to," Sunstreaker says, and his jaw is firm, his optics hard and determined. "I'm putting my brother's life in your hands. Understand me?"

"Yes, I do."

"Good." Sunstreaker leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "I'm not going to give you a name, just the circumstances. You'll have to figure out the rest yourself."

Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. "Sunstreaker," he says, gently. "You are stalling. You do not have to--"

"Desperation makes mechs do dangerous things." Sunstreaker cuts him off, speaking to the floor over his clasped, trembling fingers. “Mechs like me and Sideswipe, we don’t have a lot of options, but we were stupid and desperate. We didn’t realize what we were getting into until it was too late. Until they owned us.”

They.

Optimus works his jaw before he finds the words. “There is a slavery ring in the bowels of Tarn.”

“Not just Tarn, but yeah.” Sunstreaker’s fisted hands creak. “We kill ourselves to entertain the rich, and think we’re better for it.” He looks up at Optimus, optics dark and haunted. “Me and Sideswipe were good. We survived. Until we lost, and then, we had a debt.”

“And it so happened there was to be a new Prime, and he would need new Consorts,” Optimus murmurs.

Sunstreaker’s grin is too crooked to be arrogant. “I’m beautiful. The pits told me that often enough. And they wanted a spy. I could’ve said no, but when they hold a knife to your twin’s spark, no isn’t an option.”

It is a unique cruelty to use one’s unconditional love for another as a means to cause harm. Optimus has no doubt that if it had been Sunstreaker’s own spark on the line, he would have never allowed the current circumstances. But for Sideswipe, his twin, likely the only mech he could truly trust…

Anger flushes through Optimus, sharp and vivid. “It is a monstrous thing they have done,” he says, vocals tight, armor drawn taut to his frame. “But then, the Senate is little better, putting mechs here who would have refused if given the option.”

Sunstreaker shrugs. “Cybertron’s rotten. Has been for a while. All of us at the bottom know it. No one else cares.”

Optimus leans forward, resting his hand over the tight knitting of Sunstreaker’s fingers. “I care.”

Bright blue optics look at him. “Maybe you do,” he sighs, shoulders sagging, fingers untangling to grab Optimus’ hand firmly. “I suppose it’s not going to be the worst thing in the world to be bonded to you. I mean, I’ve been bonded to Sideswipe my whole life.”

He snorts, clearly a reference to a private joke between them. The fond affection in his field rises sharply with a deep and urgent longing, likely for his twin.

“Were our circumstances different--”

Sunstreaker squeezes his hand, cuts him off. “Look Prime, I don’t deal in ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’. I deal with what’s in front of me, and we both know neither of us have a choice in this. Stop trying to reassure me so we can handle the reality of it, alright?”

Optimus cycles his optics. “You wish to complete the bond now?”

“Why not? You got something better to do?” Sunstreaker demands, and there it is, his shoulders squared, bravado pulled over him like a mantle.

Optimus lifts a hand, telegraphs the motion, and when Sunstreaker doesn't flinch away, gently touches the mech's cheek. "I wish matters could be different," he murmurs. "You deserve better than these circumstances."

"You don't know what I deserve," Sunstreaker says, but his voice softens. "Thanks for saying it anyway."

"I know that a mech deserves to be free," Optimus counters, but doesn't push the point. "If you feel you are ready, we can complete the bond now." He and Skyfire had not set a time, after all, so there's no harm in waiting until tonight.

Sunstreaker snorts. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be." He leans back, Optimus' hand slipping from his face. "Just so you know, my spark is different. Comes from being a twin. I've been reassured the bond will still take." His mouth twists with anger.

"Reassured?" Optimus asks.

"It's how I tried to get disqualified," Sunstreaker says, scowling. "I said I was a twin, split-spark, no way I could support a bond with anyone but Sideswipe. So our owner went and got some spark specialist to prove me wrong."

Optimus frowns. "A reputable one?"

Sunstreaker shrugs. "He called himself Kaput. I looked him up later. He's licensed and everything."

"I do not know him, but perhaps Ratchet does," Optimus says. He gently squeezes Sunstreaker's hand. "If you'd like to wait--"

"No, I want to get it over with. No point in delaying the inevitable." Sunstreaker stands and sits next to Optimus, the heat of him tangibly inviting. "You should consider yourself lucky. I don't share my spark with anyone but Sideswipe."

Optimus nods. "I will treat that gift with the reverence it deserves. Thank you, Sunstreaker."

"Don't hurt me, and we'll call it even."

Optimus wakes to an inconsistent beeping, and the low mutter of vile curses better suited for the muck and mire of Dead End. He tries to power up his optics, but there’s a throb behind them, and in his temple. Fatigue drags along his cables, and his struts, and his spark feels too large for his chassis.

He doesn’t remember falling into recharge. It must have been after he completed the bond with Sunstreaker, because he remembers that much. Had it knocked him offline? How embarrassing.

Optimus groans and reboots his sensory suite, forcing his optics online, only to shield them from the too-bright light.

“Be still,” says Ratchet’s voice, grouchy and commanding. “You might have the Matrix and be an almighty Prime, but that doesn’t mean you can do five spark merges in such a short span without consequences.”

“It has been done before,” Optimus says.

“Yeah, and I’d have told the previous Primes the same thing I’m telling you,” Ratchet says with a snort. “Take a nap until dinner. You need it.”

Movement in his bleary peripheral gradually clarifies into the familiar, blocky shape of Ratchet, wielding his now-infamous scanner. He’s passing it over Optimus’ frame, lips curved in a thoughtful frown.

“What are you doing here?” Optimus asks.

“Sunstreaker called me. He wanted to make sure you were alright,” Ratchet says as his scanner beeps, and he makes a notation on a datapad. “He’s more familiar with the pull on sparkbonds since he’s a twin. He thought you might be having trouble with all the frequent spark contact.”

Optimus’ spark warms. For all his sharp-tongue and standoffishness, Sunstreaker can be quite kind.

“And how am I?”

“Fit as a fiddle, far as I can tell,” Ratchet says with a slanted grin. “Your fatigue is normal. Just rest as much as you can, and drink more midgrade. Not engex.”

Optimus slings his arm over his optics to block out the overhead lights, dim as they are. “Will I be able to support the rest of the bonds?”

Equipment clatters and rustles as Ratchet starts to stow it. “It’ll strain you at first, but I’m confident your spark is strong enough. I recommend resting between merges.”

“I am supposed to seal the bond with Skyfire tonight,” Optimus murmurs. His frame feels heavy, wanting to sink into the berth, and the layers of bonds around his spark almost have a tangible weight to them.

“And you still can. Just take it easy until then.” Ratchet pats him on the shoulder, his field excluding calm and comfort. “No one will begrudge you some rest, Optimus. Especially if it comes from me.”

Optimus hums, and returns the brush of Ratchet’s field with a warm flicker of his own. “I appreciate it, Ratchet.”

“I just hope this obedience continues in the future,” Ratchet says dryly before he throws the carry strap over his shoulder, hefting the heavy crate with ease. “Go back to recharge. I’ll see you tonight.”

Optimus makes a non-committal noise and rolls back into the cradle the berth had made for him.

Ultra Magnus fetches him later that evening, “Per Ratchet’s orders,” he says with a quiet laugh. “I think we’re all going to learn not to disobey him.”

Optimus’ chassis remains heavy, but the rest had done him good. His head no longer aches, and his energy levels have ceased dropping. Tonight’s refueling will help as well, though he will have to reluctantly avoid the engex. He hopes that does not extend to avoiding Hot Rod’s delicious treats.

“I’m pleased he’s comfortable enough to start bossing mechs around,” Optimus says.

“I think that’s his natural state,” Ultra Magnus says, wry. “You’ll be bonding with Skyfire tonight, I hear. That leaves only three more.”

“Only?” Optimus echoes with a snort. “Tell that to my spark. I dread to think what would have happened if the Senate felt more principalities deserved recognition. There’s only so much the Matrix can blunt.”

“Rumor has it Kalis was desperately trying to get their representative nominated. If they had succeeded, you would have eleven.”

Optimus groans at the thought. “Then I am glad they did not. Besides, under what grounds did they insist? Kalis is smaller still than Altihex and they do not have a Nominate.”

“Kalis has the largest population of minis on Cybertron. They feel they are unfairly underrepresented.”

“Minis only comprise ten percent of the population. They’ll never have the majority anywhere,” Optimus says with a sigh. “At least, not without some finagling on our part.”

“I’ve added it to the list.”

Ah, the list. The ever-growing document of things Optimus intends to correct, from the largest inequality to the smallest grievance. Every conversation with his Consorts alone add more injustices to the list.

“What would I do without you?” Optimus asks, looking up at Ultra Magnus with an affectionate smile. Truly, he’d be lost and exceptionally lonely.

Ultra Magnus lifts his chin, pride in his optics. “Let’s hope we never need find out,” he says, and pushes the door open, holding it for Optimus.

He pats Ultra Magnus on the arm and steps into the dining room, only to be intercepted by Sunstreaker who tows him toward his chair and urges him into it. His field is one of swirling concern, and Optimus’ many-times-over banded spark thrums from the warmth of it.

“I am quite alright, Sunstreaker, though I appreciate your concern,” Optimus protests as he sits and finds himself in front of a tray of the choicest treats and two glasses of rich, viridian midgrade.

Treats, he realizes with much relief, are not off the menu.

“I know you’re fine,” Sunstreaker says, but he picks up Optimus’ hand and puts a glass of the midgrade into it. “Refuel.”

Optimus drinks, despite realizing much too late that it’s not, in fact, midgrade, but highly supplemented medical grade disguised to look like midgrade. The taste is foul, chalky on his glossa, but Sunstreaker’s staring at him, and Optimus is loath to refuse his kindness and concern.

He drinks. He swallows. He manages a thin smile.

“Thank you,” he says as the chalkiness lingers and coats the inside of his mouth. “Not only for this, but for sending Ratchet as well. I’m sorry if I worried you.”

Sunstreaker snorts. “You didn’t.” He plucks the empty from Optimus’ hand and replaces it with another full one. “Drink this, too.”

Optimus’ tank gurgles hungrily, but his taste receptors quail. “In a moment,” he says, and reaches for the treats. “Perhaps one or two of these first.”

It is nudged out of his reach, not by Sunstreaker, but by Ironhide suddenly perched on his other side, two orbital ridges raised in challenge. Hot Rod will be devastated if either of them decide to stay and take his usual seat.

