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He would be the first to admit that it had been more than foolish to agree to go—alone—to the stretch of forest that had been the place where he died. And yet, he was here, waiting for the mech who had all but demanded his presence.
Waiting for an old… something. Calling the Decepticon his old lover would imply a level of affection that had never been present in their relationship, but they had been more than simple interface partners. There had been no time before the war to analyze their relationship beyond that, not with Skywarp’s duties as a weapon’s designer being demanded more and more often by the military.
This precipitous summons, in the wake of everything that had happened between them over the vorns was strange and a bit uncomfortable—and he didn’t really know how to feel about it. He had always looked back at the relationship with Skywarp sadly, regretting that things had always been so unresolved between them. And now, he had no idea what the other mech could even want.
Except, perhaps, to kill him.
Optimus swayed a bit with the force of the displaced air as Skywarp teleported in behind him—nearly on time for their meeting. He didn’t let it bother him; the flier had never been the best about punctuality.
“I can’t believe you were stupid enough to come alone.” Skywarp’s voice was a hiss, punctuated by static and the discordant tones of obvious vocalizer damage. “I had at least expected that yellow scout of yours; he’s too attached to you for his own good.”
“Bumblebee is with his charge,” the Prime replied, turning to look at the Decepticon. His left side was a mass of torn plating and badly healed attempted repairs. He did his best not to wince at the damage as he continued. “It seemed wisest to leave the others uniformed of my destination. What do you want, Skywarp?”
“Fuel, repairs, a night of passionate interface.” The flier shrugged one shoulder—the other seemed frozen in place. “Same things most mechs want right now, I think. I’ll settle for the first two and a few nights locked up while we discuss my defection.”
The words were possibly the last thing he had ever expected to hear from the flier. Skywarp had been staunch in his support of Megatron, and had been among the first to fire on the fledgling Autobot forces when they defied the Lord Protector. He had also been one of the loudest voices to condemn them.
“What of your cause?” He asked. “Your kin? Megatron?”
Skywarp’s functional arm gestured toward his extensive damage. “Who do you think did this to me? I am not Starscream; I won’t be going back for another round of punishments just because Megatron was beaten by a bunch of pacifists and their organic allies. And my kin don’t care about me or they would have stopped this.”
There was something distant and deeply sorrowful on Skywarp’s face at the end of his speech. If he had to guess, Optimus would have said it was betrayal and hurt. Even now, even with the distance of time and war between them, his spark ached to see the expression.
Before he had time to analyze further, Skywarp listed to one side and his legs collapsed beneath him. Optimus rushed to his side, catching him so that they sank to the ground together in a controlled fall.
“Knew I could trust you,” the weapon’s designer said weakly.
“Always,” the Prime replied. “I’m going to call Ratchet. We can discuss terms after you’re repaired.”
“Sure,” Skywarp replied, optics dim. With a horrible grinding of gears, the flier forced his right arm to move enough that he could rest his hand on Optimus’ hip plate. It was an intimate, familiar gesture and the Prime was shocked to realize he didn’t mind it. “How strong do you think my bargaining position for that night of interfacing is?”
Optimus laughed, both amused and relieved. Perhaps there would be a chance to make sense of what they had done in the past after all.