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"Now this is kinda trippy."
Ratchet looks up from his cube of high-grade energon, one optical ridge lifting as his aqua optics settle on the bot sitting across from him. Around their booth, conversations in the bustling reopened Maccadam’s continue uninterrupted, blending into a comfortable hum of voices and clinking energon cubes.
Jazz smacks his derma together, savoring the lingering taste of his energon before casually twirling the cube in his servo. The remaining bright pink liquid sloshes lazily around the transparent container, threatening to spill over the rim with every lazy spin.
Beside him, Prowl quietly sets down his own cube with a muted clink. His azure optics narrow ever so slightly the bot beside him, confusion written plainly across his faceplate. He says nothing.
"'Trippy'?" Ironhide grunts, tilting his helm just enough to betray his confusion. He rolls the unfamiliar word over his glossa before letting out a quiet scoff.
"Is that another one of those weird earth-y words? Frag, Jazz, you spent entirely too much time on that little rock." He points a thick digit toward him with a snort. "I can barely understand half the slag leaving your intake anymore."
Across from him, Jazz recoils as though personally wounded as one servo comes to rest dramatically over his spark.
The Prime seated between Ironhide and Ratchet can't quite stop the soft chuckle that escapes him. He tries to hide it behind a polite cough and another sip of energon, but the corners of his derma twitch upward all the same.
It isn't nearly subtle enough and Ratchet catches it instantly.
His aqua optics drift toward Optimus, lingering perhaps a fraction longer than necessary. The warmth that softens the medic's expression is almost imperceptible, but unmistakably there. He quietly hides the smile threatening to betray him behind the rim of his own energon cube before taking another measured sip.
Optimus, sensing the gaze, glances back for the briefest moment and the two share a silent smile. Then, just as naturally, they return their attention to the conversation as though nothing had happened.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Jazz protests, finally finding his voice again. "What’re you dogging up on me like that for, 'Hide?"
He gestures broadly with his cube, nearly sending another wave of pink energon over the rim.
"Ratch and OP were on Earth way longer than I was." His grin widens into something unmistakably smug. "If anything, they're the ones you oughta be worried about."
Prowl finally finds his voice. With a quiet click of his derma, he slowly turns his helm toward Jazz, one optical ridge arching ever so slightly.
"Well, unlike you, neither of them throw around slang no one can understand, Jazz."
Ratchet hums in agreement, giving a knowing nod over the rim of his energon cube.
Optimus, meanwhile, simply takes another perfectly composed sip before lowering his cube onto the table with a soft clink. A warm, disarming smile finds Prowl first before naturally shifting toward Ironhide. The finials on his helm twitch back in quiet amusement.
"Us?" he echoes, sounding genuinely entertained. "While I fail to see the issue with earthly slang, I do not believe either of us has ever been known to use terms such as..." He pauses thoughtfully, blue optics flicking toward Jazz. "...What was it again?"
Ratchet lets out a long-suffering ex-vent.
"...'Trippy.'"
Jazz groans dramatically, throwing one servo into the air.
"Okay, okay, okay!" He laughs. "For the sake of y'all's processors, I'll go with 'nostalgic.' There. Better?"
His smile never leaves. The corners of his derma curl upward as his visor catches the warm glow of the lounge's hanging lamps. He glances from Ironhide to Prowl, clearly pleased with himself despite the teasing.
Ironhide's own grin loosens into something softer.
"Nostalgic..." He rolls the word around thoughtfully before giving a slow nod. "Yeah... I can see it."
His voice is quieter now. The red mech lowers his gaze to the amber energon swirling gently inside his cube, watching the liquid catch the light.
"It sure has been a while since we've all sat down like this." A small huff escapes him. "Slag..." He shakes his helm. "How many stellar cycles has it been? Pits... how many vorns?"
The easy laughter around the table fades into a comfortable silence. No one answers immediately. No one needs to.
Each of them is already counting. Ratchet absentmindedly traces the rim of his cube with a thumb digit, his optics fixed somewhere beyond the tabletop. Prowl's shoulder pauldrons relax almost imperceptibly. Jazz's playful grin softens into something quieter.