“Can’t have ya collapsin’ during our training tomorrow,” Ironhide says, and tips his head toward the medical grade in Optimus’ hand. “Energon first.”

Optimus swallows a sigh.

He appreciates their concern, though he does wonder if this is a trend that will continue. Can he expect to be nannied in the future or are they testing his reaction now?

Hard to say.

Optimus drinks the second glass under their watchful optics, and only then does Ironhide nudge the treats back into reach.

"Good job," he says, clapping Optimus on the shoulder. "Now you won't have any excuses for tomorrow." He winks and saunters away.

Hot Rod slides into the seat Ironhide vacated, looking grumpy. "This is my seat," he says, though Optimus isn’t sure if it’s directed at everyone in general, or more toward Ironhide’s departing back.

"Relax, kid. He's still all yours," Sunstreaker says as he plops down on Hot Rod's other side.

Optimus is amused despite himself. "I am for anyone who genuinely wants me."

"Right now, that's definitely me," Hot Rod says, leaning in toward Optimus with a huge smile. He pats Optimus’ arm. "But I can wait until you're feeling better."

"I appreciate your patience," Optimus says.

Hot Rod beams.

It's a quieter evening. No concerts, no games, nothing to cause too much excitement. There's soft conversation, trays full of treats, and a general air of companionship. It's a far cry from how things had started a couple weeks ago. Even Jazz has seemed to regain some of his prior zest as he openly chats with Ratchet and Prowl, a smile on his face, and gentle teasing in his tone.

Fatigue, however, leaves Optimus not as energetic as he'd like. He opts to bow out of the evening early, murmuring farewells to everyone until he pauses by Skyfire and Starscream, their heads bent in quiet conversation.

"I apologize for interrupting," Optimus murmurs as he leans in toward them. "But I need to borrow Skyfire if he is amenable."

Starscream looks up at him with a smirk. "Is that right?" he says, one orbital ridge arched. "Well, don't let him tire you out, Prime. I intend to stake my claim tomorrow."

This is the first Optimus has heard of it. Not that he's opposed. It's good news. It means he won't have to chase Starscream down. Trust Starscream to be full of surprises.

Skyfire rises, amusement rippling around him, but Optimus dips his head in a nod toward Starscream and says, “I am yours whenever you want me.”

“Then I expect you’ll let no one else claim you tomorrow,” Starscream purrs, promise shining in his optics. A little thrill races down Optimus’ spinal strut.

“You have my word,” Optimus says. “Until then, however, Skyfire has my attention.”

“Then you’d better not keep him waiting.” Starscream stands, sweeping his glass of fine engex from the table. He moves to join Hot Rod and Sunstreaker, tossing one last flirtatious glance over his shoulder.

“I am not sure you have any idea what you’re in for, Optimus,” Skyfire says as they leave the common room, tossing quiet farewells behind them.

“I am certain I do not either,” Optimus agrees with a half-smile. “Starscream is unpredictable. Which is not necessarily a bad trait, but it does make it difficult to know where I stand.”

Skyfire gives him a crooked smile. “Yes, that’s certainly the Starscream experience.” He rests a hand on Optimus’ shoulder, offering reassurance in the brush of his field. “Don’t worry. You’ve impressed him more than you know.”

“That is a comfort,” Optimus admits. “As is the fact you two are growing stronger in your friendship. If there is one thing these terrible circumstances have brought, your reconciliation is worthwhile.”

“Mm.” Skyfire’s hand slides away and he tucks both behind his back, at the base of his wings. “True. If I had not been forced away from my research and dragged here, it might have been centuries before we ever spoke again, if at all. We’re equally stubborn.”

“I will try not to give the Senate too much credit. After all, their intention was for the opposite to occur.” Optimus frowns, a low-grade anger still burning in his spark. The way the Senate continues to manipulate mechs and their emotions infuriates him.

“Fair point. But I promise you this, if you gain Starscream’s loyalty, you’ll have no one better to stand at your side and argue for change. He’s relentless,” Skyfire says.

“I am sure.” Optimus is more than inclined to agree. Though to be fair, he has quite the talented and varied group of individuals, all who have quietly agreed to turn their hatred and grudges outward, against the institution rather than Optimus himself.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Skyfire says as they arrive at Skyfire’s quarters -- by mutual agreement. After all, he has the largest berth. “I admit, I may need your guidance for this next part. I’ve never bared my spark to anyone.”

“You and Starscream weren’t--?”

“Not amica, no.” Skyfire’s voice softens, aches with a quiet grief. “There’s a certain level of trust involved, and I don’t know if Starscream has ever let himself trust anyone to that degree.”

Optimus sits on the edge of the berth as Skyfire perches next to him, the berth creaking a warning at the additional weight. “And yet, he has no choice but to trust me.”

“Yes.” Skyfire sighs, his vents puffing humid warmth against Optimus’ side. “Which means I’m trusting you to take care of him.” His vocals firm, his field pressing harder, as though in subtle threat. “If he’s hurt…”

Optimus is reminded of Ultra Magnus in this moment. Ultra Magnus who had set everything aside to put himself in a position where he can support Optimus, and care for him, who hadn’t thought twice about his own comfort. There is no romance between them, not in a way others might define it, but there is love.

Just as there is love between Skyfire and Starscream, though again, not romance as someone else might define it.

Skyfire has no bargaining power here. He has no political sway. His threats are empty, unless he’s willing to throw away his own life, his own spark, to see them through.

He and Ultra Magnus are a lot alike.

“I promise,” Optimus says. “It is not my intention to willfully hurt any of you. I may make a mistake, I cannot promise I won’t, but I can promise it will not be with cruel intent.”

“I believe you,” Skyfire says, and then he smiles, the heavy weight of his field abruptly lifting, as if a great mass has gone from Optimus’ shoulders. “But enough of that. Aren’t we supposed to be bonding here?”

Optimus chuckles and takes Skyfire’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Have I mentioned how much I appreciate the kindness you’ve offered? It has been a blessing.”

Skyfire’s face colors while his field tingles warmth against Optimus’. “You haven’t, but I’m sure your spark will tell me soon enough. Or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“It varies with the individual,” Optimus says.

“Is that right?” Skyfire grins, with a hint of mischief so rarely seen in the demure scientist before he scoops Optimus up and effortlessly plants Optimus in his lap. “I suppose an experiment is in order then, isn’t it?”

A low thrum runs through Optimus’ engine before he can stop it. Orion Pax had always held an appreciation for being mechhandled, and that has not changed from his ascension to Optimus Prime. Better, still, that one of his consorts has the capacity to easily lift him.

“I am beginning to see why you and Starscream are friends,” Optimus says with a soft laugh. He performs a system check, telling himself to calm down. They are platonically bonding their sparks here, nothing more.

Unless, of course, Skyfire should offer more…

A large hand rests on Optimus’ back, fingers delicately tracing the line of his spinal strut. A shiver runs across Optimus’ armor, despite his attempts to quell the thrum of interest rising within him.

“I have to keep up with him somehow,” Skyfire murmurs. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

Starscream is waiting for him when Optimus emerges from the washracks. He's holding a tray with what amounts to a perfectly balanced morning meal, complete with coolant and medical grade supplements.

"Good morning," he says, brightly. "I trust you rested well?"

Surprisingly, Optimus is not as drained by his merge with Skyfire as he would have expected. Perhaps it has something to do with Skyfire's spark, or the method they went about their bonding. Skyfire, after all, had expressed his interest in pursuing more than just a bond, and Optimus had allowed himself the weakness of that pleasure.

Has that made a difference? Optimus doesn’t know. It's a question for Ratchet, he supposes.

"I did, and I am fully prepared to complete our bond today," Optimus says as he accepts the tray, hoping to convey his gratitude and not his trepidation over the med-grade supplements.

"I'm a scientist," Starscream says as he trails Optimus to the seating area and joins him. "If you think I can't figure out how to make medical grade taste less like slag, then I wouldn't be much of one."

"That is a fair point." Optimus picks up the glass and foregoes the olfactory test, choosing to show his trust in Starscream instead.

Sweet, with a hint of carbonation, and endnotes of something spicy. Optimus is so surprised at how well it tastes, he finds himself draining the glass all at once and staring mournfully at the last few supplement dregs lingering at the bottom.

Starscream grins. "See?"

"Are you sure this is medical grade?" Optimus asks, though the truth of it resonates through his lines. A rush of vigor thrums through him, and Starscream laughs.

"Retrieved from Ratchet and modified myself," Starscream declares before standing. "Come on. If I have to do this, I want to at least put on the airs of doing it right."

Optimus cycles his optics. "What do you mean by that?"

"You'll see." Starscream's wings flick. "Follow me. And bring the tray."

He doesn't wait to see if Optimus obeys. He spins on a heelstrut and strides for the doorway, leaving Optimus a second to decide his own actions.

He gets up. He brings the tray. He follows, and only in passing does he wonder how Starscream gained entry into his habsuite in the first place. A question for later, perhaps. Security around the estate itself is heightened, but within the grounds, it’s marginal at best. It would hardly be a challenge for someone of Starscream’s caliber to find his way around the door locks.

"What is this about?" Optimus asks as they start to climb past the second floor to the third floor.

"You'll see." Starscream flashes a confident grin, his field swirling around him a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

Patience, fortunately, is something Optimus has in abundance. He steals only one of the delicious treats from the tray before they arrive at the largest of the upper floor balconies. Starscream flings the doors wide open, strutting toward the low railing without fear.

Optimus is more reserved, hanging several paces back, still clutching the tray.

"Keep watching, Prime," Starscream says as he climbs onto the railing and puts his back to the horizon, no trace of fear in his optics. "Don't take your optics off me for a second."

Starscream falls back, a smile on his face, arms spread wide, and Optimus' spark climbs up into his intake. Until he hears the distinct sound of a mech transforming and thrusters activating and Starscream's gleaming flight mode shoots through the air.

Optimus takes a few stunned steps closer to the railing. He couldn't move his gaze away from Starscream if he tried.

Speed and grace, talent and skill. Starscream soars through the sky in a complicated pattern of loops and twirls, rising and falling, tracing geometric patterns with his flight path. The false-sun catches his polished armor with calculated glints.

