Oh shit here we go again

• “I thought he was going to short out something in his processor,” he admits, leaning back slightly with an overly dramatic gasp, his servos pressed to his chassis as he mimes righteous indignation. And your shoulders shake with laughter as his other hand lingers against your back. ‘I wish I could have seen his face,’ you say, using the heel of your palm to wipe at your eyes. “He just makes it so easy.” Loves the sound of your laughter, that you’re not so uptight that you can’t laugh. Find a little joy in silly things with him. How long has it been since he’d had a friend to joke with? Someone who didn’t take everything so seriously? Knows they were at war, but he needs to smile, to laugh or it feels like the stress will break him.

• “You should lay off the poor mech,” you say and his servos shift against you again. Wish he wouldn’t do that. Know he doesn’t realize how it aches through you when he touches you like a lover. When you want more than to just be his friend, but he seems perfectly happy with the status quo. What if you push for more and it ruins what you already have? Don’t want to lose a friend, so you’re resigned to wanting something you can’t have. Feeling the crush you have on your best friend growing every day. Becoming awkward and painful.

• “Hey, if I didn’t knock him down a peg every so often by being me, just think of how unbearable he’d get,” he protests trying to look innocent, though he’s pretty sure he ruins it when you start laughing all over again. ‘You’re awful,’ you breathe, still smiling. “I’m a delight.” What would you say if he kissed you? Would you laugh it off. Think it’s only him being him? Would you kiss him back? Would it be weird? Venting deeply, his head lowers and bumps yours. Feels you lay a hand on his face, pushing. ‘Roddy, get off. You’re too heavy,’ you say, backing up and he cups his hand around you when your boot slides. Catching you before you can fall so you sprawl in his palm, your eyes wide.

You try to organize it as a group excursion, you really, really do. 

Ratchet and WheelJack are busy. Mirage has a street race that he SHOULDN'T be attending now that the general public knows what an Autobot logo looks like. Bee says yes then promptly gets hit over the head by Cliffjumper. Jazz says yes, then says no when you tell him no one else has agreed yet. Ironhide is curt. Hound won't go if Ironhide won't go- FUCK. 

You've no choice but to just see if Optimus will go alone with you.

It is your best dream and worst nightmare that he says agrees. This dance teeters the line of friendliness with the practice of millions of years. You can't tell if despairing over what to wear, what to bring, is affording this more meaning than there is. I mean, that heart to heart was a lot more earnest than you ever expected to receive from him, and he had tolerated your flirting with a level of reciprocation that being the tallest robot in the room allowed. But, as of the moment, there were still no cards on the table.

Either way, you decide on going tomorrow. Calling your bosses to inform them of the excursion, you wrap it all in cultural reconnaissance, and you as his cultural advisor. 

You finally decide to bring a bag with an appropriately big rug, a swimsuit, beer and a one liter bottle of high grade. Being a government funded position, you also stack area cordoning supplies in the main hall to bring with you. The risk of having curious humans crowd him is the last burn you want to give him for reaching for the moon for once.

--

“Hey, Y/N.” Interrupts your cleaning of tools, stood up on the Cybertronian-sized bench to reach the table.

“Heya, Jazz. Need something?”

He shifts around from pede to pede, checks the area, then decides he can only despair over what to do with his arms for so long, and sits down beside you.

“Nah, just here to ask- uh- Are you and Prime okay?” Direct, you put the tissue in your hands down. “What was that today?”

You think on it. You had been yelling at him in a full hall, swearing like a sailor and pointing an accusatory finger at him. All of that to get somewhere, understand something about each other.

“We’re fine. We worked it out.” You say, smile gracing your lips with the fond look Optimus had given you as you beat fist to chest and swore to make his wish happen.

“What were you even arguing about?” Jazz asks, sitting a little closer. Second in command’s briefing, or gossip? You cross your arms at him,

“I was voicing a complaint, I guess- Did you know his room is basically empty?”

“Empty?”

“He’s not put anything in it but himself.” 

Jazz stares at your expression for a long moment, then swings back to cross his own arms in thought.