Even Optimus' smile fades into gentle contemplation as his gaze drifts across the table, taking in the familiar faces around him.
His gaze settles on Ironhide at last, and the blue of Optimus' optics softens with a somber affection reserved only for one who had stood beside him for countless stellar cycles. A small, fond smile tugs at the corners of his derma.
"Far too long, old friend," Optimus says at last.
Jazz hums approvingly, nodding his helm. "Couldn't agree more, OP. Being scattered all across the galaxy for that long really had me miss your afts, heh!" he says cheekily, his door winglets twitching with amusement.
Prowl, seated beside him, merely hums. His optical ridges sink into their familiar stern frown as his gaze settles on the Prime. "It has been... difficult. Hearing what transpired three stellar cycles ago..." His voice grows quieter. "...Having those…filthy Decepticons attempt to tarnish your good name, Optimus..."
Ironhide lets out a sharp scoff, one Ratchet mirrors almost immediately, the medic's expression hardening as old frustrations bubble back to the surface.
"Being chased off our own planet... degraded... simply for remaining loyal to the Autobot cause..." Ratchet says quietly, shaking his helm. "...To you."
Optimus feels his own servo twitch where it rests on the tabletop, tempted to reach across and offer comfort to his former CMO. Instead, his shoulder pauldrons lower almost imperceptibly, and he averts his gaze from his friends.
Beside him, Ratchet notices the subtle change instantly, just as he always had. His optics follow Optimus' movements as one servo absentmindedly drifts to the center of his now Matrix-less chassis, lingering there for a quiet moment. Ratchet instinctively inches just a little closer, his derma pulled into a thin line, optical ridges knitted together with concern.
Ironhide's cerulean optics narrow at the amber energon swirling inside his cube, though he hardly sees it anymore. Instead, he pictures the smug expressions of those false council members who had stood before him and declared Optimus Prime an enemy of Cybertron. More than once, he'd seriously contemplated knocking a few helms together over it.
"...While I do not regret what I did for our home," Optimus says softly, his thumb digit unconsciously brushing the plating over his spark chamber, "...I do regret the burden it placed upon all of you. Every Autobot who remained loyal... every friend who suffered because they chose to stand beside me."
Silence settles comfortably around the table.
Jazz and Prowl exchange a brief glance before both arrive at the same conclusion. Ironhide notices it too, the corners of his own derma lifting just slightly as he waits for Jazz to inevitably say what all of them are thinking.
"Oh, none of that, OP." Jazz smiles, warm and bright as ever, lifting his energon cube with easy confidence. "You got nothin' to apologize for. You saved Cybertron, for cryin' out loud. " He lets out a soft snort.
"Damn right," Ironhide mutters, raising his own cube a little. "Anyone who stood against ya back then should be ashamed of themselves."
Ratchet nods once in firm agreement, his expression softening as he looks back toward Optimus. "You carried the weight of all of us for millions of stellar cycles. The least we could do was carry on your legacy when you were…gone…."
Even Prowl's stern expression eases into the faintest of smiles. "You were never forgotten, Optimus…But we are very glad to have you back at last." The Police officer says softly, his azure optics flickering with warmth, something rare for the usually so stoic detective.
For a long moment, Optimus simply looks around the table, his optics lingering on each familiar face. Warriors who had become comrades... comrades who had become friends... friends who had become family…
His gaze settles on Ratchet for just a klik longer.
Those familiar aqua optics meet his own, warm and impossibly gentle beneath the lounge's amber lights, and Optimus feels his spark skip a beat. The corner of Ratchet's derma lifts into the faintest of smiles, one reserved only for the Prime..
…Friends who had become lovers.
The realization still carried a quiet sense of wonder, even after all this time.
Jazz grins, seemingly sensing the mood beginning to lift once more, and raises his energon cube high.
"Now turn that frown upside down, big guy. We've got something worth celebrating!" His visor glints beneath the warm lounge lights, door winglets flaring with excitement. "The Autobot Five are back, baby~!"