Each aerial stunt is more complicated than the one before, and Optimus is no flyer, but even he can tell that these are not easy maneuvers. The mathematical calculations to pull them off must be astronomical, and Starscream performs them with phenomenal speed.

Starscream’s gorgeous and talented, and Optimus is more than a little grateful the Senate was short-sighted enough to think he could only be a burden, because Starscream will be anything but. All at once, Optimus understands why Starscream is a bit arrogant.

He has every reason to be.

He stares, enraptured, as Starscream climbs toward the heavens, nose-pointed skyward, only to cut his thrusters and hang in mid-air, for a fraction of a second, before he starts to dive as if in a freefall. His thrusters come to life, one, then the other, setting him in a spiraling plummet that steals Optimus’ vents.

He doesn’t realize how close he is to the rail until his thighs bump against it. He’s clutching the tray like a lifeline as Starscream falls and falls and falls, only to catch himself at the last, spark-stopping moment, and surge upward, thrusters roaring.

Starscream flies straight at Optimus, pirouettes in mid-air, and transforms mid-fall, only to land on the railing to Optimus’ left without a single wobble. He grins, wings twitching, and lowers himself into a crouch, reaching over and neatly snagging the single glass of mid-grade from the tray. He holds Optimus gaze, downs it in a few swallows, and crushes the glass with his fingers, the fine particles drifting to the ground.

“You are amazing,” Optimus says, because he is suddenly struck dumb, unable to think of anything more diplomatic and clever.

“Yes, I am,” Starscream says with a smirk. He tilts his head and snags a treat from the tray, idly running his glossa over it as though to sample the flavor. “And what I gave you was a gift.”

“I underst--”

“No, you don’t.” Starscream’s voice turns a little hard, not out of anger, but gravity. “Seekers court one another through flight, and when one wants to ask for the other’s spark in bonding, they perform an engagement dance. We spend decades perfecting the steps, Prime.”

Optimus’ vents still. “Starscream, you did not have to--”

The Seeker slides down from the railing, landing light and graceful on his feet. “I’d always intended to save my dance for someone I actually love, and maybe I can someday, but right now, I’m sharing it with you.”

Optimus turns and sets the tray on the railing, balancing it carefully. He is far less graceful than Starscream. “It is a beautiful dance. I could not look away. It felt as though a part of my spark was flying with you.”

“Good. That’s what it’s supposed to do. Though in a perfect world, you’d have joined me in the flight, to show you reciprocated my interest.” Starscream vents a sigh before his lips curl into a half-smile, and he steps into Optimus’ space. “Don’t look at me with pity. I chose to share it with you because at least that way, someone sees it. And I’m trusting you’re not going to mock it.”

“I would never,” Optimus vows.

Starscream cocks his head and sweeps up Optimus’ hand, his lips brushing over Optimus’ knuckles. “I’m binding my spark to yours. That’s the agreement,” he murmurs. He holds Optimus’ gaze as he feathers the lightest kiss on Optimus’ thumb joint. “But you’re binding your spark to mine, too. And that, Optimus, is where the Senate has made their greatest mistake.”

Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. Starscream’s dance for him had been one of flight and beauty and grace. Optimus only has words.

“Their mistake is my fortune,” he says, and reverses Starscream’s hold on his hand, so that he might also hold Starscream’s gaze while he presses a kiss to the inside of Starscream’s wrist, the lightest touch of his lips. “Thank you for the gift. I shall never forget it for the length of my lifetime.”

“Flatterer,” Starscream breathes, but there’s appreciation in his optics. His ailerons flutter, his field giving a taste of how pleased he is. “Keep that up, and I won’t be held responsible for what comes next.” Implication warms his words, thick and sultry.

“Shall we go inside then?” Optimus asks.

Starscream smirks up at him. “What’s wrong with the balcony?” he asks. There’s challenge in his voice, in the cant of his hips. “Wouldn’t you rather have a pretty view?”

“I have you in front of me. What prettier view do I need?” Optimus asks.

Starscream snorts. “I can see I’m going to have to watch my words with you.” He leans in, pressing a kiss to the curve of Optimus’ jaw. “This is the closest we can get to the sky. Our bond should take root in freedom, don’t you think?”

Oh, Optimus is going to have to watch Starscream’s silver-glossa as well.

“Yes,” Optimus says. “In honor of the gift you have given me.”

Starscream beams at him, and Optimus knows it was the right thing to say.

Chapter Text

If there’s one thing Optimus had not expected, it was that he’d spend the rest of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon lazying around a berth with Starscream, the Seeker feeding him sips of coolant and energon goodies and chatting away about all of the good they are going to do. It’s a welcome and remarkable change from the waspish creature Optimus had first met.

It also helps him settle back into his spark. It’s an unusual sensation that words cannot properly describe, the feeling of eight different bonds spinning around his spark, pulling him in eight different directions. He can identify some better than others -- Ultra Magnus calm and steadying, Hot Rod an energetic twirl of endless curiosity, Ironhide strong and defiant, Ratchet constantly on the move, drawing closer to the other orbits as though testing their health.

Sunstreaker is harder to find. He hides, often in Prowl’s shadow, while Prowl and Starscream collide and ricochet, at odds even in the quantum space that is the layers of Optimus’ spark. Skyfire is kindness, humming and radiating warmth.

Perhaps it is coincidence that this quiet nurturing helps Optimus find his center once again, filling out the contours of his frame and reminding himself that he is Optimus, not eight other orbiting sparks. Or, knowing Starscream, he must have presumed Optimus would be struggling by now, and sought to be kind.

Optimus is eager to accept the kindness. He feels heavy and raw, and while the medical grade does much to stave off the exhaustion, it can’t help his lack of balance, or the odd sense of being outside himself.

He supposes he’ll eventually get used to the whispers that are his bond with each of his Consorts. For now, he simply doesn’t have the time to adjust to them at a reasonable pace.

No doubt part of the Senate’s plan all along.

Still.

Optimus doesn’t have the time to spend the whole day lazying around, so he escapes from Starscream’s nannying clutches a little past midday and wanders the estate instead. He still has Soundwave and Jazz to speak with, and he doubts Ironhide is pleased Optimus skipped their morning training session.

Fortunately, Ultra Magnus seems to have proven quite the distraction for the gruff soldier.

“You can’t just throw yer weight around and assume that’s going to be enough,” Ironhide says after he tosses Ultra Magnus over his shoulder and the larger mech hits the ground in a loud tumble of limbs.

Optimus winces sympathetically.

“Aren’t you some kind of genius?” Ironhide asks as he stalks over and offers a hand to Ultra Magnus to help him up. “It’s about momentum and balance.”

Ultra Magnus sighs and stands, brushing arena-grit from his armor. “My training neglected hand-to-hand. My instructors seemed to think that as long as I held a blaster, I would be fine. My size, after all, is threatening enough.”

Ironhide snorts. “You can’t assume that.” He pokes Ultra Magnus in the chassis, which makes a dull thunk of metal on metal. “I’ve fought bigger ‘n stronger than you ‘cause I had to. And I’m still standing here. Being big don’t make ya invincible. Get me?”

“I do.” Ultra Magnus dips his head, looking rather contrite, and Optimus hides a smile behind his hand. It is rare to see his dear friend so cowed, especially given that he’s half-again Ironhide’s height, and far broader at the shoulders.

Perhaps Ironhide reminds him of a caretaker or a former instructor.

“Good.” Ironhide scrubs a hand down his face and peers up at Ultra Magnus. “Maybe metallikato ain’t your style. I should drag Prowl out here, get ‘im to teach ya some of that circuit-su slag he loves. It might be more your speed.”

“I think the problem is that I am too much of a tactician,” Ultra Magnus says with a gusty sigh. “I deal with numbers, strategy, armies, not the single individual.”

Ironhide cocks an orbital ridge. “Ya wanna support Optimus like ya say, then ya better get a little more flexible. He’s gonna need it.”

“You’re right.” Ultra Magnus straightens and slides into a defensive stance. “Let’s try it again then.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Optimus quietly takes his leave without either mech noticing, or if they do, commenting on his appearance. Ultra Magnus has always been something of a loner, his friendship with Orion Pax notwithstanding. Optimus is glad to see him befriending some of the other Consorts. It makes him feel less guilty about the sacrifices his dear friend has made.

Inside, Optimus passes Prowl and Sunstreaker in the sunroom, up on the dais where the large windows provide the most external light.

"--want to learn the promenade next," Sunstreaker is saying as he stands behind Prowl, paintbrush in hand, eyeing the sharp lines of Prowl's sensory panels.

"A good idea. The Iaconian promenade is the basis for many other dances. It will give you a good form to build upon," Prowl says, sitting perfectly still, his armor not so much as twitching.

Sunstreaker snorts. "It helps that the waltz is the preferred dance of the nobility, right?"

"There is that," Prowl admits. "I suspect we'll be attending many formal events in the future. Learning the proper dances is a matter of course."

"We can't make our Prime look like a fool," Sunstreaker says. "Well, we could. If we wanted to be snide about it."

Prowl hums a non-committal noise. "Is that what you want to do?"

Sunstreaker sighs. "It'd be easier if he was just a little bit cruel."

"Because then you'd have somewhere to aim your anger?"

Sunstreaker scowls at Prowl's back. "Don't psychoanalyze me."

"It's an honest question."

Sunstreaker chuffs a vent and goes silent for a moment, painting exquisite detail along the leading edge of Prowl's sensory panel before he continues. "Hating him would make all of this easier. I don't know how to..."

"Trust kindness?"

"Yeah."

Prowl doesn't move, but he must have done something with his field, because the tight clamp of Sunstreaker's armor loosens by a degree. "You are not alone in this, Sunstreaker. We are all desperately hoping the mech we've bonded to is not a monster."

Sunstreaker vents quietly. "Thank you."

Optimus quietly steps back and away, feeling guilty for having intruded in the first place. He doesn't know if either of them were aware of him -- Prowl perhaps, if he hadn't dampened his sensors too thoroughly -- but it still feels like a moment he should not have witnessed.

He knows trust will come slowly. He's prepared to wait as long as it takes. They've only known each other for a few weeks at best, and Sunstreaker has had a harder life than most. When his trust does come, Optimus will know it to be fairly won.

He hopes he proves worthy of it.

Optimus slips away. He peers briefly into the library, unsurprised to find Starscream and Skyfire ensconced within, heads bent over a large, historic tome. It is physical as opposed to a data-pad, where the information has been inscribed on thin sheets of duryllium in ancient glyphs. They appear to be working on translating it together.