“No, but-” light passes over his V-visor and you lose sight of his eyes, “I’m not gonna say I’m surprised. He’s all business. Pretty sure he’s always been a minimalist.”

A piece of the jigsaw slips neatly into place.

“Was that all you guys were fighting about?”

Jazz says it with a pliant and kind informality. Says it with the intention of making sure two of his friends weren’t at each other’s throat. Says it with care. Yet all you feel is the realisation that even if everyone can see the state OP is in, they’re too used to it. Have let the dust long settle and now use it as a blanket of familiarity. You can’t blame him for not being outraged, maybe you can be blamed for just being a newcomer.

“Basically.” You say, aloof.

Jazz unfolds, one arm bracing on the table beside you and other resting on knee as he cages you to the bench you sit on.You’d stutter in any other scenario.

“Really nothing else bothering you? If something's happened we can always talk about it, off the books.”

You shake your head, both to Jazz and to clear the sound the action produces in your head. Of something clattering the side like rolls in a bottle.

“Not at the moment, but - Thanks, Jazz. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“If Prime does somethin’, I can always chew him out for you too. I’m less likely to get into trouble.” 

You chuckle, knowing that’s not true.

--

Despite the opaque blue covering his optics, Jazz was always helpful. You explain to him that you and Optimus will be out of the base, and he’s no question on cover for you. That he’ll let everyone know, and per your request, will say it’s for one of your matters.Even if it is obvious to use a cover story after asking around for participants. You grip at sleek white forearms as you thank him and don’t miss the confused smile that covers his face. At why what he's doing for you matters and what you are doing matters more.

--

You climb into Optimus' cabin just as the sun apexes the sky. It smells like new leather and privacy. A part of him sits lightly across your torso in a burn just as hot as when he wrapped fingers around you. The seats feel cushy under your fingertips when you grip at the tilt driving down the Arks ramp gives you.

“Follow the road straight on for now, I'll direct you.” You say simply, always captivated at the sight of a steering wheel moving itself. Of gearstick shifting neatly into slot and the world passing by without your input.

Soft music clicks on, something you had bought a while ago. A light drumbeat. A soft tone. Sade. There's a warmth to realizing Optimus has swiped the last tape he caught you listening to on the way out.

You make your way away from base towards a small bay you had spotted on a map. It's a couple hours away, but music and discussion tide you over in terms of entertainment.

Optimus is bad at pillow talk, that much is obvious. Too large for it, living on a scale that holds more weight than simply fondly reminiscing over shared laughter. The conversation always buries its way back to that place, those memories. That life. You drink up each drop of knowledge like a woman parched, but it's tangy in aftertaste and laced with rust. 

Still, the drips from a busted AC unit that is his emotional processing is a first time issue. It was you who butted the hole in the pipe after all, and some things can't be fixed without being emptied first - Without understanding the contents. You let him talk, let him drip into quiet memories that cool his spark and warm on cold days. And you arrive at the beach well into the afternoon before you can realize you’re pointing him to the last turn.

You throw up barricades on pedestrian walkways, block the nearby road and thank humanity for not being here. Living this job for six months had still not given you enough practice at digging out ID and asking strangers to vacate. You just couldn't lie through straight teeth well. Sue you for having a virtuous quality. 

Optimus is stood a ways down the sand when you return. Watching the waves crash over a slowly sinking sky with an air of reverence you are hesitant to break. Still, you meet him at his shins.

“All done.” You drop the bag you have hanging off your shoulder, then pause when he doesn't say anything, “You okay?”

Optimus finally shifts his attention down to you, looking under arm to meet your face.

“Yes.” He says quietly, “It's beautiful, isn't it?”

You hum an agreement, laying out the tarp of a rug you brought and kicking shoes and socks off. 

Optimus sits as you ruffle through belongings. 

“What should we do now?” He says, as if every moment must be spent doing something.

“Hmm, let's talk.” you suggest, “Got any more questions for me, Optimus?”

For someone so dedicated to protecting humanity, he has not taken the chance to ask much about your species. You have Ratchet and Cliff for your biological education.