One after another, energon cubes rise from the table.
Ironhide's.
Prowl's.
Ratchet's.
Optimus' smile returns- small, genuine, and free of the weight that had lingered only moments before. His optics meet Ratchet's one last time before he finally raises his own cube to join the others.
Five cubes meet in the center of the table with a soft, crystalline chime.
A simple sound. Yet one they had all waited far too many stellar cycles to hear again.
The silence that follows is brief, but comfortable, lingering only long enough for everyone to enjoy the quiet satisfaction of simply being together again.
Prowl is the first to break it.
With a roll of his optics and the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his derma, he glances toward Jazz.
"’The Autbot Five'? What are we, some kind of washed-up band?"
Ironhide lets out a bark of laughter so warm and genuine that Optimus cannot help the chuckle that escapes his own intake. Even Ratchet's shoulders loosen as an amused huff slips past his derma.
Jazz, meanwhile, looks personally offended. The blue-and-white bot blows an exaggerated raspberry in Prowl's direction before pointing his energon cube accusingly at him, tilting his helm with theatrical disbelief.
"Excuse you! I was thinking more along the lines of a superhero team." He gestures broadly with his free servo. "Like the Avengers or somethin'."
Four confused stares meet him. "...It's an Earth thing," Jazz adds with a dismissive wave, his grin only growing. "I think we've still got the potential for that."
Ratchet rolls his optics so hard it almost looks painful before propping his helm into one servo, one optical ridge arching skeptically. "...Aren't we a bit too old to be superheroes?"
"Oh, speak for yourself, old timer." Jazz waves him off dismissively before he points at himself with his thumb-digit. "Me? I'm as young as a freshly forged sparkling! You're only as old as you feel, after all!"
Ratchet snorts into his cube. "As your former medic, I sincerely hope your joints follow that same logic."
Ironhide takes another slow sip of his energon before lowering the cube with a knowing smirk. "Keep deludin' yourself, Jazz. Reality'll catch up with ya someday." He gestures lazily around the table with his cube. "At least the rest of us are self-aware enough to accept the truth."
Jazz places a servo dramatically against his chassis and falls against Prowl as if he had been shot.
"The betrayal."
"The honesty," Prowl corrects dryly.
"The betrayal."
Optimus quietly hides another chuckle behind his energon cube, while Ratchet merely shakes his helm with a fond, long-suffering ex-vent. "Certainly the way we're treated by the new High Council makes me feel as though I'm already collecting rust," Ratchet hums, swirling the energon in his cube as he watches the blue liquid catch the light. "All these youngbots fluttering around us as though we're some kind of fabled war legends..."
He lets out an amused snort. "They either stare at us like we're museum exhibits or ask us if ‘the stories are true’."
Jazz winces dramatically. "...Okay, in their defense..." He points a digit toward Ironhide. "...He does look like he belongs in a museum."
Ironhide answers by lazily flicking an energon coaster at Jazz's helm. Jazz catches it without looking. Ratchet simply rolls his optics. "...The more I think about it," he continues, as though the interruption never happened, "-the more I believe Optimus had the right idea about retiring."
His optics drift toward the Prime beside him, softening ever so slightly.
"Pits..." A tired ex-vent escapes him. Optimus glances sideways at him over the rim of his cube, amusement dancing in his blue optics.
Optimus moves then, one of his servos reaching across the table to gently take Ratchet's free one. His digits weave effortlessly between the medic's before he lifts the servo to his derma, placing a slow, affectionate kiss against the metal plating. When he looks back up, the warmth in his blue optics has only deepened.
"I recall offering for you to join me not long after we'd settled, dear Ratchet."
Ratchet's faceplate flushes a gentle aqua, though his expression remains skeptically amused, one corner of his derma curling into a knowing smirk.
"You know sitting around and doing nothing isn't good for this old frame." He gives the Prime's servo a small squeeze despite himself. "I get restless easily, Optimus."
The former Autobot leader chuckles, his finials relaxing as he leans just a little closer across the table. Somewhere along the conversation, he had apparently forgotten the presence of the three mechs sitting around them entirely, his attention now resting solely on his conjunx.
