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Optimus Prime stood on the landing pad awaiting the arrival of the Lost Light. A small crowd of luminaries had gathered, eager for the return of the strange motley crew and the fabled Knights of Cybertron that they had found. Their arrival promised an age of renewed wisdom and rebirth. However, it also promised justice, possibly even death for the Lost Light’s captain.
Megatron may have hoped to delay his fate with the seemingly impossible quest but now that it was at an end he would have to pay for his crimes. If Optimus were honest with himself, he was not certain how he wanted this to end.
He had been sent reports during the ship’s time away, mostly complaints from Megatron about the unruliness of the crew, Rodimus’s irresponsible behavior and the general ridiculous nature of day-to-day life. It seemed that, despite everything, Megatron was doing his best to adapt to life without war.
Optimus wished that he could say the same, but every moment dealing with Starscream was a battle unto itself. He was grateful that he had found an ally in Windblade, a cityspeaker who had made thwarting Starscream at every turn a personal hobby.
“When did they say they would arrive?” Windblade asked.
Optimus checked his internal chronometer: “According to Rodimus, within the next half hour.”
“That had better be true,” the less than dulcet tones of Starscream butted into their conversation. “I am very busy: legislation to look over, an execution to plan--”
“We don’t know if Megatron has been found guilty yet,” Optimus said.
“Oh please,” Starscream scoffed. “Do you honestly think that the Knights of Cybertron could find any other verdict?” He flipped his ridiculous cape back over his shoulder. “He was a tyrant, a petty warlord—“
“And you worked for him,” Windblade pointed out.
Starscream sneered at the femme bot. “A youthful mistake.”
“For millions of years?” Windblade asked. Although she had confessed a certain naiveté to Optimus in regards to her early encounters with Starscream, repeated exposure had made her immune to his nonsense.
The red seeker and now ruler of Cybertron paused a moment to craft a response but before he could utter a retort, the guests of honor arrived. They heard the roar of the engines long before the ship came into view. The Lost Light was battered and bruised, a silent testament to the trouble that the ship had endured in the time away. It was hardly fitting for the luminary figures on board, but it had been millions of years since Cybertron’s Golden Age where more concern had been made regarding cosmetic pleasantries.
The landing gear deployed and the massive ship settled almost delicately onto the platform. The ramp and cargo doors opened with a loud rumble, revealing the crew waiting inside. Toward the front was Rodimus, a large smile plastered on his face and his thumbs up in a “look at me, isn’t this awesome?” gesture. There were a few other mechs that Optimus recognized and some figures that he had only seen in history texts.
The Knights of Cybertron themselves were definitely older models, although their paint was new. Optimus wondered if Rodimus had given it to them to make them look more impressive. And at Rodimus’s side was the captain of the Lost Light, Megatron himself. The former warlord kept his face impassive as his optics scanned the crowd, but when they alighted on Optimus and Starscream, his lip curved into a smug smirk.
With his faceplate up, it was easy for Optimus to maintain a neutral expression. Starscream, on the other hand, was a different story. Optimus could feel Starscream trembling with indignation. Windblade rolled her optics at the display.
An unfamiliar form strode forward, his plating resembling the armor of medieval European knights. He gleamed silver and gold in the light, Optimus believed that he was the Knight chosen to speak for them. “Fellow Cybertronians,” the mech said, “after mega-annus away, we have returned. Our world is vastly different from when we left but we are committed to bringing Cybertron back to its former glory. This brave crew,” the mech gestured towards the members of the Lost Light, “has traversed galaxies to retrieve us, but it was not the only task that they asked of us.”
The crowd shifted with impatience, eager to know Megatron’s fate. “We were also asked to try the captain of the Lost Light, a war criminal by the name of Megatron.” Starscream grinned in anticipation. “After much testimony from the captain and various witnesses we could only have one verdict,” the strange mech said, “Guilty.”
“Yes!” Starscream’s satisfied screech was just a little too loud to be polite.
But Megatron seemed unconcerned for a convicted war criminal. As the humans said, Optimus was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“However,” the gold and silver Knight continued, “we believe that too many of our citizens have fallen over the course of the war to justify a state sanctioned execution.”
If Starscream had a tongue he would have been choking on it. Optimus, on the other hand, was intrigued. Megatron had once told him he would rather die than face life in prison, his legacy tarnished. What could the former warlord possibly have to smile about?
“We have, instead decided on another sentence,” the gold Knight said. “To mend the fractured spark of our people, we felt that they needed a token, a reminder of unity in the face of division. As former leader of the Decepticons, Megatron is a symbol of strife as is Optimus Prime, former leader of the Autobots. To cleave them together is to heal the deep rift that has befallen our people.”
Optimus held back the snort of derision. This solution obviously didn’t take the NAILs into account, let alone other political factors and wait, were the Knights suggesting what he thought they were?
Megatron’s grin was starting to show dentoids. Rodimus and a few other crew-members shuffled on their peds. They knew that this was coming and didn’t bother to warn him?
“Do you, Optimus Prime,” the Knight was addressing Optimus directly now, “agree to this arrangement?”
Optimus took a brief moment to collect himself. What they were asking of him was a tremendous sacrifice. He had given up much as Prime, including his life, how terrible could this be if it would guarantee peace? “I will do anything that is in the best interests of Cybertron,” Optimus answered, the only way he could have.
“Then we will discuss arrangements later. Now we need to meet with the one called Starscream,” the gold Knight said.
Starscream collected his dignity and fell in step with the Knights of Cybertron. As he left, Windblade turned to Optimus and gave him a series of silent signals: she would accompany Starscream, good luck with Megatron and she was so glad that it was Optimus and not her putting up with this scrap. After she departed Optimus approached Megatron. “We need to talk,” Optimus said.
