TO BOLDLY GO

He’s put both on his cot in his room. It’s nice. He’s spent several kliks just sort of mooshing at it.

Optimus hums something noncommittal as he folds the quilt over an arm. “Did you make this one?”

Megatron’s right, though. He doesn’t usually feel cold; something about the power output of the Matrix meant most Primes ran warm. Optimus was the sort to sleep face down on a bare recharge slab, if he wasn’t making use of an upright compartment or, as was often the case, parked in truck form.

He doesn’t feel cold, is the thing. His internal temperature is within standard tolerances, if on the higher end. He just.

"Optimus—" Should he be concerned? He's feeling very concerned.

"Huh? Red Alert, when did you arrive? I'm sorry, I meant to be at the landing pad to say hello to everyone."