Fascinating.

Any other time, Optimus would ask to join them, intrigued by what knowledge might be buried in the delicate pages. For now, however, he leaves them be, and continues his search for the last two he needs to bond -- Soundwave and Jazz, the two who have always been the most elusive.

They are not in the kitchens, the dining hall, the laboratory, the atrium, or the conservatory. Neither are they in the medical clinic, though he does find Ratchet who has finally cornered Hot Rod, much to the latter’s dismay.

"My savior has arrived!" Hot Rod says as Optimus walks into the room, giving Optimus a desperate look from his perch on the medberth. "Please tell me you need me for something very important."

"There's nothing more important than a routine maintenance check, kid," Ratchet says, rolling his optics. "Ignore the drama-bot here. All I've done so far is scan him."

"I'm fine!" Hot Rod insists.

Optimus chuckles. "Then let Ratchet prove you're fine," he says. "Ratchet is going to be our medic. As far as I'm concerned, what he says, goes."

"Awww." Hot Rod pouts, and as adorable as it is, Optimus will not relent. "But it's a beautiful day. I'd rather be outside racing Jazz or something."

"The sooner you settle and let me do my job, the sooner you can run free," Ratchet says, waving said scanner pointedly. It gives an indignant beep. "I'm tired of hearing that screech in your gears."

"Doesn't bother me," Hot Rod mutters.

"Have either of you seen Jazz or Soundwave?" Optimus asks, cutting into their playful banter. As much as Hot Rod protests, he hasn't actually tried to get away, which he most certainly could do. He’s faster and much more nimble than Ratchet.

"No, but if you've seen Jazz, let me know," Ratchet says as he sets his scanner aside and starts digging through the cabinets. "I haven't been able to scan that slippery mech the whole time we've been here."

Hot Rod shakes his head. "I haven't seen them, but Jazz likes to be on the roof, and Soundwave goes to the gardens a lot. Maybe try there?"

He should have considered the garden. He’s found both mechs there on occasion. It would be wiser to check the roof first, however.

Optimus thanks Hot Rod, ignoring the adorable mech’s plea for rescue, and leaves him in Ratchet’s tender care. He heads for the roof access, climbing through with several grunts of effort. He carefully picks his way across the roof, peering around the few parapets and arched gables, but Jazz is nowhere to be seen. The ceramic shingles creak ominously beneath his weight.

He scuttles back to the hatch, and when he pauses to climb down, he catches Soundwave and Jazz in his peripheral vision. They're in the crystal gardens, sitting around the fountain, close enough that it is obvious they are talking to each other and not merely sharing space in mutual quiet.

From this distance, Optimus can't hear what they are saying, though he does find their interaction odd. What do they have in common? Did they know each other prior to coming here? Has Jazz opened up to Soundwave in a way he hasn't opened up to anyone else?

Curious.

Optimus climbs back into the mansion, and makes his way to the gardens, hoping to catch either mech before they vanish again. He's not so lucky with Jazz, but Soundwave is still present, perched on the lip of the fountain with Laserbeak on his shoulder. Of Ravage, there is no sign.

"This is a very large estate when you have to find someone," Optimus says. "Hello, Soundwave. Hello, Laserbeak."

"Hi, Optimus!" the avian cassette chirps, bobbing up and down on Soundwave's shoulder as if delighted to see Optimus. "Did you know there are a lot of secret passages, too?"

Optimus smiles at her. "I did not. Have you explored them?"

"No. But Ravage has. And Jazz, too." Laserbeak chuffs a vent, her wings flicking in a sign of irritation. "I don't see why I can't."

Soundwave makes a noise, but Optimus says, "Perhaps because Soundwave would prefer you keep him company."

"He does get lonely without me," she hums.

Soundwave scrapes a hand down his face before he drones, "Laserbeak, return." His dock pops open.

"Awww." Laserbeak pops, but she obeys, safely stowing herself within his chassis without argument.

For her protection or his own, Optimus isn't sure. Perhaps a bit of both.

“I did not realize you and Jazz were friends,” Optimus says once Laserbeak is out of sight and Soundwave seems to relax by an infinitesimal degree.

“Concern shared,” Soundwave says.

Optimus tilts his head. “About me?”

“In part.” Soundwave stares at him for a long moment before he turns his head and looks pointedly at the empty space next to him.

Optimus assumes it to be an invitation and sits next to Soundwave, feeling less like he’s looming and more like they are friends having a conversation. “Any way I can allay those concerns?”

“Time. Patience.”

“Fair enough.” Optimus cycles a ventilation. It’ll do him no good to push. Whatever Soundwave and Jazz had been discussing, it is not for him to know. He’s violated enough privacy today as it is. “If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to come to me with them. I will answer them to the best of my ability.”

Soundwave stares out at the crystal gardens as though tracing every glimmer and shine of the swaying growths. “Noted.”

“We will also be returning to Iacon soon. A little over a week, to be more precise. Do you understand what that means?”

A hint of light streaks across Soundwave’s armor. “Spark bond required,” he rumbles, and that’s when he turns and looks at Optimus, expression inscrutable behind both mask and visor. Maybe one day he will trust Optimus enough to remove one or the other.

“Yes,” Optimus says. “I do not intend to push. I know that it cannot be something to which you are eager to partake, but it must be done.”

“Affirmative,” Soundwave says. “Optimus’ condition not suited for immediate bonding.”

Optimus sits back a little, surprised Soundwave has noticed. Optimus is not as visibly fatigued as he was yesterday, with most of the discomfort being internal.

“I assure you--”

“Tomorrow,” Soundwave says and pats Optimus’ knee in the most chaste, awkward gesture of conciliation Optimus has ever witnessed. “Prefer Optimus in peak condition.”

“I… thank you,” Optimus says, and he pats Soundwave on the shoulder, trying to mimic a touch that was somehow both impersonal and reassuring at the same time. “Yes. Tomorrow is fine. In the evening, perhaps, after dinner?”

Soundwave jerks his head in a nod. “Affirmative.” He withdraws his hand, and with a click, Laserbeak emerges from his dock, flying in a wide circle above them before landing on his shoulder. “Your hab.”

“I’m free!” Laserbeak sings as she bobs back and forth on Soundwave’s shoulder. “You know you could have just said you didn’t want to talk anymore instead of making me do it for you. Honestly.” She huffs before turning an expectant gaze on Optimus. “He’s really not good at this part.”

Optimus cycles his optics, a little taken aback, but recovers between one blink and the next. “But it seems you are, Laserbeak. How fortunate, then, that he should have someone he can trust in such a manner.”

Laserbeak preens. “I am pretty trustworthy.”

"I would say so." Optimus flashes her a smile, and Laserbeak beams back at him, her field abuzz with delight. "Have you had much chance to explore while you have been here?"

"No." Laserbeak's shoulders hunch. She gives Soundwave an askance look before saying, hushed as if she's keeping it a secret, "He's overprotective. Which is unfair, if you ask me. Ravage gets to go wherever he wants, but not me."

Amusement tickles at the corner of Optimus' mouth. "In Soundwave's defense, there are a lot of very large mechs here, some of whom are quite... jumpy, perhaps is a good word. I would not want to see you harmed either."

"Isn't it harming me to bore me?" Laserbeak asks, hopping back and forth on Soundwave's shoulder, to which Soundwave makes a noise that only she can interpret because she twitches a wing at him. "Oh, you hush. If you're going to pretend to be a lump on a log, you can't participate in this conversation.'

It's a gift of trust to see them interacting like this. Optimus has little doubt Soundwave would have walked away if he didn't want Optimus to bear witness to their relationship. It's unreasonable to expect Soundwave will trust him in full by the time they return to Iacon, but this small measure of trust proves Optimus is making progress.

Soundwave is more than worth the effort.

"Perhaps Soundwave would be more comfortable if you had an escort," Optimus says, trying to catch Soundwave's gaze and invite him into the conversation. "I would not mind the company, and I would be happy to give you a tour."

Laserbeak chirps a gleeful sound as she swings around to look up at Soundwave. "Oh, can I? If I promise to keep in contact the whole time?"

"Decision yours," Soundwave says, but he looks at Optimus and adds, "Care demanded."

Optimus nods. "Of course. I would let no harm come to her."

Laserbeak hops in place, the tesselated plates of her wings ruffling up and down. "Right now?"

"I can think of nothing I would like more," Optimus says. Tracking down Jazz will simply have to wait until later, or perhaps while showing Laserbeak around, luck will be on his side, and he'll run into Jazz.

"Go," Soundwave says. "Rendezvous later."

Laserbeak cheers and immediately takes flight from Soundwave's shoulder, only to land on Optimus' instead. She is lighter than he expects, though her field is a comforting buzz of warmth against his own.

"We should start in the kitchen," Laserbeak says.

"No treats," Soundwave says, and that warning seems to go for both of them.

"He doesn't have to know," Laserbeak mock-whispers.

Optimus chuckles.

Soundwave ex-vents in a quiet rush, the exasperated hiss of a caretaker with unruly sparklings, but he doesn't demand Laserbeak return, and he gestures them on their way.

Laserbeak proves to be a charming companion.

She chatters non-stop as Optimus shows her around the manor -- with a brief pause in the kitchens where they mutually agree not to tell Soundwave about the treats Hot Rod gives them. Judging by the fact no one seems surprised by her presence, Optimus assumes Soundwave has already introduced his cassettes to the others.

Or Laserbeak at least. Ravage doesn't seem quite as social.

She doesn't leave him until it's time for the gathering. As soon as she sees Soundwave, she pecks a kiss on Optimus' cheek in farewell and takes flight, circling Soundwave's head once before landing on his shoulder. She nuzzles him, and Soundwave scratches under her chin.

The affection between them is evident, and Optimus feels a small pang of longing. He is lucky to have Ultra Magnus as a dear friend, and luckier still for the relationships growing between himself and his Consorts. But he admits if only to himself how lonely it is to bear the burden of the Matrix and the office of the Prime.

Perhaps one day he will be that comfortable with another.

Starscream makes it a point to stop by Optimus’ chair, leaning in between Optimus and Ultra Magnus, to say, “How’re you feeling?”

“I am well, thank you,” Optimus says with a smile. “I appreciate your care. I feel as though I have recovered much faster as a result.”