"You know well enough that we could find plenty of things to do." His smile widens ever so slightly and the Prime’s optics half-shutter almost suggestively. "Such as-"
Ratchet's optics widen and the little antenna on his back straightens abruptly.
"Optimus-!" His faceplate blooms an even brighter shade of blue. "Not in public-!"
"...Such as going to the newly opened park in the center of Old Iacon." His tone turns as innocent as it can get, though the teasing curl of his derma remains. "Or taking a stroll through the Archives. Perhaps visiting Bumblebee on Earth?"
Ratchet grunts, rolling his optics, though the lingering warmth against the back of his servo where Optimus had kissed it- and the Prime's thumb digits now absentmindedly tracing slow circles over his digit-segments - made maintaining his feigned annoyance increasingly difficult.
"...Hmm." He deliberately draws out the hum, pretending to weigh the proposal far more seriously than he actually is. "...I'll think about it."
Optimus' smile softens into something unmistakably fond, his intake just beginning to open-
CRACK!
The sharp shatter of crystal against metal cuts him off.
Both Optimus and Ratchet freeze and only then do their processors finally remember they are, in fact not alone. Blue and aqua optics slowly drift across the table.
Prowl sits perfectly still, his usual composure utterly absent. His azure optics are wide and unblinking, his intake hanging open just enough to betray his complete disbelief and his door winglets flicker up in surprise.
Ironhide shares much the same expression. It had been his energon cube that had collided rather unceremoniously with the tabletop, amber energon sloshing over the rim and pooling beneath it. His servo still hangs suspended in midair where he'd apparently forgotten to keep holding it.
Jazz somehow looks even worse.
Both servos are clamped onto the edge of the table as though anchoring himself against a sudden seismic event. His visor has fully retracted without him even noticing, revealing bright cyan optics staring owlishly at the pair across from him.
Silence. Utter silence.
Optimus tilts his helm ever so slightly, one finial giving a curious twitch beneath the unexpected attention. "...Is there something the matter?"
Three stunned stares answer him. Ratchet's processor, however, catches up considerably faster. His optics widen.
"...Oh." The realization hits him like a freight train. His faceplate blooms a brilliant shade of aqua as he slowly turns toward Optimus before looking back at the three speechless mechs opposite them.
"...We never told them." Another long silence follows.
“Oh.”
"..."
"...In our defense,-" Ratchet says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free servo, "- when exactly were we supposed to?" He gestures vaguely between himself and Optimus.
"We've only been back on Cybertron for a little while..." His gaze flickers briefly toward the Prime beside him, softening despite the embarrassment.
"...Pits... we only re-sparkbonded a few deca-cycles ago..." That statement does absolutely nothing to help. If anything Jazz's optics somehow grow even wider. Prowl’s optics shutter, once. Twice.
Ironhide finally finds enough function in his vocalizer to utter a single, profoundly eloquent-
"...What?"
At last Jazz, seemingly having recovered from his shock, suddenly slams both servos, palm-first, onto the table and leans so abruptly toward Ratchet that the medic physically jolts backward, his antenna jittering in surprise.
"Who."
Ratchet's optics flicker in confusion. "...Who, what?"
Without another word, he reaches across the table, grabs the front of Ratchet's chassis plating and gently- but insistently- drags the medic closer until their faceplates are mere inches apart.
"Who. Proposed. First."
The question catches both Ratchet and Optimus completely off guard. The conjunxed pair exchange a quick, thoroughly puzzled glance before Optimus clears his voicebox.
"...I believe it was me." He tilts his helm in thought. "I suggested the place where we would sparkbond afterall..Although-"
"HA HAAAAAAA!!"
Jazz all but launches himself back into his seat, both servos shooting triumphantly into the air. "YES! YES! YESSSSS!!"
He pumps both fists repeatedly before breaking into an entirely unnecessary shoulder shimmy, dancing right there in his seat as he sings beneath his vent.
"I knew it... I knew it... I knewwwww it~!"
