Chapter Text
To think it had all started with one Vosian medic. It was true: the Decepticon Earth division desperately needed an actual licensed medical professional for a while. As much as Hook had tried to cover the position, he was an engineer, not a licensed medical staff. But did it have to be a pompous, flashy race car? Although, to be fair, Knock Out was much more patient than Hook (even with all the nagging about the cosmetic state of his body). He even allowed Megatron to bring his datapad into the medbay and wasn’t interested in what he was doing, as long as he stayed still. Frankly, that was fair compensation for the elongated time spent in the medbay.
No matter! Having polished plating and freshly changed, fragranced oil (against his will) shouldn't have made such a big difference. Besides, Megatron was a mech of words and actions, not... looks. Maybe looking a little rough gave him a more intimidating appearance, something desirable in war, but it wasn’t anything the warlord thought about constantly. No one had ever cared about his dented and scratched kibble before!
So why, in the name of Primus, was Optimus Prime ogling him for the past two clicks instead of landing a punch to his faceplate?! He could see those big, blue optics lingering a bit too long on his chassis, like the pit-spawn didn’t even know what he was looking at!
“Megatron, is... is that a new polish?” came Optimus’ uncertain voice. “Is this your new elaborate scheme? To have us all... blinded by your finish?” One of his hands came up to shield his optics from the sun's reflection. “Primus, it goes to all the smallest details in your frame!”
Megatron blinked. Once. Twice. How was he supposed to interpret that comment? It was completely out of their usual battle banter, which they had both perfected down to the sharpest jabs! Even more so, Megatron couldn't understand why Prime almost sounded captivated by the mere shine of his finish. And on top of that, he was still staring at the reflections, studying his plating like it contained all the answers in the universe — meticulously, not missing an inch — and as a result, his optics finally wandered to Megatron’s own.
It wasn’t unusual for them to exchange very charged and ferocious looks, but this... this was something entirely new. The usual rage that always lingered in the crevices of Optimus’ optics had been fully replaced by shock, curiosity and something his emotional module could not decipher.
Megatron felt like his whole body was closing on itself with just the power of that hard stare. It was so unbecoming of their dynamic, their usual script! He could feel the temperature of his internal components rise, and a message popped up on his HUD informing him that additional cooling protocols had been activated. Because, as much as the silver mech didn't want to admit it, those words and looks did stir something inside his chassis.
NO!
He, Megatron, accomplished warlord, leader of the Decepticons, would not succumb to this moment of weakness in front of his enemy! Or at all! It was only a temporary glitch, a fixable error in his processor. He probably needed to get his diagnostics done. Primus knows when the last time was that he had his software checked by a professional. Now, for once, it was actually possible that they had a real medic in their ranks.
But even so, he still needed to win the fight with Optimus. No matter that the ‘Bot hadn’t even taken a battle stance since their first clash. He needed to save the honor of—
::Objective achieved: energon secured. Tactical withdrawal advised.::
A small smirk formed on slightly flustered plating. Leave it to his utmost loyal lieutenant to have a processor worth a dozen mechanisms. If only Prime would stop looking at him like that.
::Megatron: gravely injured? Needs saving?::
Ah, there it came. Because as much as Megatron valued his most faithful Decepticon, he was still one of his oldest companions — and thus, he knew him far too well. At least he had the courtesy to contact him on the private call, not open channel.
“DECEPTICONS, RETREAT!” Megatron shouted with the full force of his vocalizer, which gave Optimus quite a startle. Then, promptly, he spun on his axis and fled the scene along with the rest of his troops.
It took some time for Optimus to regain optimal functioning, but when he did, it was already too late to pursue the 'Cons. He slowly brought two digits to his audio receptor to access long-range communication, having noticed that the true heart of the battle had moved farther away from the main building of the energy plant.
“Hound, how's the situation on the field?” Optimus asked. He didn’t have to wait long for a response.
“Half the energon's missin’... but every worker’s alive. I’ll take that any day. I’d say great job to the speeders,” came the slightly raspy voice. It was clear as day that Optimus’ crew was worn out.
“Thanks, Hound!” “Yeah, thank you for the recognition!” The Lamborghini brothers chimed in. “Also! Bumblebee did a great job on lookout, so be sure to praise him too, Bossbot!” “And hug him really tight, for good measure. He seems to like that very much!” Both of them snickered.
“Ah, Optimus!” said a slightly flustered Bee over the line. “Don’t listen to them!”
“Hmm, But Bumblebee, There is no shame in wanting physical affection,” said Prime with his smooth and gentle voice. “I’m happy to accommodate to everybot’s needs.”
“Whaaat?! Mech, you tellin’ me that was on the table this whole time?” Answered the enthusiastic voice of Jazz. “Scrap me sideways— Prime! I want them forehead kisses, nightly tuck-ins, and you hummin’ that sweet tune lullaby till I’m deep in recharge, ya got that, Bossbot?”
He could hear the grunting of the yellow minibot coming from the other end of the line and laughter from others. He chuckled fondly himself. Optimus might be the leader and the boss to his crew members, but it was just too fun to not engage in light teasing from time to time.