“I suppose the drive has got me thinking…” He starts, pink sky framing blue helm, “About what it’s like to live such a short life-”

Your eyes widen without your choice, you wanted cards, not collars. Optimus must realize the reduction in your shoulders,

“I mean in terms of our perception of time. A klik or breem to me does not equate the same as your seconds or minutes.”

“Eh?” You say, still trying to figure out if this means you're too insignificant for his attention or not, “I guess compared to you guys I’m gonna seem like I live a tiny life but-”

“You must see us in a very odd way.” He comments over you, responding to his own thought train. It almost sounds… self-conscious.

“Well…” You say, sounding the same but trying not to, “I see an alien race full of giant metal cars. It’s not exactly…standard by any Earth term.”

“Oh…” Optimus swallows the rest of the words, despairs on deciding if he can tell you. It releases you out of the grasp of the tone he has set.

“I also see a man in a funk.” You lay yourself back on palms, vinyl tarp crinkling. “What are you thinking?”

You can hear the question he asks himself even when he silently cringes at the sea. Can he tell you? You ask it too, if he would tell you how he felt. You figure this is the part where the commander wins and he decides no.

But lying to your bosses about this trip being official business was wrong. Shouting at the leader of your war faction was cause for punishment. Flirting with a Prime was taboo.  

Optimus sits back onto palm too, one hand resting on propped up knee in a comfortability you don’t usually see.

“I am thinking about…” He starts, “whether or not I should be doing this.”

“This? The beach? Why shouldn’t you be?” You question back.

“My time is  meant to be used.” He answers quickly, and your heart sinks at the idea that that is not what he considers this to be,  “Toward a goal that is… not yet complete. I considered turning around a groon into the drive here. Decepticons still remain on this planet. Any moment not dealing with that feels like an endangerment of Earth.” He turns back to look into the tree line and the road to the town behind it, guilty and self-deprecating.  “I am happy to be here, with you-” 

That soothes the stab a smidge- 

“-But I feel like I’m timing every… hour. And yet, I have an infinite amount in comparison to you.” 

His hand dwarfs yours in size on the ground. Four fingers, a palm and a thumb, both.

 “Forgive my curtness but - you have stayed with us for six of your months, and seem to be staying indefinitely. Does that not… weigh on you?”

You twitch. Blood beats down the wound into a pounding heart.

The slice that no matter how pre-ordained your stay with the Autobots felt, he was always too good for you. That the sand under you is a faulty luck of the draw and that you have scammed fate. That the debt collectors will soon be due, and you’ll awaken to the beating realisation that your new family means much more to you than you do to them-

You hug your knees, chewing cheek,

“I’m not going to croak it tomorrow, man.” It sounds juvenile. Sounds natural on the young voice of the hermit residing in his waters like a pet. You grit your teeth in hurt, “So no. I don’t feel like I’m wasting time when I’m with you.” 

Optimus sits up quickly, reaches at you with an unsure hand.

“That is not- what I was attempting to say.” He sounds panicked, like you’ve unamusedly waved a hand over the knife sticking out your chest and he’s realised where that landed. “Please- I am thankful for the reprieve.“

“I just meant that when one is afforded time in excess, it becomes easy to believe nothing is lost in waiting. Because there's always another priority and another stellar cycle to return to what you have left for later.”

Optimus’ hand shifts, his pinky inches to the left and you consider stilling it with your own.

“That is what I told myself. And that is what got me curious on your perception of time. Because humans do not have vorns, they have years. Your lives don't allow for later- you must choose quickly. There is no…. Surplus.”

Thank you for the kind reminder of my mortality, dear sage. 

You let yourself steady. Withdraw his weapon from you with the forgiveness that he seemed to be swinging at himself and not at you.

“Hey, look. I know my time is limited.” Thanks. “Humans freak out about it all the time. Try to outrun death or cheat it.” Your hands come to your chest, feeling over the beat of an organic heart and clipping advisors robe into place, “Doesn't work. You just can't. You can only… You have to do both.” You sit forward onto crossed legs, letting the speech form as it comes. “Have to learn to manage getting on with your goals AND doing silly stuff that's fun for you. Maybe it's a human thing, but if I spent every waking second working I'd drop dead before I could even realise I never did anything just for the hell of it.” You stand, prowling the outskirts of the roundtable and stopping at your lord's feet. “If you want to go to the beach for a day - because it makes you HAPPY- you're going to come back to your work a hell of a lot better. And time spent doing something like this isn't a waste, not to me- at least.”

