Chapter Text
‘Oh Primus, was he trying to court me…?’
The thought makes Optimus’ optics shoot wide open in horror, illuminating his berth-room inside Hangar E in a soft baby blue. It’s a lot smaller than the one he had back at Outpost Omega One, but Optimus has never been the kind of bot to complain about such minor inconveniences.
The berth is large enough for him to rest comfortably and recharge on the nights he actually lies down instead of spending them out on patrol.
He swallows dryly and shutters his optics once, maybe twice. His faceplate warms unbidden as he mulls over the thought that had suddenly invaded his processor so aggressively.
A memory surfaces.
It was many, many stellar cycles ago, back when Optimus Prime had yet to be gifted the Matrix of Leadership or earn his title of Prime. Back when he was still Orion Pax, the enthusiastic archivist working under Alpha Trion in the Hall of Records.
Back then, Cybertron was ruled strictly by guilds and caste systems. Before the war. Before the Autobots and Decepticons. Pits- before he had even met Megatronus.
Back when it was just Orion and his friends: Jazz, Prowl, Ironhide, and Ratchet.
The last designation makes Optimus' vent hitch.
The memory then replays in his processor like a movie.
It is himself- Orion Pax- hunched over the desk in his habsuite back in Iacon, tirelessly mulling over a datapad he had...borrowed from the Hall of Records.
Usually, clerks weren't allowed to take any data or records home with them in any way, shape, or form. Security and clearance regulations.
But this particular record simply wouldn't give Orion Pax a moment's peace. As many times as he had read it over, trying to dissect it down to its very core, trying to analyze it...
It just didn't make any sense.
And it wouldn't grant him any peace of mind- or any recharge for that matter- as long as he couldn't solve it.
So there he was, glaring at the datapad in front of him with tired optics, bouncing his leg in frustration as he went over the same paragraph over, and over, and over again.
‘So, will you finally put that thing down, or do I have to do it for you, Orion Pax of Iacon?’
It's not an understatement to say that the archivist's spark had nearly jumped out of his chassis at the sudden voice behind him.
His shoulder pauldrons jolt upward as his entire frame freezes, an unceremonious yelp leaving Orion's derma as he whips his helm around.
His initial shock fades almost instantly the moment those familiar aqua-blue optics meet his own.
Ratchet stands in the doorway to Orion's berth-room, leaning against the frame with both arms crossed over his chassis. His optics are half-shuttered, his derma curled into a fond smile, while the antenna mounted to his medical pack lazily wags behind him. Illuminated by the light pouring in from the living area of Orion's humble little habsuite, the orange of Ratchet's paintjob somehow looks even warmer.
‘Ratchet...how'd you get in...? I didn't hear you ring the intercom...’
One of Ratchet's optical ridges lifts, and he snorts, almost mockingly- if not for the affection still lacing his voicebox. Pushing himself off the doorframe, he slowly crosses the room toward Orion.
‘I figured I'd stop by and check up on you, considering you never miss our high-grade nights over at Maccadam's. So I came over, using the code to your habsuite you gave me stellar cycles ago, by the way. And well... I guess my medical bot intuition was right.’
Ratchet muses, finally stopping behind Orion. One servo settles on his shoulder pauldron, gently turning the archivist around in his swivel chair. The medical bot leans down, pursing his derma before he clicks his glossa at the obvious exhaustion swimming in Orion's optics.
‘Tsk...You need a break, Orion. You look like scrap.’
It's now Orion's turn to scoff fondly as he pushes Ratchet's faceplate back, albeit with all the gentle force of a baby cyber-cat. His own derma curls into a playful smirk.
‘Wow- gee, thanks, Ratch. And here I thought you'd broken and entered just to see me.’
Ratchet's expression falters for just a moment, and Orion fails to notice the shade of blue blooming across the medical bot's faceplate beneath those aqua optics.
‘Puh-lease, I wouldn't hear the end of it from you or Prowl if I did.’
Ratchet shutters his optics a couple of times before averting his gaze altogether. Crossing his arms over his chassis, he steps away from the chair, giving Orion enough room to get to his pedes.
Orion vents heavily as he stretches his arms high above his helm, a pleased grunt slipping from his voice-box as the familiar crack of his spinal strut echoes through his frame. He relaxes a moment later, the datapad long forgotten on the desk.
Ratchet's smile returns, and he gently guides Orion out of the berth-room toward the small balcony attached to the living area of the habsuite.
It's a lovely view, just outside the heart of Iacon, overlooking the city in all its nighttime glory. Truly, Cybertron is at its most beautiful deep into the solar cycle, when the countless lights of the cities gleam and flicker beneath the stars and twin moons, while streams of blue energon illuminate the streets below.
Orion vents in the cool air from the balcony, leaning against the railing as his optics drift half-shut. At last, he feels that familiar tug of exhaustion at the back of his processor, accompanied by a quiet sense of comfort and contentment.