“Of course it is. I know what I’m doing.” Starscream pecks a kiss on Optimus’ cheek, before patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t ruin my hard work now.”

“I will try my best,” Optimus says, but Starscream is already gone, joining Skyfire at the other side of the table. He casts one glance back at Optimus -- a touch smug -- but then Skyfire asks him a question, and Optimus is forgotten.

Starscream is definitely going to be a fun challenge.

At least the atmosphere is light and friendly once more. Though, Optimus notices with a frown, Jazz is not present. Optimus has not seen him since the glimpse he caught earlier today, though now that he is aware of secret passages, it is no small wonder Jazz can move around without being seen.

Jazz can’t have left the estate. Optimus has no concern of that. There are simply too many places for a mech of Jazz’s particular talents to hide. Of greater worry is the fact Jazz seems determined to make himself scarce in the first place. They don’t have long before their return to Iacon, and the bond must be completed.

Nevertheless, Optimus tries to enjoy the evening meal, embracing the lack of tension and stress. Hot Rod is quick to drag out the crate of games again, insisting everyone play with different partners to maximize their bonding experience. Laserbeak is allowed to join the festivities, and without a single trouble, she charms everyone.

Optimus plays a rousing game of Triad with Prowl and Soundwave and Sunstreaker and Laserbeak and isn’t surprised when Laserbeak sweeps the table with them.

It’s calm and peaceful. Optimus finds himself smiling and laughing and relaxing, hoping that this is the future he has to look forward to, in between the fierce battles he’ll face before the Senate.

Optimus bows out early and no one protests, especially when Starscream points out how tired he must be. He makes a stop at Jazz’s quarters, on the off chance he might get lucky, but Jazz does not answer his pings or his knocks.

Optimus sighs a quiet ventilation and returns to his own quarters. He might have to beg Soundwave’s help if Jazz does not show tomorrow. While Optimus would like for his Consorts to come to him in their own time, there is a deadline, and Optimus does not want to be forced into a spark bond. He has a feeling it would be quite unpleasant.

“Lights, fifty percent,” Optimus says as he moves into his habsuite, the exhaustion returning in slow, steady drips. He was right to put off bonding Soundwave until tomorrow, as much as it pains him to admit.

He thinks about indulging in a short dip in the oil bath, but he worries he might slip into recharge during it. Straight to berth it is then.

Optimus turns and cycles his optics. His… occupied berth? Because lo and behold, his missing Consort is stretched out across the broad surface, looking quite comfortable. Jazz has his arms pillowed behind his head, and a light behind his visor flashes in greeting.

It takes every ounce of self-control Optimus possesses not to outwardly startle, though he swears his spark skips a few oscillations.

“We missed you at dinner,” he says, instead of the half-dozen other things he could possibly say.

Jazz grins at him, showing a bit more denta than usual. There’s something dangerous in the grin, something that sends a shiver down Optimus’ spinal strut. He suspects it’s closer to Jazz’s true nature than the easygoing, seductive smiles he usually offers.

“Soundwave’s gonna have to wait his turn,” Jazz says. “Your spark is mine tomorrow.”

Optimus cycles his optics. “I… what? Why?”

Jazz shrugs and lazily crosses one leg over his knee, foot bouncing to an internal rhythm. “It has to happen eventually. Might as well get it over with.”

His tone is light, but there’s a weight behind his words, one Optimus is wary of. He feels like he’s being tested. “Forgive me if that’s not an inspiring seduction.”

“It’s not meant to be.” Jazz’s foot bobs up and down. “This is business isn’t it? I have a job to do. You have a job to do. Et cetera, et cetera.”

“A job,” Optimus echoes, and cycles a ventilation. Jazz’s tone is nothing he’s heard from the mech before, and he wonders why Jazz chose now to show this side of himself. “Could I convince you to enlighten me what you mean by that?”

“Would it make ya feel better to know the sordid reasons behind why I got stuck here?” Jazz sits up with a redolent stretch, a low sigh of satisfaction. “Ya want me to tell you all about how I was on my way out? How I had my whole dream in front of me, but before my resignation could process, I had to do one last job?”

So.

Jazz is a spy then. Optimus doesn’t know which department, and he suspects he won’t know until Jazz decides to tell him. It must be an official channel, however, rather than a blackmarket or underground one. A way for the Senate or their affiliate to keep an optic on Optimus from the inside. Perhaps, even, have a ready-made assassin once they decide Optimus is too much trouble to keep around.

“Why you?” Optimus asks.

“Because I’m the best, and they didn’t want to lose their best.” Jazz says it matter-of-fact, as if there’s no disputing it. He rises from the berth, every step calculated and careful. “Pawns don’t get to live their dreams. They just move where they’re put.”

Optimus doesn’t move. He doesn’t think it would be in his best interest to do so. He prefers to let Jazz call the shots. “I am sorry that choice was taken from you,” he murmurs, meaning every glyph of it. “Were it up to me, such a thing would not have happened, and if I have anything to say about it, neither will it happen again.”

“Yeah, I know. But I still gotta job to do in the here and now.” Jazz slinks closer, lazy grace and sensuality, which has to be on purpose. It’s as if he’s saying ‘this is why I’m the best’ with every performance. “But as Soundwave reminds me, I can’t quit the game, so I might as well make the next move and claim this.” He’s close enough now he can rap his knuckles on Optimus’ chassis.

Optimus stays very, very still. His ventilations are shallow. He tries not to twitch. For all that Jazz is the smallest of his Consorts, Optimus feels as if he’s the most dangerous. That he could be smiling and seductive, but slip a vibroknife into Optimus’ central seam, and pierce his spark between one ventilation and the next.

And he’d smile while doing it.

Optimus works his intake. “What would it take for you to trust me?” he asks, quietly.

“It’ll be a long time before I trust anyone, Prime.” Jazz smiles, his fingers dragging up and down Optimus’ central seam, a touch so light Optimus’ dermal sensors barely register it. “But keep doing what you’re doing, and you’re on your way to earning it.”

“I would like to be your ally. If there is anything I can do--”

“Yeah. You’ve said as much. Which is why you’re doing good so far.” Jazz grins, and his posture loosens, his smile turning more playful and lazy. “Don’t worry. I’ll behave myself.” His visor flashes in a wink.

Optimus doesn’t dare ventilate his relief. Which mask is the true one? None of them? All of them? A part of him is terrified to find out.

“I wish I could have known you in freedom,” Optimus says.

“With enough time, you still might.” Jazz chuckles and wriggles his fingers in farewell. “See you tomorrow, Prime.”

He leaves, the door clicking shut and locking behind him, with no clue as to how he’d gotten inside in the first place.

Optimus allows himself to ventilate relief at last, though now exhaustion wreathes around him, far more than had been present after bonding Starscream. Jazz makes him dance on bolts and brackets.

Optimus scrubs his forehead, cycling through a systems check, until his hands no longer tremble.

He thinks he’ll have that soak after all. He doubts he’ll be recharging anytime soon.

Optimus’ dreams are scattered, hazy, disorienting things. He sleeps past his alarm because his recharge does not feel restful, and it’s also an indulgence. Once they return to Iacon, Optimus will have so much work, he won’t have time to rest.

The Senate will encourage it, he’s sure, but Optimus won’t let himself be swayed by their false concern.

It’s nearly midday by the time Optimus rouses, and only because someone is pinging his door. He has less grace than he ought when he stumbles toward the door and keys it open, cycling his optics to clear the static from them.

“Morning!” Laserbeak chirps from Soundwave’s shoulder, raising a wing in greeting.

“Good morning,” Optimus says, though it’s a little too late for it to truly be morning. “I apologize if you were waiting for me. I intended to seek you out as soon as I was presentable.”

Soundwave shakes his head. “Unnecessary,” he says. “Bond to commence tomorrow.”

Optimus arches one orbital ridge. “Am I correct to assume Jazz informed you thusly?”

Laserbeak chitters a laugh. “First thing this morning. He appeared in our room. Scared the pit out of Ravage.” She grins as if secretly delighted by the feline cassette’s discomfort. “Not often someone gets the drop on Rav.”

“I see,” Optimus says. Should he be irritated that they discussed this without him or pleased they are friendly enough to have this conversation? Perhaps a bit of both.

For now, he’ll leave it be, as he does most things concerning Soundwave and Jazz and their interactions. It’s a battle he doesn’t want to fight when their various relationships are already tenuous. There’ll be time to work out specifics and particulars in the centuries of living together that await them.

“Jazz is gonna find you when he’s ready,” Laserbeak says. “In case you were wondering.”

Optimus manages a thin smile. “Thank you, Laserbeak. I appreciate the notice.” He glances between the both of them. “And what are you two getting up to today?”

“Training,” Soundwave says.

Laserbeak sighs and sinks on Soundwave’s shoulder. “Training,” she agrees, her tone glum and resigned. “Me and Ravage both. It’s so boring. I can’t get out of it no matter how hard I try.” She turns a pleading look up at Soundwave, which is studiously ignored.

“Perhaps tomorrow we can explore more if Soundwave is amenable,” Optimus says to try and cushion the blow.

“Offer acceptable,” Soundwave says.

Laserbeak immediately perks up. “But only if I train properly today, right?”

“Affirmative.”

She hops back and forth on Soundwave’s shoulder. “Then let’s go! Now. I want to get it over with.”

Soundwave sighs, but dips his head toward Optimus, who can only chuckle and wave farewell. Laserbeak starts excitedly chattering about all of the different things they are going to see and do tomorrow. They make for an interesting pair, the laconic carrier-mech and his cheerful cassette.

Perhaps Optimus will befriend Ravage in time, but Ravage reminds him a lot of Jazz, and that is a relationship that will take effort, and allowing Ravage his space. Fortunately, Optimus is very patient.

He has enough time to bathe and down a few doses of medical mid-grade -- flavored with a few packets Starscream was kind enough to leave him -- before there’s a secondary ping at his door. Optimus can’t say he’s surprised when he answers it and finds Jazz standing outside with a big smile on his face, bouncing up and down on his heels.

He and Soundwave had to have planned this.

“You look rested,” he says as he slips past Optimus and into the room. “That’s a good sign.”

“Do come in,” Optimus says to the empty space where Jazz had been. He closes the door and turns to face Jazz, who seems to be full of odd energy.

His visor is bright, and his field is all over the place, moving lightning-quick, making it difficult for Optimus to read anything out of it. His expression is odd as well -- not the mask of false enthusiasm, nor the dark cast of thinly-veiled resentment either.