Optimus’ voice is much fonder, much warmer. Raised again like when you had both gotten over your disagreement.

“It is not for me either.” How glad you are to hear that. Optimus swipes a hand through fine sand, shaking the bits that get stuck to him off. “Taking a step back can help improve my judgement- you’re right. It’s just a new skill I am learning to navigate.”

Your wisdom is passed, you move to the pile of things you had weighed the far corner of the rug down with.

“There's no big disasters to ride in on. You have a comm device IN your head. The bots are all capable.” You talk as you lift beers off the pile, “I want you to be able to switch off. Even for a little.”

What you’re looking for is tucked under pit and held between fingers.

“No work. No duty. Just Optimus, at the beach. And, hopefully,” You let two corners drop, cloth unfurling in the wind,  “holding this towel up so I can change?”

--

Optimus is rare to refuse you on favours, much to his own detriment. He holds tiny towel in large servos with a steady grip but looks away like he’s dropping bricks out his waste regulator. You make it quick, peeling clothes off with your back facing him- then gingerly out of underwear even though you know he's too kind to peak- before stepping into your swimsuit. 

When everything is sat right, you take the towel gently from him and fold it up to the side.

You crouch to tuck it into the bag so it doesn't get covered in sand. There's a sputter of engine behind you, like a cough, and when you turn back towards the shoreline Optimus’s big, red ‘backpack’ is what greets you.

With a moment presented, you adjust the ladies, and sit your cheeks nicely into the curve of spandex a final time.

“C'mon.” You say simply, striding past him in confidence. You make your way towards the water, ignore massive pedes in tow and how the sound of it crushes all memories of how to walk from your mind. An odd phenomena; Where you squabble and panic because he's right behind you and you know he's looking down because he has to to be sure he doesn't step on you. What's a natural gait? What was the right amount of hip shake where it doesn't look forced, but stays sexy? Would Optimus even appreciate a nice ass?

The water is a freeze when it comes up to greet your toes. Swashes a light coat of dark sand into the crevices of your toes and backwashes part of it away. The shock of it against a humid evening carries the breath from your lungs as you step further and further in.

You stop when you get to around upper-thigh, and arc up to look at the hesitant optics of your company. 

“It's cold.” He remarks. You scrape your fingers through the waves, letting the force sway you back and forth.

“It's the Atlantic, it's meant to be.” You say, bending to catch a shell that gets carried your way.

Optimus watches you, much to your delight (straight-legged bends are the fruit of countless hours of labour!) and goes to copy you. Your mid thigh is his ankle. Blocky paragon of hot strength he was, that kind of bend isn't happening without taking a knee.

Optimus halts and stands up straight. Does a sweep of the area even though you have ensured there's no one here and then caves in; Does what he was debating.

More glistening, sparkly, wet metal is thankfully added to the world in a blur of motion. In a buzzing hum that overpowers the sound of the tide, panels that usually sit sleek and flush split and collapse inwards on themselves. They drink in water then push it back out in streams of extraterrestrial force.

You think maybe he's transforming. Going back to his alt mode for some reason.

But he doesn't move to that odd hunch on the ground, nor do his feet curl back.

Optimus stands before you, with water at knee height.

If there is a God, you know he will pull a transcript of these thoughts out right as he backhands you out of his sight.

And if there's any red demon with poker in hand ready to prick you when you tumble to hell, you really hope it's the eight foot metal warrior now stood in front of you.

“A- What-” you sputter through the drool in your mouth. “What did you just do?”

Optimus doesn't waste any time to pincer his own shell from the floor, swiping off stuck sand with a thumb that can now HOLD a shell.

“Ratchet has explained to you the concept of mass displacement, hasn't he?” Optimus remarks.