He's just about to turn around and look for Ratchet when the other bot approaches, carrying two cubes of warm energon, one in each servo.
He offers one to Orion. The archivist accepts it wordlessly with a grateful little smile, one that Ratchet easily returns. The orange and white bot settles beside Orion, his gaze drifting toward Iacon at last.
The silence between them is easy, comforting. It always has been. Somehow, whenever Ratchet was around, Orion had always felt a wave of safety and comfort wash over him. That's not to say he didn't feel safe or comfortable around his other friends- Primus, no- but with Ratchet, it had always been different. Peaceful.
A silent understanding that only their sparks seemed to share.
Orion takes a sip of the energon, the warm liquid settling in his tanks and heating his chassis from the inside. The archivist hums in delight at the slightly sweet taste of the blue liquid, his audial finials twitching happily.
He glances down at the cube before looking over at Ratchet, his optics gleaming.
‘You got me this brand...? Where'd you get it? They don't usually sell it in this district of Iacon. How-’
Ratchet waves him off, his gaze never leaving Iacon's skyline, perhaps in an attempt to hide the steadily darkening blush spreading farther across his faceplate.
‘Eyip, yip, yip, yip- I was there anyway and thought I'd get it for you...’
He pauses, gently biting his derma as his optics flick toward Orion for the briefest moment before darting away again.
‘Special occasion...I guess.’
He finally turns to face him, his aqua optics flickering slightly as he struggles to find the words.
Orion's gaze remains fixed on the other bot, trying his best to ignore the way the antenna behind Ratchet twists itself into odd little shapes with a few nervous twitches.
‘...I don't get to have you all to myself lately, do I...? With us both being so busy all the time...’
Orion quietly mulls over the words- the weight behind them despite the softness with which Ratchet had spoken. He tries to decipher them, take them apart, understand them.
But then Ratchet opens his intake once more, his vent hitching as though something in his processor is holding him back from saying it aloud. And Orion figures it's best not to dwell on it.
‘I simply missed you...that's all.’
The archivist's optical ridges shoot upward at that.
Ratchet had never really been the most...verbally affectionate bot. He wasn't mean- or snappy, at least not toward Orion. (Usually it was Jazz who bore the full brunt of that…) But this... this was different.
Orion can't quite place it.
He struggles to make sense of the way Ratchet's gaze keeps flickering back to him only to dart away again. The way his faceplate is now closer in color to the energon cube in his servo than its usual white.
The way the usually confident, well-spoken medical bot's voice-box crackles ever so slightly. The way his posture suddenly seems nervous in a setting that should feel so familiar. So comfortable.
None of it makes sense.
But somehow, Orion feels that, this time...it doesn't have to.
At last, he simply smiles softly before edging just a little closer to his friend, their shoulder pauldrons bumping together.
‘Do not worry, Ratchet. I will always make time for my friends, for you…’
Ratchet tenses for only a moment before melting into the contact, leaning gently against Orion's frame, his servo tight around the railing, clutching it hard enough to nearly dent it.
This close Orion doesn't notice the way Ratchet's antenna sags in disappointment.
‘I…Thank you Orion…’
‘I simply missed you...that's all.’
Optimus Prime furrows his optical ridges as he goes over the words again and again. His digits are neatly laced over his abdominal plating as he stares up at the ceiling of his habsuite, tracing the cracks overhead as though they might somehow decipher the mess in his processor for him.
Much has happened since then, especially lately. One of his servos drifts from his abdominal plating to his chassis, resting just above where the Matrix lies.
He had spoken with Alpha Trion, brushed his digits against the AllSpark, nearly let himself fall into it... if it hadn't been for young Smokescreen's tendency to misfollow even the clearest of instructions.
It had been mere kliks during which he felt the AllSpark's pull, when his frame had suddenly become impossibly difficult to keep online. His processor overwhelmed with countless memories all at once.
Ever since then, Optimus has found himself dwelling on these memories far more than he'd like to admit.
Little moments like this, where he onlines in the middle of the night. Or when he loses focus halfway through a conversation. Then he starts to think.
Think, and think, and think about the past.
The things that happened.
The memories he looks back on fondly, like the nights spent at Maccadam's with his friends. Jazz's genuine and bright laughter at Ironhide's admittedly terrible jokes.
The evenings spent beside Prowl, going over war strategies while the police bot's steady EM field hummed comfortingly at his side.
Or the moment BumbleBee, still just a young bot, one of the very last born from the Well of AllSpark, had awoken from stasis after the Battle of Tyger Pax and looked at Optimus with so much relief in his wide, frightened optics before jumping into the Prime’s arms.
But also the ones he regrets.
The faceplate of a bot he had long since lost. A ghost from his past, now staring back at him with hateful crimson optics and a faceplate marred by scars.
The many Autobots, Elita-1…lost in the war for Cybertron, every single designation etched into Optimus' processor, burned into the Matrix of Leadership.
