#xensilverquill

At the far edge of the galaxy, on the trailing end of the Orion-Cygnus Arm, was a bookshop.

Exitium-Tertiax 3 had once been an old Autobot outpost. Abandoned long before the end of the war, it consisted of little more than a small energon refinery, a landing field, and a few habitation units amidst the blue rock spires. Set in the leeward side of one outcropping, however, was a larger and newer-looking building. It was here that the pair of them had made their home.

Or rather the three of them, if one counted R.J., the unusually long-lived opossum who had become the former warlord’s companion in his days on Earth. Said possum was currently eyeing the potted succulents in a way Optimus did not care for.

“Don’t you dare,” the old Prime scolded as he gently plucked the little beast up. “You know what happened the last time you took a bite out of a jade plant, and I do not care to make another emergency four light-year trip to the veterinarian.”

He set R.J. down on one of the myriad bookshelves along the wall. In his other servo he balanced two cubes of warm energon. It did not take him long to find who he was searching for in one of the backrooms. A soft smile crossed his faceplate to see his conjunx sorting through a box of datapads -- a shipment from an old cache dug up beneath Kaon. He paused at the doorway to knock on the threshold.

“Found anything of particular note?” Optimus asked, placing a servo on his shoulder. He held out one of the cubes to Megatron. “You have been back here for some cycles now. You have gone and forgotten dinner again, sweetspark.” “Mm,” the grey mech grunted, taking the cube in hand but not looking up from the datapad he was examining.

“Must be quite engrossing, whatever it is,” he remarked, coming to sit beside Megatron. His joints creaked a little as he bent and crossed his legs. Primus, but he was certainly not as young as he used to be. Neither of them were, really. He leaned his helm sideways until it rested against the old warrior’s pauldron. Glancing over at the datapad, he found himself resetting his optics in disbelief. 

Surely that could not be--

“A copy of your manifesto?” he remarked, peering up at his mate.

“First edition,” Megatron replied, finally meeting the other’s gaze. “I had believed them all destroyed after the Functionalist raids. Somehow this one managed to survive Cybertron’s darkening and the war intact.” The light in his red optics was low and pensive, filled with ghosts of the past four million odd years.

“Well, you had better not go starting another coup.” Reaching over, Optimus stroked along the edge of Megatron’s jaw. Gently turning his scarred face, he leaned up to press a brief kiss against those lips and smiled. “Not until after you have refueled, at least.”

“You just find yourself so amusing, don’t you?” Megatron grumbled even as he smiled back.

“Extremely,” Optimus laughed, bumping his helm under his chin.  He settled against his mate once more. “All right, just a little more reading tonight, and then we will refuel together, hm?”