You swallow,

“Yeah… He didn't say you could- you could-” you could probably suck this guy off standing, and that's a major improvement than usual, “use it in robot mode.”

Optimus looks at you. Not over. Not past. At. And chuckles at you. Actually laughs at the stutter. Bubbles up handsome noise like you've told some joke and not just flooded the ocean with the prospect of this form's possibilities.

Looks at you like you're being really obvious. Looks at you like you're the best thing he's ever seen.

“Mass displacement in this mode is energy consuming, so I don't encourage the use but-” you wade your way up to him with a jaw low enough to shovel seawater, “I can forgo the caution for a special occasion.”

Special occasion? Special occasion. Ho, boy could you show this man a special occasion.

He stands before you, hands braced on either side of small hips like  one solid wall. One you'd love to scale. With smokestacks framing either side of you and both actually in grasp.

“I'm a little- Grhh…” he grunts a concentrated noise, staring down at the buttons you have imagined sitting yourself on- Clink!- “unpracticed.” 

The middle yellow panel - the one you think might be his modesty plate pops out a little further. Clicks forward like a keyboard button that got stuck pressed in and gives you a reason to gawk at his crotch.

“I was better at this back on Cybertron.”

He looks up past tilted helm, surely deliberate with the boyish confidence. You almost fall to your knees.

GAH! Don't stare at your cock, do the weirdly hottest thing you could have ever hoped to see, then talk normally! 

You flail in your mind, overwrought with the urgency to both see more and never see that again unless your head explodes. You curve arm and throw at him. Water thunking against glass in patter of ‘STOP!’.

Optimus stands still. Palms clap over your eyes for a moment in fluster, singing on the heat. Your face is surely redder than him. You're probably panting. The motherfucker chuckles again. You throw another splash at him.

What is chuckles becomes a guffaw- a delectable, young and otherworldly laugh of freedom- and Optimus slagging Prime lightly throws water back in your face.

What is the lowest of low shows of humiliation become the highest or highs as you shout a ‘Hey!’- scraping seawater from your mouth and promptly firing back. 

You yell in defiance when he throws more at you. You are soaked head to toe.

The skip you make to get away from him is slow and encumbered, he draws on you quickly.

“Ah! Wait! No!” You shriek, furiously batting water at him, “This isn't fair you're a giant!” 

Salt and H20 rain down him as he looks like he couldn't be less affected. He slows on the approach, still garbling happy noises through unused emotions, and concedes.

“Hahaha! Okay. Okay.” Optimus says, placing one hand on your shoulder to steady you when the waves shake you around. It fits the curve of you neatly. “Perhaps this is a lesson in choosing battles more wisely.”

Cheeky fuck. You take wet finger and draw a ‘>:P’ onto one of his windshields. The squeak is absurd. This is absurd.

“Bite me.” You mumble.

The waves push at your legs again, harder this time, and you wobble. His hand tightens on your shoulder without thinking. 

For a second you just let your weight lean into it.

The water sloshes, settles.

He doesn’t let go.

 Optimus looks down at your touch on him and takes in the fact that he's in the ocean with you. Takes your hand in his like it's a porcelain cup. Plays gently with the knuckles of your fingers and observes the squish and backing of bone.

“A Prime playing in the water…” He says mostly to himself, "No one would believe it.”

Optimus says it like it's the world's sweetest taboo. Like this is culturally wrong and fundamentally weird.

You think on his basketball games. His group of supposed soldiers that brighten every moment. The confident pose of showing off he gave you just a moment ago. How even normal weekdays can feel like Christmas and each night New Years Eve. And you disagree. You would believe it.

--

As the sun settles below the horizon and the sky dims- as the chill moves in and you have to carry your belongings further up the beach- you burrow into your coat and tuck further into Optimus's warmth. Hard arm laid gently across you so shyly you think you can feel him shaking from the exertion.

Spark humming, he turns to you,

“Thank you for taking me here today.” 

You pull on the servo draped over your shoulder with the opposite hand.

“Technnically you brought us here.” Optimus sighs at your bullshit. You shrug, teasing, “Semantics, I guess.”