Abruptly, he snaps back over the table, pointing an accusing index digit at Ironhide.
"You." A dramatic pause, he flicks his servo, palm facing upwards and wiggles his digits impatiently. "You fragger owe me two hundred shanix."
Ironhide doesn't even flinch. Instead, he lets out one long, resigned ex-vent before reaching into his subspace compartment and retrieving a neat stack of holo-bills.
"...I hate it when you're right." He slaps the money into Jazz's eagerly awaiting servo.
Jazz's visor brightens as he immediately begins counting the bills with entirely too much satisfaction, flicking through them one by one while a little happy tune plays from his sound systems.
Ratchet looks between the two of them, utterly baffled. "...You placed bets?"
"Naturally," Jazz replies without even looking up from his winnings. Ratchet exhales through his vents. Honestly... he doesn't even have it in his spark to be angry. Not about the betting, anyway.
The three of them had known- and had relentlessly teased him about his feelings for Orion- since practically the solar cycle they'd all become friends all those vorns ago.
No...What offended him was the fact that Jazz had apparently bet against him.
The medic clears his voicebox, drawing everyone's attention back toward him. "...Actually..." He gestures awkwardly between himself and Optimus.
"It wasn't Optimus who proposed. It was-"
Ironhide is on his pedes before Ratchet can finish.
"HA!"
The red mech points triumphantly across the table at the former cultural investigator. "HA HA! I told you so, you sonuva glitch!"
Before Jazz can even react, Ironhide snatches the holo-bills right back out of his servo. Now he's the one celebrating, breaking into an enthusiastic little victory dance.
"...Hey!" Ratchet pinches the bridge of his faceplate. "Would you two let me finish before your processors completely short-circuit?!"
Jazz and Ironhide slowly turn back toward him and Ratchet coughs lightly into his fist before continuing.
"It wasn't Optimus..." The Prime smiles softly and slides an arm around Ratchet's shoulder pauldron, drawing the medic comfortably against his side before gently nuzzling the side of his helm. Ratchet's antenna immediately curls into the unmistakable shape of a tiny heart.
"...Technically," Optimus continues, his voice warm with amusement, "neither of us proposed." His optics settle fondly on Ratchet and he squeezes the medic slightly closer to his own frame. "We simply... knew. Is that not so, my beloved Ratchet?"
Ratchet's faceplate immediately blooms a brilliant aqua. "I... ah..." He rubs the side of his helm sheepishly. "...Yes, I suppose so, my spark."
Silence.
Jazz slowly lowers his servos and Ironhide stops mid-celebration.
"...Aw, frag." Before the red mech can even utter any more words, another servo calmly reaches into the middle of the table and plucks the holo-bills from his grasp.
"So..." Prowl says, settling back into his seat with the smallest, most self-satisfied smirk. "...I won."
Jazz's intake falls open. "...WHAT?!" He whirls toward Prowl. "You were in on it?!"
Without waiting for an answer, he grabs the officer by both shoulder pauldrons and gives him a scandalized shake. "And you didn't tell me?!"
Prowl merely grunts, prying Jazz's servos off him with practiced ease before smoothing out one shoulder pauldron.
"Why would I?" He neatly folds the holo-bills and slips them into his own subspace. "You would've insisted we split the winnings."
"Well, duh!" Jazz throws both servos into the air. "You're my conjunx, babe! We share a spark, for cryin' out loud! The least you could do is share your shanix!"
"So you can spend it on your ridiculous sound system?"
"Oi-!"Jazz clutches his own chassis in mock offense, a pount settling on his derma. "Tuning my sound system is not ridiculous!"
"It is, Jazz."
"You are so mean, babe. I-"
Ratchet cuts the pair off with a sharp wave of his servo. "Eyip, yip, yip, yip- hold on just one klik!"
The table falls quiet once more. Optimus' intake, left hanging open from the previous exchange, slowly closes. Then it opens again. Once. Twice. His blue optics flicker between Jazz and Prowl as though the two mechs had suddenly sprouted a second helm.
"...You two are conjunxed?" he asks, genuine surprise coloring his voice. "I... did not know."