“Of course,” the former Decepticon said, holding out his hand indicating that Optimus should lead. Rodimus followed them but the others took off to take care of their business, and to possibly avoid Optimus’s wrath.
“What made the Knights think that you’ll go along with this farce?” Optimus asked, when they were out of the crowd’s audial range.
Megatron seemed very pleased with himself. “Because I suggested it to them.”
That gave Optimus pause. He made a noncommittal noise. He should have known that Megatron had harbored no intention to die. “And how did you convince them of your sincerity?” he asked.
Megatron gifted him with a conspiratorial whisper: “I showed them my poems.”
That didn’t seem like it would be enough; Optimus felt that Megatron was being flippant. “But those were mostly political—“
“All of my poems.” Now Megatron was leering at him with too many teeth.
It took Optimus a moment to figure out what exactly Megatron was referring to. Before the war, Optimus had been known simply as Orion Pax. In those early days of questioning his place in the world and the motives of the Senate and the Functionalists he had exchanged a number of correspondences with Megatron. This was, of course, before the betrayals, back when they were still-- Oh, those poems.
“Those were—“ Optimus searched for the right words for them. The ones he wanted to say (filthy, intimate) would not be ones he could repeat in front of Rodimus-- “personal.”
Rodimus slung an arm over Optimus’s shoulder. “Very personal,” he said with a ridiculous grin.
Oh Primus, Rodimus had read them.
“You said you’d rather die than have anyone read those,” Optimus said, plucking the offending arm off his shoulder. That Megatron had made that statement over four million years ago was not relevant.
“Optimus, I would have died if I hadn’t.” Megatron’s tone indicated he had spent way too much time on the Lost Light and around Rodimus.
Optimus sighed, a favored gesture he had learned from the humans. “So you are willing to be bound as conjunx endura to me just to save your life?”
“Oh no,” Rodimus interrupted, “He’s willing to do it because he’s pining.”
The look on Megatron’s face would have sent hundreds of Autobots into uncontrollable quakes of fear; it would have made his former soldiers prostrate themselves on the ground shrieking forgiveness; it would have become legend with the retellings of its ferocity if the war still ravaged Cybertron. As it was, Optimus took it as a sign that Rodimus was telling the truth. “Get some of that swill from Swerve’s into him and start talking about the old days. Wow, he had it bad—“
“Decepticons do not pine,” Megatron snarled.
“But you are no longer a Decepticon,” Optimus pointed out. Optimus detested the idea of being used but Megatron’s inadvertent confession made the situation much more interesting, and possibly hilarious.
Megatron turned his attention to Rodimus. “Go tend to the ship,” he ordered.
Rodimus fumed. “I just got here. I’m co-captain and I—“
“Should act like it,” Megatron said, brooking no argument. “Go to the ship or do whatever else you like but leave us now!” Rodimus glanced from Megatron to Optimus before finally shaking his head and taking his leave. “He’s like a hyperactive sparkling,” Megatron muttered to himself. “For this humiliation I demand that we hold a public ceremony.” That was more like the haughty Megatron that Optimus knew.
“I request that we have it in private,” Optimus countered. “A public ceremony may require Starscream to preside.”
If the sneer that crossed Megatron’s face before was merely terrible, this one could kill in an instant. “Fine,” Megatron spat out the word, “a private ceremony will suffice.”
An awkward silence descended over them as the reality of the situation hit. Conjunx endura, that was something Optimus never thought he’d share with anyone; being a Prime had taken up so much time and so much energy that he had never formed that level of attachment before. Now he was going to have to spend the rest of his life with someone who had sworn to kill him at least once a megacycle for four million years. Primus, this was absurd. “Are we going to go through with this?” Optimus asked. He waited for the punch line, for the sneer, for any of Megatron’s usual theatrics, what he got instead quiet honesty.
Megatron spoke, his voice calm. “I have never hated you Optimus, you know that. And I understand that your regard for me is, I believe the word you used was ‘complicated.’”
Optimus let out a soft, “Heh.” He remembered that conversation well.
“We’ve known each other for millions of years, have fought side-by-side and as foes. We know the others weaknesses and strengths and—“ Megatron’s voice trailed off. “Take off your faceplate.”
“Pardon?” Optimus was confused at the request.
“If I have to explain myself I will do it to you, not to your armor.” There was a strange undertone to the request, something subtly dangerous. Megatron may no longer be a Decepticon, may no longer be leading an army, but he still commanded respect and some fear.
Optimus pressed his digits to the small switch at the edge of the mouthplate. With a low whoosh, the plates parted, revealing his face. Megatron reached up and Optimus had to stop himself from flinching away. The former warlord’s hand was warm against his cheek.
This time when Megatron smiled, there was tenderness in it. “Now,” he said, “how can I convince you?”
“Read me some of your poetry,” Optimus said in the blandest voice he could manage.
“That can be arranged,” Megatron agreed. “My berth or yours?”
Optimus just glared with the full force of his bearing. “You are presumptuous, Megatron.”
Megatron sneered, “I’ve waited four million years for this, I will not be accused of moving too fast.”
Optimus laughed, he couldn’t help it after all of the fighting, the scheming, and the politics; a sexually frustrated mech was the least of his problems. “Come,” he said, “take me to the Captain’s room, I want to see what Rodimus has done to the ship.” With a proper courtship and time, this could actually be a workable arrangement. As it was, Optimus needed to make the best of it. And as Megatron nodded and grasped his hand, not in anger, but with a more fragile emotion Optimus thought it just might be possible.