You thunk your head back against the block of his pauldrons, downing one large gulp of beer. Idling on the sight of set-aside high grade, you are sorely disappointed at not getting to see his denta, but not in one million years about to complain about your current situation. He was willing to set aside responsibility, but it didn’t take away his core care - ‘It’s unwise to transport you intoxicated!’ His battle mask remains across his jaw.

“We should bring the others next time.” You say, all homely and domestic like. Your little family. Why not pitch up an umbrella and watch the kids play ball?

“I…” Optimus starts, very obviously not quite on that page yet, “Am honestly glad for the reprieve from my appearances.”

Tired. Settled. Like he’s been wrangling too many opinions on him for too long and been barely beating the pull of comments. You are both saddened to hear it’s drowning him and glad to be his aid.

Sitting forward, you smoosh around sand. Optimus’ hand falls from your shoulder and rests just behind you, not willing to retract just yet.

“Heavy sits the crown, huh?” You sigh, like the goofy bob of a bright and stupid-looking buoy. Optimus appears confused. “Expression.” You clarify. A breeze comes in and spitters you with painful pellets of sand. “Do you really feel like you’re putting up a front? I thought you were close with everyone.”

Optimus thinks his answer through, like he always did. 

“The war eroded a lot of pre-existing norms, but some still hold my title to a certain standard.” 

You drag a finger through the grains, pushing particles into a little pile.

“Some more than others.” Optimus says, and you both picture crossed arms and straight lips. Ironhide grumbling and trudging back inside. Prowl’s seriousness. “Status comes with image. It’s not the most important thing, but it is there.”

The moment dips quieter. You nudge it back up before it can sink.

“Well, I think you’re one big dork, if that helps.”

Optimus makes an exvent -proof of breath- and puts one giant palm to your head. 

“You,” He stresses, “do not get to comment.” You make an offended noise. He releases you and returns to caging you to him. “You see a different side of me, truthfully.” You place your hand on his, holding him secure. “One I do not show to the Autobots often.”

You look at the ground before you. Do you name this friendship? For some reason you are hesitant to mark it on the map. You decide that's not what matters. What matters is keeping you and your passenger afloat.

“You make me sound special.” You say. Optimus leans in.

“You are.”

You can do nothing but gurgle a couple mouthfuls of beer and nudge sand around -  sit a little closer to him and hope to hear that again and again.

“So are you.” You manage. And despite the heart-throbbing intentions, he hangs his head low and sighs.

“That is the issue. This matrix…”

“Is a terribly big burden, isn’t it?” You finish for him. 

Engine is a soft backset to the calm ambience of sea and wind. Land beneath you is both softer than usual and an ache against your legs. Blue helm, grey mask, bluer eyes. You see him and you look at him like he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen.  “That’s not the you I was referring to.”

You scribble ‘friendship’ down on the cartography table- Loosely in pencil.

Optimus goes to touch your head again. Sets hand sideways as if to cradle your small face. The words catch somewhere in his vox.

He almost says them.

…but… doesn’t.

His hand lowers instead- smudges graphite into an unreadable blur. Like setting something fragile aside for later. You are docked at wherever this place is for now. 

He grits a stagnant noise, you withhold your frustrations,

“I am little more than the Matrix.” You go back to playing with sand quietly in thought.  “The Matrix of leadership was a gift… and the end of Orion. To want something is to acknowledge lack. And lack is acknowledgement of my failure as a Prime. My failing of Cybertron… And a failing Prime does not get to ‘want.”

Want you? Want things? Want life? 

You build a little home in the sand, piling on grains, each from a rock that could have spanned all corners of the earth, to make a home.

He continues, “I have fought wars for ideals, sacrificed soldiers for peace and taken countless amounts of damage for protection.” Your brows knit. “But on Earth, here. Every want is no longer about what I give,” he watches you,  “but rather… what I would take.”

The wind passes by and carries the top layer away, you pile on more.

This motherfucker and his ideas of grandeur. Larger than life attitude. Damn the world that it is the correct thing to do. 

“Do you not feel like you've… earned nice things?” You say after a beat.

He sits quietly. “...” That lack of response in a way that is an answer in and of itself.