“So how’s this going to work?” Jazz asks as he struts around the room, looking at the various pieces of furniture as though he hasn’t seen them before, though he must have looked his fill last night when he broke into Optimus’ quarters.

Optimus takes a seat in the sitting area, trying to affect an air of composure. “However would make you comfortable.”

Jazz snorts and gives Optimus a peripheral look. “I think we both know that the optimal method would be to not do it at all.”

Optimus folds his hands in his lap. “Would it comfort you to know that once the initial bond is complete, there is no further need to be intimate? That I will share the bulk of the weight of the bond?”

“Mm. Marginally.” Jazz walks a slow circuit of the room before he comes back to Optimus, standing in front of him, hands on his hips. “I’m not meant to be known, Prime. This is a slagstorm of a situation.”

“Do you feel this is a punishment?”

Jazz’s lips curl. “For daring to want to be free? Absolutely.” He eyes Optimus’ position as though he’s considering the structure of it. “There’s no greater threat to them.”

“Them?” Optimus echoes.

Jazz chuckles and waggles a finger at Optimus. “Ah, ah. That kind of knowledge comes with trust, Prime. We’re not there yet.”

“You’re about to share your spark with me. Perhaps you might consider calling me Optimus?”

“I’ll consider it.” Jazz claps his hands and rubs his palms together. “So. No point in putting off tomorrow what can be done today.” He takes Optimus’ hand, and when Optimus expects to be tugged off the chair, instead he’s presented with a lapful of an alluring, but dangerous spy.

Optimus once again freezes, unsure where to put his hands, though Jazz solves that for him by placing Optimus’ hands on his hips.

“There, that’s better,” he murmurs, his own hands landing on Optimus’ chassis, his thumbs tracing the line of Optimus’ central seam. He tilts his head to the side. “I think we should forego the game. We both know why we’re here.”

“We do.” Optimus’ spark quickens its rhythm, heat flushing through his frame in a confused tangle of want-anxiety-need-resolve. “I am right where you want me. I will not move until you say when.”

Jazz chuckles and leans in, nipping the bottom of Optimus’ chin. “I don’t think you know how dangerous it is to give me that much power.”

“I am quite aware how dangerous you are, but if I want you to trust me, I should first trust you,” Optimus murmurs.

“You’re an absurdly gentle spark. Politics are going to break you,” Jazz groans, thumb still tracing Optimus’ central seam, up and down, up and down, making his derma tingle. “Good thing you got mechs like me and Sounders to do the dirty work.”

Optimus draws in a slow ventilation. “I would not, and will not, ever ask either of you to do such a thing.”

Jazz grins, and his vents are a puff of damp heat over Optimus’ audial. “Oh, sweetspark. That’s the thing, you don’t ask, we just do.” He pauses, right over the main divide in Optimus’ central seam. “Open up, Optimus. We got work to do.”

Primus save him.

Optimus is in over his head.

He obeys.

Chapter Text

“What’s it feel like?”

Optimus furrows his orbital ridge, looking up from the scratch on Jazz’s thigh he’s attempting to buff out. He’s not as skilled as Sunstreaker, but Jazz had done the same for him, so Optimus is inclined to return the favor.

“You will have to be more specific.”

Jazz lounges on the berth, idly sipping a pouch of coolant, his leg propped on Optimus’ lap. “Having that many sparks bonded to yours.”

Optimus contemplates the question. “It is hard to put into words. My spark feels heavier. Fuller. Occasionally, I will catch a whisper, a thought or an emotion that is not mine, and separating them can be difficult.”

“Sounds terrible,” Jazz murmurs. “Invasive, too.”

“I suppose it can be, to a certain point of view,” Optimus says as he focuses on his work, watching Jazz from his periphery. “It is not dissimilar to what I experienced after assimilating the Matrix, however, so it is a sensation to which I have grown accustomed.”

“Huh.” Jazz makes a non-committal noise, and pulls his leg out of Optimus’ lap, shifting to replace it with the other. “Feels like an itch I can’t scratch. Like I got optics on me at all times. Makes me antsy.”

Optimus rests his hand on Jazz’s thigh, looking up at him. “I hate to sound trite, but you will adjust to it with time.”

“Yeah. I know. Don’t want to have to.”

Jazz’s visor dims. He lapses into quiet, his field a gentle buzz against Optimus’. He can still sense nothing from it, but it is not as unsettling as before. Now that he knows Jazz, despite all Jazz hides from him, Optimus is not so wary.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jazz says after a moment. “Could use a little practice.”

Optimus gives him a look.

Jazz holds up his hands. “I’m just sayin’. You could use some lessons.” He gestures to himself with a thumb. “I volunteer.”

“I thought you were not interested in a place in my berth.”

“Well…” Jazz trails off and gives Optimus a wicked smile. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for teaching old mechs new tricks.”

Optimus ventilates, but Jazz’s smile is so charming, it’s hard to be truly irritated. If Jazz is feeling comfortable enough to tease, Optimus is all for it.

So he finishes polishing away the last scratch and gives Jazz’s thigh a pat. “I think it is time for dinner. We should go before someone comes looking.”

“Mmm. I’m tempted to make them come hunt you down. That way I can strut out of your quarters like the metallocat caught the canary.” Jazz stretches his arms and sits up, legs draped over Optimus’ lap. “Wonder how envious Roddy will be.”

“I do not think he has a jealous strut in his frame,” Optimus says as he lifts Jazz’s legs from his lap and sets them aside so he can rise. “He may be envious he could not join, but if you are looking for a deeper reaction, I do not think you will find it.”

Jazz taps his chin. “Hmm. You have a point.” He rolls off the berth, bouncing on his heels as he stretches. “Do you think any of us are the jealous type?”

“Consorts know they are expected to share the Prime.”

“That’s not an answer, Optimus,” Jazz says.

Optimus gives him a sidelong look. “I think jealousy is a matter of perspective. It may come down to who thinks they have the most favor, but I will not allow such a thing to happen. No one mech will have my favor more than the others.”

Jazz chuckles and pats Optimus’ on the hip. “You’re so cute when you’re naive. The spark does what it wants and at some point, one of us is going to mean more to you than the others. It’s inevitable.”

“I certainly hope that is not the case,” Optimus says.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Jazz points out as he heads toward the door, leaving Optimus to follow. “I mean, so long as two consenting adults, yada yada, it’s not all bad. You just gotta tread the line.”

“There are going to be many ways in which I shall have to tread the line, so to speak,” Optimus says.

“And I don’t envy you one bit for it.” Jazz beams a smile and squeezes his hand before pulling away to stroll with some distance between them.

Cuddly in the berth, but distant in the hall, will Jazz ever cease to be a study in contradiction to him? Optimus is sure he’ll never know.

When they arrive, Jazz’s posture shifts into someone partially smug, and partially celebratory. He strides in with his shoulders back and a large smile on his face, to which Starscream rolls his optics and says,

“We’ve all had a taste, Jazz. You’re not special.”

“At this point, it’s a competition, Starshine,” Jazz says, swinging into Starscream’s personal space to drag his fingers along the leading edge of Starscream’s left wing. “We should compare notes and see who came out on top.”

Starscream arches one orbital ridge. “Sweetspark, I always come out on top,” he drawls.

“Primus, save me,” Skyfire groans, pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor. “Don’t pay either of them any mind, Optimus. I’m sure they don’t mean it.” He gives Starscream a narrow look, to which Starscream smiles brightly, showing off his pointed denta.

“Frankly, I think they should frag each other and get it over with,” Prowl says from behind the safety of his datapad. “We would all be relieved for it.”

Starscream sniffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I have higher standards,” Jazz says as he throws himself into a chair and tilts into Hot Rod’s space. “Like this bit of hot stuff right here. He’s right up my alley.”

Hot Rod leans away from him with both orbital ridges raised. “What about my standards? Maybe you’re not high enough for mine?”

Laughter rings around the table, but Jazz is nonplussed by the playful rejection. He waves Hot Rod off and swipes a goblet of engex from the table, leaning back in his chair.

“All right, then who is your standards?” Jazz asks.

Hot Rod very pointedly drags his gaze away from Jazz and looks directly at Optimus, who tried to take his chair without attracting any of the attention Jazz seems to invite. “There’s only one mech here who fits that description.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” Optimus says.

Hot Rod grins, his spoiler halves fluttering.

“There is a meteor shower tonight,” Skyfire says, cutting through the noise. “Our orbit ensures we’ll have a clear view of it.”

“Interesting,” Prowl says. “When does it start?”

“If everyone is amenable, we can take our meal to the roof. It’s in progress as we speak” Skyfire’s already rising with a tray in hand; he’s clearly been collecting engex and treats since the table was set.

“If it means we can enjoy ourselves without dreading our eventual return to Iacon, I’m all for it.” Ratchet stands and grabs two heavy pitchers of engex. He kicks Ironhide’s chair. “Come on. This is somethin’ that oughta be on your rustbucket list.”

Ironhide scowls at him. “Then one of those pitchers better be for me.”

“Only if you grab that basket of rust sticks,” Ratchet calls over his shoulder.

Ironhide, Optimus notices, grumbles but obeys. He’s all bluster and no actual bite, Optimus thinks fondly. Given what he knows of Chromia, Ironhide probably sees a lot of her in Ratchet. No wonder they get along so well.

“I think it is a fine idea, Skyfire. I’ll join you.” Optimus rises as quickly as he’d sat down, gathering up his own preferred treats plus his cube of medical grade and Starscream-provided flavor enhancers.

No one opts to stay behind. They all wander up onto the roof, where Jazz helps direct them to the more stable sections, and puts the heavier mechs on the sturdier spots. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to view the shower from the front drive, but there’s something more romantic about perching on the roof.

It is a dark night, with the false sun gone from the sky, but the stars glitter like diamonds and sure enough, the black is pierced by streaks of orange and yellow in arrhythmic intervals. Luna One shines down on them, the black mark beside it eerie for Luna Two’s absence.

Optimus has Hot Rod on one side, and Sunstreaker on the other. The rest of the Consorts have spread out, comfortably chatting and sharing engex and treats. The night sky offers a gorgeous view, and for a few hours, Ratchet is right.

None of them think about their return to Iacon in a week.

