Chapter Text
If Elita One could imagine herself doing anything the night after Mandroid was defeated, she’d automatically think of having a nice, warm cube of energon in berth on a well-earned day off. Not dancing with a Decepticon at a party.
When she had first come to underneath a starry sky awash in green, faceplate on hard concrete, she immediately wondered if she’d accidentally done a triathlon in her sleep. Her whole frame ached like she’d swam across the Atlantic and back to Witwicky in less than a solar cycle. She clearly hadn’t, given the lack of sea salt encrusted onto her finish, but her spinal struts screamed in immense protest as she struggled upright to see Optimus equally dazed beside her.
Given that the two of them were currently in a railyard, however, some part of the thought of sleepwalking had to be true. It seemed infeasible that two Autobots would have been dragged by the pedes from the Malto household all the way there, much less by any human organization (G.H.O.S.T. in particular).
The solar cycle after, the Terrans and the Malto children had sheepishly explained to her and Optimus that the bots’ possessed bodies may have been subjected to being crushed by a crane and subsequently drained of energon in self-defense, before apologizing profusely. And despite being impressed for wielding such a…skillset at their young age, it still bothered Elita at the back of her mind that a group of literal protoforms had been exposed to this much violence already. Then there was the point that they were capable of using it with prowess, when all the Autobots (or maybe just Elita) never wanted to see potential signs of a generation preparing for yet another war.
…but perhaps she was just being paranoid over nothing.
All these thoughts swirled in tandem with the high-grade energon cube in her hand, still nearly full even after a couple of megacycles. The plausible solution to nullify her rambling processor was just to chug the fragging thing, but she really wanted to avoid a hangover the next solar cycle if she was to be stuck doing all the heavy lifting around the Autobot base. Unfortunately, that was always a given, so she sipped gingerly at her cube as the night wore on.
At the Maltos’, little hanging lights cast warm glows over her frame like scattered stars up close. The atmosphere was oddly homey, with bots scattered around the spacious yard in little groups, talking and laughing. Elita was one of two sitting on hay bales in front of the barn, Wheeljack a few bales over to her right. Unlike her, he only had a datapad in hand; she knew sometimes his workload rivaled her own along with his tendencies to complete it, but it was rare to see. His presence, silent except for the beeping of the datapad, was oddly grounding.
On second thought, maybe it was a good idea to be savoring this high-grade. It wasn’t often she was allowed to relax under G.H.O.S.T. 's nigh constant (and borderline invasive) supervision, so chances for any leisure were atomized like scrap. Imagine her surprise when Optimus had knocked on her door and told her all bots, Autobot or Decepticon, were invited to the Malto household that night for some kind of party for their victory against Mandroid. (She was more shocked by the fact that her schedule had mysteriously and perfectly cleared itself. The way Optimus’ optics had just slightly crinkled at the corners should’ve been a clear sign as to who the culprit was.)
But for now, there was little else to do than to stir her energon and watch the children wreak havoc on their victims in the form of Earth games.
Megatron and Bumblebee were currently getting their afts kicked by the masters of charades, Mo and Thrash, who were currently leading with a 9-1 score. Robbie and Twitch were hollering in support of their siblings, waiting for their turn to demolish their mentors. How the two Cybertronians had actually managed to secure a point was unthinkable to Elita; she’d seen the Terran-human duo in action, and frankly, it terrified her how concentrated they could be at such a simple game, besides from their literal connection to each other.
Or what was that new word Hashtag, in a fit of hysteric giggles, had taught her recently? ‘Locked in' ? Maybe her millions of years of seniority were finally creeping up on her if she didn’t understand why it was so funny.
