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The Nemesis has an observatory.
Why a space faring war ship would need an observatory is an irony not lost on Megatron. Megatron has only visited it once before, during its unveiling. He doesn’t remember who had suggested the addition, or why he’d even approved it. It rests sequestered in a portion of the craft he rarely finds himself in, too; in the back end of the ship, on an upper deck corner with a half domed windowed ceiling that occupies more than half the room and presses flush against the great expanse of space. The vaulted, curved window can be adjusted in opacity, with options to view through clear glass into the soup of stars and colorful space gas that the Nemesis hurtles away from, or a fixed, looping feed of Cybertron’s sky before the war.
Currently, Megatron gazes into a bruised sunset above Kaon from 4 million years in the past: murky, dusty, and half choked by fumes and light pollution. Just as he remembers it, and no less beautiful in its own imperfect, unpolished way. He hadn’t expected Kaon to be registered in the little navigation unit inlaid by the door, and finds himself craning his head back and up, transfixed, as the dirty, pretty sky of his youth gazes back at him, equally as impassive, just as silent.
Megatron swallows thickly and quickly switches to a sky less encumbered by a tumultuous, painful history. Helix glitters above him instead.
Megatron takes a seat at a table tucked by the lip of the window, so that the curve of the automated sky hooks overhead. He stretches out with a satisfied grunt, and leans back heavily into the chair that, while manufactured for a frame of his bulk in mind, groans in protest.
“Sit, Soundwave,” Megatron tells the window. Soundwave’s reflection solidifies, coming around the edge of Megatron’s little table to hover, but not take the seat offered to him. Megatron glances up at his companion and doesn’t bother to hide his smirk.
“The chair won’t bite you, Soundwave,” Megatron says. “Or is it my bite that worries you?”
Whatever trepidation that grips Soundwave finally loosens, and he smoothly sinks into the chair across from Megatron. “Negative. Megatron: not a threat to Soundwave,”
“Some might call you cocky for such a presumption,” Megatron muses, then playfully feigns a snap of his teeth at Soundwave. “I still bite,”
Soundwave’s posture is rounded and calm, and his head tilts in such a way that Megatron has fondly come to recognize as a smile. His visor glints warm purple in the dimming faux-light of Helix, and had he any optics, Megatron assumes they’d crinkle in amusement.
“I’m aware,” Soundwave says, verbal tick forgone. Megatron’s spark swells with pride; it’s a sign of Soundwave’s trust and comfort when he drops his rigid, formal manner of speaking. Megatron stretches a leg out obnoxiously into Soundwave’s personal space, and knocks his foot lightly against the side of his companion’s calf. Soundwave presses back into the touch, his plating warm and thrumming.
They lapse into an affable silence, underlain by the rough, low rumble of Megatron’s powerful engine--his heavy war frame--and then the quieter, smoother whir of Soundwave’s complex circuitry. Megatron settles weightilly into his seat, the poor metal fixings whining but holding strong as he tilts his head once more back and up to gaze at a copy of Helix’s sky.
“I can hear you thinking, Soundwave,” Megatron says, but he keeps his voice low and unobtrusive so as to not cut the silence so suddenly. “This is supposed to be a moment of leisure,”
Soundwave chuffs--it’s a barely there sound that can be easily mistaken for background engine noise, but Megatron, proudly, smugly, is familiar with Soundwave’s subdued laugh. “You renovated your berth,” Soundwave says. Megatron barks out his own laugh--rough and loud and all consuming--and rolls his head back around to meet Soundwave’s amused gaze.
“Would you believe I enjoy your company as well as your body?”
“Some would say they are one in the same,”
Megatron’s grin is both lecherous and fond. “Another evening. I bear no ulterior motives.” He pauses, considering. “At the moment,”
Another warm chuff that could be passed as static. More genial silence settles warmly between them. Then, stilted, as Soundwave works around his verbal tic, “This...is appreciated,”
Megatron watches Soundwave through a hooded gaze, soft with affection. Soundwave has taken to tilting his gaze back towards Helix, his visor now purple-blue with the growing dusk. The weight of unspoken sentiments and history are enough to crumple either of them, should they attempt to shoulder it, but this isn’t what this evening is for. Megatron straightens some in his seat, ignoring how colder his calf feels no longer pressed to Soundwave, and spreads his legs wide to pat his thigh invitingly.
“Come here,”
“You changed your mind quickly,”
Megatron chortles. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Soundwave. Come here,”
Ever dutiful Soundwave rises to his feet regardless of the questioning, amused flash of his visor, and stands expectantly at Megatron’s side. Before he can voice his question, however, Megatron is leaning over to grab Soundwave by the hips and pull him into his lap.
Soundwave is not a small mech. Megatron is an outlier, broader and taller and heavier than a vast majority, and it’s a note of his own size that Soundwave manages to come to Megatron’s shoulder. His alt mode is deceptive--his own frame laden with weighty wiring and hardware to compensate for his advanced communication oriented processor, not to mention weaponry and armor. But Megatron adjusts Soundwave onto his lap with laughable ease, as if he isn’t as large and dense as he is, and for a moment, Soundwave feels smaller. Taken care of.
Soundwave braces his hands against Megatron’s chest, which shakes with laughter.
“Megatron,” he grouses, scandalized, but Megatron winds his arms around Soundwave’s midsection and traps him effortlessly against his chest.
“Soundwave,” Megatron shoots back. His tone is arrogantly self-assured. “Fancy meeting you here,”
“Do I have a choice in seating?”
“If you feel so pressed,” Megatron says smoothly, but his grip is possessive. “Are you not comfortable?”
Soundwave’s unamused silence is stifling. Megatron adjusts enough to free a hand, then touches it lightly against the side of Soundwave’s face. For a moment, Megatron wavers.
“I’ve missed you,” he says, raw. (If anyone should bear the weight of those unspoken sentiments, Megatron offers his broad shoulder. It’s built for crushing loads.)
“Soundwave: always with you,” Soundwave says, and leans forward to touch his forehead to Megatron’s. Lets Megatron feel for the both of them, brief and devastating, and provides a gentle shore for Megatron to wade back up against.
“I’m allowed my nonsensical whims,” Megatron huffs. He swipes his thumb across Soundwave’s faceplate, a wordless request that’s granted without pause. He strokes the scarred, dimpled texture of Soundwave’s lips reverently, thumb kept between them as he presses in a light kiss. Soundwave shivers and relaxes further in Megatron’s sturdy hold. The exhaustion the third in command so skillfully keeps at bay finally eks in, has Soundwave leaning more heavily into Megatron’s palm, into his broad chest. Megatron hums, deep and rumbling from the very pit of his spark.
“You won’t crush me, Soundwave,” Megatron says quietly. “Rest. I’ll keep watch,”
Soundwave nods distantly, and allows Megatron to guide his head down against his warm, broad chassis. As he slides gently into recharge, Megatron props a leg up onto the table, leans them both back into a chair not suited for this purpose, and quietly watches Helix melt into evening millions of years in the past.