Optimus doesn’t consider it until he’s on his way back to his quarters, pleasantly warm and sated, visions of meteors saved to his databanks, and too many recordings of myths, told by Starscream and Skyfire to match the constellations in the sky.

This peace is only theirs for a week yet. Afterward, they will be plunged into political games and subject to the most intense scrutiny. Each and every one of them will find themselves under the microscope, Optimus especially. His life will never be simple again.

He wonders what they think when they look at him. How many of his Consorts fear that their return to Iacon will cause a change in Optimus, that his friendliness has only been a mask to ensure their compliance. It is easy for Optimus to rest knowing that isn’t the case, but how many of his Consorts find their recharge plagued by night purges of what might be?

The worry gnaws at Optimus as he returns to his quarters -- briefly hesitating for fear Jazz might be on his berth again. It’s a concern that’s for naught as his habsuite is empty.

Still.

He searches every nook and cranny as best he can until he’s absolutely sure he’s alone. Only then does Optimus collapse on his berth, feeling the weight of the last month bearing him down into the plush surface.

He’s in recharge before he has time to fully rest his head.

Why is it when Optimus is deliberately seeking out one of his Consorts, he cannot find them, but he can so easily stumble upon the others?

To be fair, this is only in regards to Soundwave and Jazz, who seem to hide from him and choose when they want to be found. It still frustrates him.

Optimus supposes he could simply comm Soundwave, but he hasn’t done so for any of his Consorts, because it feels too much like he is summoning them. As if he considers them to be his servants, available at his beck and call. He would rather put in the effort to understand them and find them on his own. He’d like to think they appreciate it.

It’s an important distinction, but one he may have to abandon when it comes to Soundwave and Jazz. Sometimes, there are matters of urgency, and Optimus can’t spend his time aimlessly wandering in search of an errant Consort.

He can find Ratchet easily enough, always in the medbay with one victim or another -- today it appears to be Prowl, though Prowl is far more amenable to the maintenance check than anyone else. So long as Ratchet lets him read his datapad, he submits to the painless scans to ensure his optimal health.

“Honestly, I think you’re going to be my favorite,” Ratchet says.

“I am often the favorite,” Prowl says.

Ratchet snorts. “And so modest, too.”

“What is the point of modesty when it is the truth?”

Optimus leaves them to it.

Hot Rod and Starscream are in the kitchen, trying a new recipe apparently, with Skyfire overseeing from his perch at a corner table. It is far too small for a shuttle, and he looks comically large crammed onto the stool, but either he’s used to it or he doesn’t seem to mind.

He scribbles diligently across a large holoboard. “What are we using for the beta coefficient?” Skyfire asks as he nibbles on the end of a stylus. .

“Galaxon’s equation,” Starscream answers without looking and points to one of many ingredients spread out in front of them. “Just a pinch of that, Hot Rod. It’s concentrated.”

“Got it!” Hot Rod leans across the counter, nearly toppling over a bowl that Starscream is quick to rescue, and snags the slim shaker. “How spicy is this going to be anyway?”

“Galaxon’s equation isn’t specific enough. I think we should use Mica’s derivative,” Skyfire says.

“That depends on how much we use,” Starscream says, twisting open the shaker and holding it over the bowl. He gives it a few firm shakes and says, “Not if we trim the outcome by applying Perceptor’s constant.”

Skyfire’s wingtips flutter. “Perceptor’s constant?”

“It’s relatively new. You’ve been off planet since he published the theorem. I’ll send you the proposal.” Starscream caps the shaker and sets it aside before pushing the bowl toward Hot Rod. “Now stir.”

Optimus tiptoes away. There’s enough conversation going on there he doesn’t think he should get in the middle of it.

Ironhide and Ultra Magnus are not on the training grounds, but in the library, surrounded by stacks of military texts, planning for the possibility of battle, which Optimus suspects they are doing for fun.

“I still say ground troops are what win the war,” Ironhide says, gesturing with a datapad like it’s going to win the argument for him.

“Infantry are too often treated like cannon fodder. We need a better plan than ‘throw more soldiers at it’,” Ultra Magnus points out.

Ironhide rolls his optics. “Y’know that’s not what I’m sayin’. If we poured our resources into making the infantry more effective, and trained the cavalry and the aerials to provide a better support rather than treat the infantry like rust-stains on the bottom of their feet, then maybe, we’d stand a better chance.”

“I’m not refuting that point.” Ultra Magnus points to a datapad, tapping it with his fingertip. “I’m merely suggesting we consider alternatives that result in less infantry on the ground, so we have less casualties.”

It sounds to Optimus like they are having two different arguments, but debating back and forth as if the topic is the same.

Far be it from him to intrude, so he doesn’t. He backs away slowly.

Optimus passes a window and sees Jazz in the garden with his nyckelharpa, the faintest strains of music caught by Optimus’ advanced audio receptors. He thinks Jazz is playing for the sake of it, until he catches movement and realizes Laserbeak is out there with him, staring enraptured. Perhaps Ravage is with them, if he’s not skulking around wherever it is Ravage likes to skulk.

Optimus is in the middle of a second circuit around the house when he turns a corner, and nearly collides with Soundwave, who reaches out to steady him.

“Apologies,” Soundwave rumbles, and for a moment, Optimus tries very hard not to gape.

Clearly, this is where Sunstreaker has gone as well, because Soundwave’s armor gleams like new. Every imperfection has been immaculately removed and replaced with a crystal shine. Accentuating lines of paint draw attention to the sturdy angles of Soundwave’s frame. Even his visor has been polished.

“You are stunning,” Optimus says, his mouth getting away from him before his processor can remind him he needs to be more diplomatic. “Sunstreaker, I wager?”

Soundwave’s energy field flushes with embarrassment. “Affirmative,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Did he completely repaint you?” Optimus asks, resisting the urge to run his fingers over Soundwave’s armor. It is such a deep, lustrous navy now that it aches to be touched.

Soundwave cycles a ventilation and shifts his weight. “Sunstreaker insisted,” he says, and the tiniest whine of an engine accompanies the mild tangle of irritation and resignation before he adds, “Final bond to be completed today, affirmative?”

“Yes.” Optimus politely coughs into his hand and steps back, allowing Soundwave some space. “Where would you be more comfortable?”

“My quarters,” Soundwave says.

“Lead the way.” Optimus flashes Soundwave a smile and falls into step beside him, occasionally glancing at Soundwave to admire his new finish. Sunstreaker had really gone all out this time.

“I noticed Laserbeak in the garden with Jazz,” Optimus says, to distract himself from too much staring and therefore, unnerving Soundwave in the process. “Is Ravage with him as well or do you have a... guest?”

Soundwave taps his dock, which makes a low, hollow sound. “Both cassettes with Jazz,” he says. “Privacy optimal.”

Optimus nods. “And is there anything you would like to ask me before we complete the bond?”

“Negative.”

“Pragmatism,” Optimus says, careful to keep the frown from his face. “You told Jazz that he had a job to do. Is that the way you see it? As a job you have to do?”

Soundwave pauses to look at him, head cocked. “Job also Optimus’.”.

“Fair point,” Optimus concedes, but he ventilates a sigh. “There are so many of you I wish I could have known in freedom. I suspect we might have even been genuine friends.”

“Possibility yet exists.”

Optimus makes a non-committal noise. “There will always be a part of me which will wonder if the friendship is true, or a construction of the situation.”

“Impossible to judge. Circumstances complicated.”

“I suppose you are right.”

Soundwave’s room is in the west wing, the last on the hall and around a corner, nearly hidden from the others. The rooms had not been assigned, other than Optimus declaring which one would be Skyfire’s due to the shuttle’s size. He’s not surprised Soundwave had chosen this particular suite. Jazz, after all, had chosen the very same suite, but on the east wing.

Soundwave, like Jazz, had also installed a bit of extra security on his door. His access code is far more complicated than Optimus’ own. Inside, his room is a study in angles and shadows, the shutters drawn over the windows to only allow thin strips of light, and lamps rearranged to create dim pools of illumination.

“Ravage prefers dark,” Soundwave says, by way of explanation.

“You care very much for your cassettes,” Optimus says, flicking on his lights to dim, to ensure he does not trip on anything, though the floor is immaculate. “I would like very much to learn more about cassette and carrier culture if you would feel so inclined.”

“Later,” Soundwave says.

Optimus tilts his head. “Of course.”

The berth is against the far wall, posed to have a clear view of the door and windows, which makes it seem awkwardly crouched in the room. Optimus’ spark squeezes in his chassis. That Soundwave should feel so unsafe in general, and even here, hurts. How many others are like him? How many Cybertronians exist every day with a general dread for their safety?

Soundwave hovers next to it. He looks at Optimus, and even with the mask and the visor, Optimus can tell he’s awkward. He’s no more used to this than Optimus is.

He smiles, to put Soundwave at ease. “I know this is not an ideal situation for you. Have you bared your spark to anyone before?”

“Ravage. Laserbeak. None others,” Soundwave says, and his armor shivers, glistening in the low light, as it slicks closer to his frame. “Risk inadvisable.”

Optimus can’t hide his frown. “Then I am sorry it has to be in such a way. If it were up to me--”

“Apology accepted but ultimately pointless,” Soundwave says, and his shoulders slump to a fair degree. “Apologize by changing.”

It is hard not to take such things personally, and Optimus still feels the sting of the censure, though it is not his fault. “Understood,” he says.

Neither of them, however, move. Soundwave stays as still as a statue, and Optimus realizes he’s going to have to move them forward, so he sits on the edge of the berth. There’s plenty of room for Soundwave to join him.

Or not, because Soundwave still hasn’t moved.

Optimus pats the berth beside him, wordless invitation. “I do not intend to rush you. If you prefer to wait, we still have a couple of days.”

“No.” Soundwave lurches into motion and sits beside him, stiff and unyielding. “It… must be done.” He rests his hands on his thighs, and stares at the ground.

Optimus gnaws on the inside of his cheek and lets himself sag, losing his upright posture. “I had never shared my spark before either. When the Matrix chose me, I had to show my spark to a room full of strangers. I wasn’t given a choice in that either.” He rubs his central seam, remembering the terror of that moment, the humiliation.

So many faces, watching him with disdain and awe in equal numbers. There’d been jealousy and excitement and anger. He’d seen derision. He’d seen hope. And the first time the Matrix touched his spark had been agony, one everyone had witnessed. They watched him writhe, listened to him shriek, with their dispassionate stares, and even when he stood in the aftermath, a completely different mech, he still felt the weight of their stares.