Jawbreaker and Aftermath, with the most miniscule colored cards she’d ever seen, were duking it out against Shockwave and Soundwave. Soundwave’s cassettes, plus Spitfire, were hovering around, avidly goading on their favored competitors. The Decepticons were putting up a surprisingly strong defense against the Terrans, despite having been (reluctantly persuaded to be) taught the game less than a megacycle ago. Elita was immediately reminded of a card game she’d used to play back on Cybertron, one that involved protecting a fictional fleet of ships from other players’ galaxy-spanning attacks. She herself had always won with the strategy of discreetly laying down enough spacebridge cards around her target, before deploying her ‘Hyperdrive’ action card and tearing through the unassuming fleet with her battalion.
She didn’t know if she would have preferred if the real war had just been as simple as that, or stayed a fantasy like the game itself.
She could hear Shockwave grumbling about ‘an unexpected turn of events’, optic flickering like he’d had just a sip too many of high-grade. It was quite a peculiar sight to see both him and Soundwave treat the paper cards with a gentleness that was devastatingly absent on the battlefield, but perhaps even more so when this was basically another fighting ground.
Something rebellious, almost hopeful, bloomed in her spark despite her judgement; she didn’t want to be naive and think that the war was so completely over, but the patterns she had been seeing fed that feeling all the more.
In the corner of her optic, she could see the dark emerald frame of Nightshade enthusiastically explaining the complications of some concept that sounded like the spawn of a horrible, Primus-sent scientific nightmare. Tarantulus stood attentively next to them, occasionally nodding, somehow making sense of the jargon thrown his way. Elita looked back down at her high-grade, then started to take a large sip. It wouldn’t do her good to listen in and give herself a bigger headache to deal with tomorrow.
“No, not really like that. Keep your servos straighter and lift your pede a little more. Here, look…”
That was not a voice Elita had expected to hear, even at a party like this. Nearly spitting out her energon, she managed to save her dignity by a micrometer and swallow properly before whirling to look behind her.
The Elite seeker trine, clustered in semi-darkness, were gathered around Hashtag in a way that mimicked crows hovering over a particularly shiny rock. Starscream in particular was fussing over her form as she tried to imitate a pose that looked almost ridiculous, then started to copy the way her impromptu teacher moved in the same way—
Oh. They were dancing.
It was…odd, to say the least, seeing Starscream of all mechs teaching another bot how to dance. Such a frame that was responsible for so much carnage and destruction suddenly treating Hashtag with the same gentleness one would expect from a carrier or sire with their sparkling, Elita couldn’t even possibly fathom. She just stared, unable to form a coherent thought, as Starscream finally nodded at Hashtag’s form in approval.
“Wait, we should show her the one for a trio!”
Skywarp’s sudden voice made Elita jump, with how invested she was in the whole scene. The Autobot was fairly certain Wheeljack turned her way in confusion, but she ignored him.
Nova Storm shifted, her yellow plating catching the hanging lights. “Last time we did that, I remember you were so clumsy, you brought down a whole other bot that wasn’t even in our way. Poor mech didn’t know what hit him when you lost your balance.”
An affronted noise. “That was only because I was drunk! Have you seen me touch a single high-grade cube since we got here?”
“Pretty sure you snuck one in your subspace for later.”
“And I’m pretty sure you’re trying to gaslight everyone into thinking that it was my fault, when you were the one who asked me to save it for you.”
“Your dumb aft shouldn’t even know the right definition of gaslighting.”
“Excuse you, you obviously don’t know how much I can articulate. Very skillfully, at that.”
“The only thing you can skillfully articulate is just how fragging annoying you can get.”
“Yeah, articulate with these servos! Just because you’re trine doesn’t mean you have get-out-of-me-punching-your-face free cards.”