“I guess I understand a little.” You say through a quiet tone. “Why?” You ask, deciding that if he must think every response then you must not. “The war? The cons?”

“Cybertron is not any more repaired than it was when I was just Orion.”

“...” You are slightly unequipped to reply to that.

“... I miss it.” Optimus admits, turning his hand around to watch your fingers curl his large palm.

“The place? Or that version of yourself?”

“Everything. The people. The day-to-day.” He touches your arm with other hand, sitting forward to grip you like a mast.  “...And I suppose me.”

Lip tinges in pain between your teeth. The air quietens, retreats into itself. Folds away neatly and transforms into an isolated tanker, half submerged and not willing to call the coast guard.

Dammit, you'd say this to any bot. That ruminating on what started this mess and what held them all down for so long is worthless now. That they're stranded on an alien planet and the last thing they can do is try to swim back up the riptide. That the hurtful beauty of the moon took the tide in and they have long waved goodbye to those metallic shores. That they're long since past the breaks of waves and need to learn to float. 

They’re worth infinitely more than tying guilty anchors to ankles.

“...float?” Optimus interrupts, utterly lost and jolting you from deluded mumbling.

And embracing the wacky to-and-fro of flotation device, you lean into the push away from Friendship Island.

“If- fuck, okay, how do I say this?” You grumble,  “So, picture these lives and versions of yourself as islands. They are places you stay on. Have a life, have a set of friends. And then- the ocean is these forces that pull you around and fuck you over in weird unexpected ways. The moon is time because you can't do anything about it making tides and currents. And there’s you, in the middle, getting carried around.” Optimus crinkles brow in concentration, you huff,  “Basically- change is something you don't have true control over. You only have the ability to react to it. Decide if you’re going to spend the next million years trying to swim back to the last island and eventually sink. Or if you’re going to take it as it comes and float.”

“You are saying you think I shouldn't fight so hard for something that has passed?”

“I'm saying you should be learning to look towards what's next- I mean. That's your movement, isn't it? Building something forward? Newer? Not looking behind you.”

“... Yes I suppose so.”

“And while you're out in the middle, where you can't really see what's next, shouldn't you be focusing on not drowning yourself?”

“...” Optimus takes it in, really gives your half-cohesive idea some genuine thought. Kind, even as his tone becomes unamused. “If I accept this, people will suffer. You are describing surrender.”

“That's not what I- wait, you're twisting it wrong now-”

“Am I?” He cuts you off. “If I don't fight it, I let the ‘ocean’ carry me further. And somewhere I have not chosen may not be survivable. Not just to me.” 

“But if you fight too much you drown anyways!” You butt in, Optimus’ mask inches down with his mouth opening to refute you again. You don’t let him. “I'm not saying don't ever fight it! I'm saying…Pick when it matters.”

“And who decides that?”

“You do.”

Optimus’ servos curl around yours, tightened unconsciously.

“I do not have that luxury.”

Wrong answer. You hold back, just to tell him you’re there too. Swimming sideways against the push of currents.

“Yeah. You do. You just don't let yourself use it.”

“If I misjudge that line, people will pay at my expense. My choices are not mine alone.”

“What? You think if you feed the rest of your sanity into this war, you’ll suddenly get Cybertron back?” You say, sitting yourself facing him and jabbing into abdominal grating. “If you sacrifice you now for what you had, that’ll be a good idea?  Because what happens if you never stop swimming? Stop fighting?” Finials set back, slow in their slide. There’s an irritation in it, but he doesn’t let go of you. “What happens then?”

“Then I endure. As I always have.”

The pair of you practically growl at each other. You tut,

“Would you call that living?”

Engine rumbles, the word leaves him like exhaust fume,

“No.”

You give him some space, realising you have crawled your way over him. A hundred screw tweaks won’t do anything if you haven’t taken off the cover. You aim for his outer sphere.

“If you want me to turn it on you- you set a precedent for this team as leader. For this faction. For these people.” 

“I am aware.” Optimus looks away, you defiantly press on, 

“They don't just follow your orders. They copy you. The attitudes you have, the way you speak, the way you work yourself into a grave.”