“It’s a unique feeling of vulnerability, and I’d been fortunate to be sparked in a segment of society where I wasn’t as concerned for my safety. I can’t begin to imagine how it feels for someone who has already spent their whole functioning in a state of constant fear.”

Optimus cycles a ventilation, shaky though it is, and nearly startles when there’s a light touch to his hand. He looks over at Soundwave, who leans in toward him, less a solid block of anxiety, now softened with sympathy.

There’s a quiet click before Soundwave says, “You had no choice either.” He rests his hand over Optimus’, his field reaching out in quiet offering. “You understand enough.”

A secondary click precedes the gradual retraction of Soundwave’s mouthplate, and for the first time, Optimus is granted a glimpse of Soundwave’s face. There are small marks around his lips, his cheeks, like he’s been in a physical altercation once or twice. They do not detract from his appeal, and Optimus suspects the mask had not been out of vanity, but out of self-preservation.

Masks to hide behind. Masks to protect oneself. No wonder Jazz and Soundwave get along so well.

“Thank you,” Optimus says. “Perhaps in the same line, if I show you mine first, you will feel more comfortable baring your spark to me?”

The corner of Soundwave’s lips curve in a smile, crooked though it is by the scar bisecting the seam of his mouth. “Together,” he says, gesturing to his own chassis. “No one is more vulnerable than the other.”

“That sounds fair,” Optimus says. “On the count of three?”

Soundwave, for the first time ever, chuckles. It’s an odd, raspy sound, like he has to brush the dust off his vocalizer to produce it, but Optimus cherishes it all the same.

“I will count,” he says.

Optimus grins. Sometimes all it takes is a little common ground.

All of the datapads he’s read are nothing in the face of the reality of hosting ten tertiary bonds within his spark. It’s scientifically impossible, but he swears each connection is jostling for space with the other, the tiny representations of his various Consorts milling around, trying to get comfortable.

Skyfire wants to be near Starscream, Jazz would prefer distance between himself and everyone else, Prowl and Sunstreaker dance around each other in a decent simulation of their habit of learning to dance, Hot Rod wants to be nestled closer to the core of Optimus’ spark where Ultra Magnus has planted himself like an impenetrable wall. Ratchet runs herd on Ironhide and Soundwave lingers as distant as possible as if he prefers to observe.

It’s an odd, nearly tangible sensation, despite science telling him it’s impossible.

Optimus’ spark quivers, swelling and shrinking, expanding and contracting, as if needing to remold the space within his chamber, to make room for the bonds.

He rests after bonding with Soundwave, and Soundwave is kind enough not to evict Optimus from his quarters, but to let Optimus recharge on his berth after supplying both energon and coolant. He masks himself once more in the aftermath, but his field is open to Optimus, warm with relief and a new sense of kinship.

Optimus wonders if he’s been adopted as a sort of ancillary cassette, because Soundwave is taking care of him to an extent that outshines even Starscream’s nannying. Optimus allows it because it feels nice, and it seems to comfort Soundwave as well.

He dozes, in and out, and in his brief periods of lucidity, the bonds with his Consorts strum the warmest. When he concentrates, he can feel each and every one of them, or at least the shape of them, impressions of them.

It’s as nice as it is disorienting.

Eventually, Soundwave leaves to retrieve his cassettes from Jazz before he decides to keep them, and Optimus heads to his quarters for a quick shower and some time to get his thoughts in order.

He is not the least bit surprised when he emerges in a cloud of steam to find Ultra Magnus seated as his console, typing like a madmech. He, at least, has the code to Optimus’ room, so it’s less of a startling shock.

“I presume you’ve bonded with Soundwave,” Ultra Magnus says, his fingers flying across the keys in a steady staccato.

“I have.” Optimus sits nearby, idly rubbing a cloth over his armor to pick up the last of the damp spots. “I think we have all made great strides with each other. The Senate expects us to return with thinly veiled hatred for each other. They’ll be very surprised.”

“I am in agreement. At least, from the conversations I’ve had anyway.” Ultra Magnus types a few more things before swiveling in the chair to look at Optimus. “Everyone is tentatively hopeful, many of them eager to see what changes might be wrought if we work together.”

Optimus tosses the dirtied rag into the laundry bin. “When I think about how it began, I’m amazed we made so much progress.”

“It’s because you’re genuine and sincere. They can sense it.” Ultra Magnus stands and rests a hand on Optimus’ shoulder. “It’s because you’re you. The Matrix chose well this time.”

Optimus lays a hand over Ultra Magnus’, rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand. “Let’s hope so. But we both know this would have been a hopeless venture without your support.”

“I’m happy to take at least seventy percent of the credit.” Ultra Magnus chuckles and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Come on. We’ve got two more dinners to get through, and then it’s time to face reality.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Optimus drawls.

Optimus doesn’t know how many more moments like this he’s going to get, so he soaks it up for all that it’s worth.

He and Ultra Magnus walk to the gathering room together, and Optimus likes to imagine this is part of what the future has in store for him, many walks with Ultra Magnus, congenially discussing Cybertron’s future.

Optimus takes his usual seat, with Ultra Magnus beside him, and he waits until all of his Consorts arrive, in twos and threes, in high spirits all of them. Even Jazz walks alongside Soundwave, chatting animatedly while Soundwave listens.

Optimus waits until everyone has taken a seat and served themselves from the various treats before he stands, cycling a ventilation to gather attention.

“Oh, Primus, are you giving us another speech?” Ratchet grouses as he liberally fills his glass with the highest concentration of engex they have.

Ironhide kicks Ratchet’s chair and says, “Have some respect, rustbucket.”

Optimus chuckles. “I promise to keep it brief,” he says as Ratchet tosses a glare at Ironhide. “I don’t want to take up too much of the relaxation time we have left.”

“How long do we have?” Skyfire asks.

“The transport comes for us the day after tomorrow,” Ultra Magnus answers as he arranges his treat selection and energon at perfect angles. “Immediately after sunrise.”

Jazz grumbles. “Too damn early.”

“They’re not leaving any of us behind, so they can wait if we’re not ready to go at the aft-crack of dawn,” says Ratchet, saluting Jazz with his engex.

Optimus looses a polite cough into his fist. “While that is true,” he says, attempting to veer the conversation back toward him, “I would like to reiterate how grateful I am for the chance each of you has given me. I know that none of you chose to be here--”

“I did!” Hot Rod chimes in, waving his hand wildly.

Low laughter echoes around the table. Optimus tosses him an indulgent smile.

“Yes, you did. And so did Ultra Magnus, for which I am forever grateful,” Optimus says. “That is not the case for most of you, however, and yet, you have done me a great service by allowing me a chance to explain my plans for the future and get to know you a little bit.”

“You’re pretty persuasive,” Starscream drawls.

Optimus’ face warms, and he tilts his head at Starscream in thanks. “I appreciate the compliment.” He tips his glass, still full of flavored med grade, at his assembled Consorts. “We will have a lot of work to do when we get back. There are going to be many, powerful mechs who will not be happy about the kinds of changes I plan to make, but they must be done. I vow that the promise I made each of you will come to fruition.”

“I thought you said this was going to be a short speech,” Sunstreaker grumbles, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, like he’s teasing.

“You are right, I did,” Optimus concedes, so he lifts his glass once again. “A toast, then, to the bonds we have made, the changes we are going to bring, and a Senate who is soon going to realize how short-sighted it has been.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jazz says.

They all drink, in fact, and Optimus sits back down, waving them on. He’d promised a short speech, and really, he’s said all he needs to say to his Consorts. They know his intentions. They have tasted his spark. They have a piece of him as much as he carries a fraction of them.

The atmosphere is lively. Hopeful. His Consorts chatter amongst each other. Food and drink are plentiful. At some point, Jazz climbs onto the table with the nyckelharpa Optimus spotted earlier and starts to play a rousing tune. It takes little coaxing to get everyone on their feet, to start dancing like they had in the early days.

Optimus doesn’t even have to urge Ultra Magnus to do it. Hot Rod is already there, tugging the large mech out of his chair, smiling up at him with bright optics, impossible to resist.

“It’s my turn to show you a thing or two,” Sunstreaker teases as he pulls Prowl into the center of the open space, his mouth a curve of wickedness.

Soundwave does not dance, but Laserbeak does, and she hops back and forth on his shoulder, trilling along to Jazz’s music, only stopping to accept the tiny bits of treats Soundwave feeds her. Occasionally, Optimus catches a glimpse of Ravage, skulking about, but he thinks he might have imagined things because the dark feline is there and gone again.

“Come on, Ratchet. Show me why they call you the party ambulance,” Starscream says as he sets one of Ratchet’s tires to spinning with a flick of his wrist.

Ratchet grunts, but there’s challenge in his optics. “That’s an old nick, Seeker. How’d you hear about it?”

“Dance with me, and I’ll tell you,” Starscream says, bouncing toward the open floor with Ratchet hot on his heels, giving chase to a Seeker with flirtatiously flicking wings.

Perhaps the engex flows a little too easily tonight, but there’s no harm in that, Optimus supposes. They are on their vacation before they face the real trials. They need to soak up all the peace they can get.

A hand claps down on his shoulder.

“Come on, Prime. You, too,” says Ironhide, leaning in to pluck Optimus’ drink with his other hand and set it on the table. “Right now, until we go back, you’re just Optimus.”

“I will always be Optimus to you all,” Optimus replies, but he lets Ironhide pull him from his chair, out into the chaos that is several frames trying to wriggle and spin in too small a space. “But perhaps I may be Orion every once in awhile.”

Ironhide grins and fits an arm around Optimus’ waist, pulling him into the angles and dips of Ironhide’s frame. “I think that can be arranged. Now show me what those hips of yours can do.”

He has very nice hips, Optimus remembers Ironhide saying, particularly the night they completed their spark bond and Ironhide had been full of many, many compliments.

“Save a dance for me,” Hot Rod demands as he goes grooving by, on his way to claim Skyfire and drag the shuttle away from his stack of scientific manuals.

Optimus chuckles and lets himself be carried away by the joy of the moment, the precipice of hope to which they all cling.

When they return to Iacon, things would be very different, but right here, right now, Optimus is confident the future is going to be a lot brighter.

Maybe there’s something to the Matrix’s choice in him after all.