…And his own stupidity for not seeing it sooner.
Ratchet. The way his voice-box had clicked back then, when he'd admitted he missed him out on Orion's balcony. His aqua optics averted, yet still sparkling beneath Cybertron's twin moons.
The way his expression soured with disappointment as stupid, stupid Orion Pax brushed off his advances in favor of offering him hollow reassurance.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Optimus ex-vents heavily as he drags a servo down his faceplate before letting it rest over the lower half of it, his optical ridges furrowed in frustration.
How long had Ratchet been trying to court Orion Pax back then? How long had the archivist- dense as a slab of Cybertronian rock- brushed off such painfully obvious signs of affection in favor of... what was the word he'd heard young Jack use before?
'Friendzone.'
Optimus lets out a small sound, somewhere between an ex-vent and a laugh.
A funny word. Humans and their slang never cease to make the Prime chuckle. But given his current situation, he has to admit that the word is rather fitting.
Poor Ratchet...
How long had he suffered, chasing after Orion Pax like a dream? Hoping endlessly that maybe, maybe, one solar cycle, the archivist would return his feelings. Trying to show affection in his own ratchetesque way over and over again to no avail.
And still, through it all, he had remained at his side.
Megatronus. Primehood. The war. And now, even here on Earth.
Ratchet is still here.
The last remnant of a life Optimus misses more dearly with every passing solar cycle.
The Prime ex-vents once more and turns onto his side, his gaze settling on the door to his habsuite. It's a simple storage sliding door, one that has to be pulled from the floor all the way up to the ceiling to open.
It's rudimentary, like so many things here on Earth. As Ratchet would put it- inferior by Cybertronian standards.
But Optimus doesn't mind.
They are no longer on Cybertron, afterall.
They are no longer young bots dreaming of freedom, hoping that one day they'd be free of castes, guilds, and endless regulations.
They are...
He is no longer Orion Pax.
The thought makes Optimus stop mid-turn as he tries, and fails, to settle into a more comfortable position once more.
His optics shutter once, maybe twice, before he sits upright on his berth with an ex-vent. Heavy pedes settle against the floor as he stares down at one of his servos, suddenly noticing just how much larger it is than in the memory he'd lost himself in only breems ago.
Why does this thought make him so uneasy?
He had not gone by the designation of Orion Pax for millions of years. He had been Optimus Prime for so long that the realization he was no longer that little archive clerk shouldn't come as such a surprise.
Then why...?
Optimus' optical ridges furrow low as he lets his servo fall to his side and leans back against the wall, his helm resting there as he closes his optics, his audial finials picking up every little sound around him.
The faint pedesteps from the main area of the hangar. The slow in- and ex-vents coming from the habsuite next to his- BumbleBee's. The quiet patter of rain against the roof overhead.
His finials twitch, angling back ever so slightly as his processor tries to sort, archive, decipher. To understand.
Pattern recognition, one would say.
After so many stellar cycles spent doing exactly that back on Cybertron, it comes to him as naturally as venting. Most of the time, he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
He is no longer Orion Pax.
Why does that bother him so much?
Why does it make his spark ache with melancholy? Why does it make his chassis feel so impossibly tight? Why-
...
Ah.
Because Ratchet had been trying to court Orion Pax. Not Optimus Prime.
And something deep inside Optimus’ spark aches horribly at the mere thought of those feelings having faded by now.
It's a selfish, ugly reaction.
One so unlike Optimus that it almost shakes the Prime down to his core.
His optics shutter open and his tanks suddenly feel heavy, as though they were lined with lead.
Feeling like this...it unsettles him.
But it would be for the better, wouldn't it?
His processor heats at the thought, but still, he tries to remain logical.
If Ratchet had abandoned whatever feelings he once harbored for Orion Pax when the other became a Prime, it would be for the better.
That way, the medic wouldn't have spent millions of years chasing after the affection of a bot too oblivious to return it.
And that way, Ratchet wouldn't have to suffer as much should Optimus ever be gravely injured in battle, or to merge with the Allspark.
After all, Optimus Prime is replaceable. His position as the Autobot leader and Prime is replaceable.
And despite being grateful that he is still here today, Optimus has no doubt that Smokescreen, BumbleBee, or even Ultra Magnus would've filled the void his passing left behind well enough.
In every sense of it, it would be for the better if Ratchet saw him as nothing more than an old friend and his leader.
But if it truly were for the better...
Then why does the thought make Optimus Prime want to keel over and purge his tanks right onto the floor? Ram his helm through the hangar wall? Claw out his own optics in frustration over...what?
No longer being pined after?
Now that's somehow even stupider than Optimus never realizing Ratchet had been pining after him in the first place.
It's selfish. Optimus Prime is selfish.
And he's selfish because-
His processor overheats as the next words slip from his derma before he can stop them.
"...Because…I...have feelings…for Ratchet...?"