“Alright, enough, ” Starscream snapped, “Don’t give me more of a headache with all these Autobots chattering about. For the sake of our sanities, Skywarp, we will not be showing Hashtag the—”
“Hey!” Hashtag cut in, clearly a little annoyed at the lack of her inclusion, “I think I’m pretty capable of speaking for myself, thank you very much. And I think Skywarp has a good idea. So what? It can’t be that embarrassing, right? I mean, you were already teaching me a different Vosian dance, so you couldn’t have thought it was that bad. But like, I get it if you don’t want to, that’s cool too. It would be super awesome if you did, though…”
Starscream, it seemed, was not immune to the ramblings of a protoform. Elita nearly laughed out loud at the irony of a formerly ruthless, literal war machine having the heart to genuinely listen to the whimsies of a child. It almost sickened her, honestly—the fact that he could just disregard all the death he’d caused, all the friends she’d lost—most everyone she held dear were offlined because of him. Even if they weren’t all completely innocent, they were only mechs, mechs that deserved to survive to see more than just a war-ridden Cybertron for millennia to come.
But try as she might now, she could not continue to think that Starscream was anything less than a mech because of Hashtag. To treat a near sparkling the polar opposite of any unfamiliar bot he would have eons ago—couldn’t that serve as evidence of him actually possessing a spark capable of something akin to care? Could he really be more than just the bloodthirsty commander the Autobots had regularly subjected his image to?
Elita didn’t know what to think of it anymore.
Meanwhile, Starscream was dragging his hand down his face, much to the delight of Hashtag and Skywarp.
“... fine, ” he finally groaned, like it pained him severely. Skywarp gave Hashtag an enthusiastic high-five that had the Terran shaking out her servo after.
Nova Storm rolled her optics, but they had a look to them that seemed odd on her frame. “Oh, don’t worry, ‘Screamer. It won’t be embarrassing for you as long as you’re not as drunk as Skywarp.”
The latter gave a shout of laughter. “Ha! Remember when he downed three whole cubes that night for confidence when he went up to his shuttle—”
“And Skywarp has just shown exactly why we should not stay at this blasted convention a moment longer.”
That started around three minutes of verbal argument emphasized by dramatic eye rolls, wing flares, and an unhealthy amount of sass Elita had ever seen. The combined force of their EM fields nearly knocked her off her haybale as she raised her energon cube to her lips.
“Hello, Elita.”
This time, she really did splutter out an intake-full of energon, having to reset her vocalizer multiple times as she wheezed in surprise.
Optimus, for his part, had the grace to look at least a little guilty.
Elita wiped high-grade from her dermas, glaring at her boss and closest friend.
“...is this perhaps a bad time?” he asked, fiddling with his own cube of energon.
“We really need to work on your habit to scare the living spark out of poor mechs,” Elita replied, “But no, this isn’t a bad time.”
She gestured towards the hay bale to her left, trying not to look like she was continuing to eavesdrop on the Seekers behind them. Not that she could really focus on them now, with Optimus here.
Optimus sat beside her, looking at her out of the corner of his optic. Elita didn’t like the mischief that suddenly seemed to exude from him. “Are you sure? Something seemed to have captured your whole and undivided attention a moment ago.”
Her faceplate grew warm. Was she blushing? “Well, I’m all audials now. What’s on your mind?”
“Just what could have been so interesting as to have completely enraptured my comrade.”
She stared at him incredulously, and in the warm party lighting, she could see the downright devious smile on his dermas, despite how inconspicuous it tried to be.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. It’s not everyday that something happens to be so worth your time at a party, Elita. And don’t deny it, we both know we’ve gone to enough together for you to say otherwise.”
Damn Optimus and his goofy matter-of-fact aft. Two could play that memory game. “Oh, of course, all those times where you were making eyes at Megs and trying to invite him to the hab that you both shared, completely drenched in high-grade. Those parties.”
Her boss frantically looked over her helm at Wheeljack, who was fully engrossed in whatever work littered his datapad. They weren’t very near anybody, and the Seekers weren’t paying them any attention.
Optimus’ optics were so full of relieved dismay that Elita burst out laughing. “Elita!”
That only made the femme laugh harder, clutching at Optimus’ pauldron as she shook with mirth.
“...so I suppose the Seeker trine had nothing to do with your surprise earlier?”