Sparks fly. You know you’ve nicked something that has been snipped at by countless before you. 

“That is not!-”

“It is.”  You absorb it, grounding the shock into nothing. “If you heard someone else speaking the way you do, you'd tear them apart.” Optimus recoils. 

“I would… correct them.”

“Exactly. So why do you get a pass?”

“.. I do not have the same margin for error.” He lays it out, spreads that fact onto the table. Can he see the contradiction?

“Yeah! This is what's ticking me off!” You throw your hair back, poke your finger back into his stomach. 

-

“You shouldn't be the exception to your own compassion.”

-

Well-Of-Patience-Prime doesn’t react. You goad him out of his shell to rescrew his processors once more. “Look at Megatron. Look at how he treats Starscream and how he gets treated back. Look at what he's tried to do to my planet. Do you think Megatron has compassion?”

“No.” Optimus says it without pause.

 “Now: You took me in, you encouraged me to build a little home with your boys. You defend humanity without being a human yourself. Do you think you lack compassion?”

This time he does wait, “I try not to.”

“You don't. Not for others. But you don't seem to keep any for yourself.” 

Empty room. Long nights. Undeserving guilt and three-species-worth of years denying himself identity.

This war started before the big creator even considered which rock to start microorganisms on. You count the knuckles on the fingers interlaced with yours like bands in a tree.

 “And before you say it, tiny bug life, yeah, what do I know?”

You cast that away with his outer plating, set on your path to his inner spark.

“But I care about this world. I care about the Autobots.” 

This is not just friendship.

“And I care about you. All at the same time.”

You would elaborate. Would clarify- but you watch attention fuzzy into the distance like a computer overloaded. Perhaps arguing against his inability to see himself as a person was not the time to confess your undying love. Instead, you draw him fully to the surface by wrapping yourself around him. 

The edges of a cuboid chest dig into your forearms. Like hugging a flatpacked shelf. Unyielding. 

You bury your chin into the flat of his shoulder and tuck near his neck. You are submerged in him when he lifts arms to hug you back. Optimus nuzzles helm into the softness of your hair in a way that stings slightly.  The contact is completely foreign but also just what you dreamed of. 

Vibration wracks your chest, spark and heart hammering like they're trying to meet in the middle.

“This is not something I have discussed with… anyone.” Optimus whispers in that deep voice. The sound reverberates in your mind, echos down your body in its admission.

“I know.” 

You can see it. That straight line of connection that lets you hold his hand in open waters. The infinite differences in your moons and oceans, that despite the chances, still rises and falls to the same rhythm.

• It’s not exactly dignified, knees up to your chest sitting in a tiny plastic pool only deep enough that your butt and feet are wet, but it’s better than nothing. Much better than the dorms since the unit is out right now and it’s stuffy and hot inside. Sighing as one of the mechs swings slightly to make it rain over you and several other caretakers, you lazily salute him with your drink and try to remember which one’s which. The fact that they’re both red and transform into firetrucks isn’t helping. And wiggling slightly to try to get another inch of you in the water, you notice the mournful looking crowd of mechs lingering at the edge of the low wall marking the end of the dorm lawn.

• Meeting your optics, he waits for you to gesture for him to come over. And you lift a hand to cheerfully wave instead. Like you have no idea what you’re doing to him right now. What you’re wearing certainly isn’t helping. You and the rest of the caretakers showing a lot more skin than normal as you lounge in the sun. “Do you think maybe they can’t regulate their own body temperatures?” Misfire asks and Rodimus grimaces, noticing a couple of Decepticons have wandered over to watch. ‘They’re not cold blooded,’ First Aid mutters and Rodimus nods like he knew that.

• Yeah, that’s a lot of really forlorn looking aliens. You’re honestly just surprised none of them have decided to crash the pool party. Because you’re pretty sure as soon as one does, they all will. Making the fact that they’re somewhat behaving even more unusual. And it’s a good thing none of them have figured out the art of puppy eyes or it would be over. Meeting Rodimus’s optics, he smiles hopefully and you can feel your resolve wavering.