Prowl simply sighs through his vents before taking another unhurried sip from his energon cube. He rolls his optics with practiced exasperation.
"Unfortunately, we are." he tethers dryly. The bite in his words is thoroughly betrayed by the soft shade of azure steadily blooming across his faceplate.
Jazz positively beams. He scoots closer until their frames clink together before happily dropping his helm onto Prowl's shoulder pauldron with all the grace of an oversized cyber-cat, a pleased purr rumbling in his intake.
"You're so cute when you get all shy, baby~"
Before Prowl can react, Jazz plants an obnoxiously loud, exaggerated kiss against his cheekplate.
Smuack.
Then, completely satisfied with himself, he leans back into his seat.
Prowl groans. With all the dignity he can muster, he wipes his cheekplate with one servo before fixing Jazz with an utterly unimpressed glare.
"...I told you not to call me that."
Jazz merely blows him an air kiss in response. Ratchet rubs the side of his helm, his expression slipping from confusion into outright disbelief.
"...Since when? I mean... it can't have been for that long..."
Jazz lounges back, thoughtfully raising a few digits as he counts in his processor. "Uh..." He glances toward Prowl. "When was it?"
Prowl grunts, his door winglets giving an embarrassed twitch beneath the attention. "...Around the time we departed Cybertron aboard the Ark."
Ratchet gapes. Optimus' expression mirrors his almost perfectly, his intake falling open once again. The medic’s antenna jitters violently. "What?! That long?!" He points accusingly between the pair. "How in the Pits did we never notice?!"
Jazz shrugs, utterly unbothered. "Ya know how Prowl is." He throws an affectionate glance toward his increasingly flustered conjunx and winks underneath his visor. "’Professionalism above everything else.’"
He snorts. "Man, it wasn't easy, lemme tell ya." Jazz leans forward conspiratorially and cups the side of his intake with one servo. "You can only sneak away into storage closets so many times before it starts getting old, y'know-"
"Jazz." Prowl shoves him squarely in the shoulder.
"Shut." Another shove.
"Your." A third, harder shove.
"Intake."
His faceplate has now become such a vivid shade of azure that even Ratchet almost feels sorry for him. Almost.
Ironhide, who has remained suspiciously quiet throughout the exchange, finally speaks.
His expression is strangely calm. Far too calm. Four pairs of optics slowly turn toward the red mech.
His cobalt gaze drifts toward Jazz and Prowl first.
"...So you're conjunxed."
Jazz merely shrugs cheerfully before immediately leaning against Prowl again, as though proving the point. The officer responds by hiding the lower half of his faceplate behind one servo, his door winglets twitching in quiet embarrassment.
Ironhide's stare slowly slides toward Optimus and Ratchet.
"...And you're conjunxed?!"
His voice jumps nearly an octave. Both servos shoot into the air as he gestures wildly between the two couples.
"You are ALL conjunxed?!"
The outburst echoes through the lounge.
Ratchet winces, his antenna twitching anxiously. Optimus' finials dip slightly, his smile turning apologetic. Jazz has the decency to look only slightly guilty.
Prowl simply closes his optics.
The former weapons specialist throws both servos onto the sides of his helm, his cobalt optics darting frantically between the four other members of High Command.
"ARE THERE ANY OTHER CONJUNXED BOTS THAT I SHOULD KNOW ABOUT?!"
Silence.
"..."
"..."
Jazz suddenly finds the pattern in the tabletop fascinating.
Prowl studies the inside of his energon cube with scholarly interest.
Ratchet quietly pretends to inspect a nonexistent scratch on his forearm plating.
Optimus' optics flicker sheepishly toward the table, the corners of his derma twitching into a flustered smile.
"...You remember Wheeljack and Ultra Magnus... right?"
Another beat of silence.
Jazz slowly raises one servo. "...And technically Bumblebee's dat-"
"Jazz."
"...Right. Not helping."
Ironhide slowly lowers his servos before letting his faceplate sink into both palms with one long, defeated ex-vent.
"...Of course there are."