Her face turned stony immediately, sitting up to her full height. She saw Optimus bite his lower derma to stifle a chuckle, no doubt, when the top of her helm could only reach his pauldron. She hated the way he could just snap back to being infuriating in an instant.
“Aha,” he said in a tone that was supposed to be smug , but to Elita, he sounded more like a sparkling when they had found the forbidden rust stick jar. “So? Care to…spill the tea?”
She squinted, bewildered. “What?”
He shrugged. “Hashtag.” Ah. That explained it.
“What…tea is there to spill?”
His cheeky grin was the only response she got. Sometimes she forgot that somewhere hidden beneath the guardian of humankind, war-hero and Autobot leader Optimus Prime, Orion Pax was still alive, sneaking out from the figurative and literal mask every now and then to continue his streak of subtle mischief.
She huffed, relenting. “So what? I’ve never seen Starscream at a party having fun without injuring other mechs. Sue me for being shocked to learn that he of all bots can fragging dance, and well at that.”
Optimus turned to look at the trine, making a curious hum, and when he spoke again, it was more Orion’s voice. “...had that not been a traditional Vosian dance, I would also have been surprised.”
Elita mimicked him, and was promptly speechless.
The only times she could ever say the elite Seeker trine were remotely any resemblance of gracefulness were on the battlefield, weaving and dodging through defense and offense with almost natural precision, cutting patterns of destruction in the air. On the ground, without burning clouds or slices of broken Mach 1, it was entirely different.
Weaving this time with intricate footwork, they were nothing short of…hypnotizing, in a way. Stepping and twirling lightly in a tight circle around each other, moving their servos with a never-before seen amount of elegance, and their wings never once clashing or touching. It was hard to believe that this facet of each of them existed, so precise and careful. Or that their faces, so usually pent up with malice and sadism, could have just a smudge of innocence in their optics.
“... read about it in the archives once, meant to mimic the feeling of taking wing without doing so. I’m sure you remember.”
Optimus’ voice snapped her out of whatever trance she’d entered, and she had to tear her eyes away when Skywarp made a particular finishing flourish with her wings and servos. It looked nearly ethereal.
“...what?” she asked, very smartly.
Her friend shook his head at her in mock hurt. “Oh, don’t bother. You’ve something else on your mind more important than me.”
“OP, on Primus I will—”
“See something you like?”
A sudden zap of electricity and a red flash were all the warnings Elita received before Skywarp blinked into existence right behind her. Optimus choked on the high-grade he was sipping, barely managing to disguise it as a cough into his clenched servo.
Elita looked her dead in the optic, hoping she sounded totally convincing and normal. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, nothing.” Skywarp examined the ends of her digits. Behind her, the rest of her trine had returned to Hashtag’s barrage of awed questions, Nova Storm occasionally throwing a glance at her sister. “Just wondering why you were ogling us from here.”
The Autobot spluttered indignantly. “I was not ogling—”
“It’s like you’ve never seen somebody dance before. Am I right? You sure seem like a bot who’s never had a fun solar cycle in her life.”
Optimus audibly snickered, and if looks could kill, he would have been vaporized into a sad little smoking scrap pile by Elita’s glower.
“See, even Prime agrees.”
“If you just came over here to mock me, I’ll be leaving—”
“Wanna dance?”
Elita froze, midstep as she stood. When she looked back at Skywarp, bewildered, the Seeker shrugged. “You are in desperate need of some flavor to your life. And personality. But you’ve sure got the legs for dancing, so we can start there.”
Her faceplate grew even warmer, and judging by Optimus’ hand over his dermas and shaking pauldrons, it was pretty obvious. Before she could flounder for a very eloquent answer, Skywarp had already grabbed her servo and tugged her over the haybales. Elita’s cube of high-grade fell onto the grass, a neon pink puddle sparkling in the hanging gold lights.
This wasn’t how she thought her night would go.