“Now, Jazz, I think that was uncalled for,” stated flat voice of Prowl.
And before the whole team got really talkative on open comms, Optimus’ beaming voice cut through their chatter. “Attention, Autobots! I’m very proud of your work today. Finish reconnaissance and round up at the Ark.”
“You got it, boss!” rang several much more cheerful vocalizers before the Prime cutted off the connection.
Optimus took a long vent. At least his oversight hadn’t cost any lives. Not this time. He’d be ready if anything like that occurs in the future. There was no place for mistakes of that scale on the battlefield.
But the red truck, on his way back to base, could not stop thinking about the new and suspiciously fresh look Megatron had been rocking today. The purpose seemed obvious: a distraction in more ways than one. Most likely, it was the increased reflectivity, which could sabotage both aim and general visibility.
And that should have been the trail of thought in Prime’s processor. Not the almost obsessive cataloging of every newly smoothed surface of his greatest foe. It definitely shouldn’t have been the realization that Megatron wasn’t painted gray at all, but that it was actually his raw plating exposed to the elements. Only some parts, his servos, joints, pedes, parts of lower chassis, and… hip guards, were painted black with red accents. But even the black parts were covered with some kind of gloss that made them more reflective than he thought it was physically possible. Especially that pelvic armor—
Optimus had to physically stomp on his brakes before his processor started spewing more nonsense, which, alarmingly, was already making his internal temperature spike. He’d have to get that bit of code checked out by Ratchet. He just hoped that whatever malfunction he'd gotten wasn’t that bad or difficult to cure. For now, he’ll have to keep it together.
***
Megatron, in all his shining glory (now perhaps slightly more grimy from Earth’s ever-present dust), was stomping through damp corridors of the Decepticon base. Despite his best efforts, his mind clung stubbornly to a single directive. Megatron reluctantly was rearranging those parts of coding, but his internal hierarchy refused to override the priority flag, forcing it to the top again and again. Which was absurd! He shouldn’t be feeling such strong perturbations over one look from those sky-blue optics, from one sentence that had slipped from Prime’s always guarded dermas. Because no matter how much he wanted the illusion to last a little longer, he knew, deep inside, that he wouldn’t be able to just wait it out, like he tends to do with every uneasy thought regarding a certain red truck moder. That wretched processor had been supplying him with images and implications the entire journey back to the ocean, giving him a helmache.
He could feel the presence of at least one cassette watching his every move. Of course, it was utterly unnecessary. Megatron had already decided to confront their carrier in person. It was better to address whatever conclusions the spy might have drawn about his latest battle with Prime or rather, the lack of said battle. And maybe, just maybe, Megatron needed to reassure himself that what had happened during the mission was, in fact, trivial and unworthy of his current tribulations, and most of all, attention.
The outcome had been unexpected, yes, but it had achieved the desired effect. Prime had been lured away from the true target, and even if the method of distraction had proven... unconventional, Soundwave had no real leverage over him. And so what if Megatron had mixed feelings about that dumbfounded Prime? He could try ignoring them until he got some time alone with the clone, who hopefully waited for him in his private quarters. Preferably.
“Megatron: overthinking. Query: truly no leverage?” came the familiar voice of his communications officer who, as it turned out, was right behind him, not in his office as Megatron had assumed.
“Soundwave, how many times have I told you not to read my mind without a good reason?” he said. He didn’t sound particularly enraged, more annoyed and a little tired, but there was still that characteristic edge in his tone.
“Megatron: thinks very loudly. Hard not to,” replied the spy, utterly unmoved. “Reason: sufficient?”
The warlord growled, pinching the bridge of his nasal ridge with a servo. He was well aware that, at this point, there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop Soundwave. The mech was being overly chatty (by his standards), which only meant one thing — further delays would only hurt Megatron's integrity in the long run.
With a sigh, the silver mech strode into the communications room without fanfare. Soundwave moved behind him, losing the doors, sensing that whatever is going to happen next will need to stay between them. Best to get this over with — Megatron thought — there was no reason to stall any longer.
He stood there for some time, gathering scattered thoughts. Because how does one expect to explain to his most loyal lieutenant and friend that he’s not capable of processing whatever petty thing happened between him and Prime on his own? Megatron was this close to saying ‘frag it’ and taking his miserable aft to his quarters where he’d be left alone to his own sulking for at least two full cycles before he’ll have to address Starscream’s pitiful attempts at taking over the command in his faction.
“I truly do not know what to think about the situation with Prime,” said Megatron, looking at the opposite wall to his officer, “He never acted like… that before!” He started pacing the not that big of a room. “There could be a perfectly rational explanation. Perhaps a glitch in his combat subroutines, a misfire in his behavioral coding or something entirely different. But aside from being mildly shaken, he, in theory, retained full operational control of his components.”
“Query: Prime’s distress linked to Megatron’s physique?” asked Soundwave, tilting his head ever so slightly.
“Nonsense! Optimus has never cared about my looks,” Megatron snorted, then abruptly froze as the meaning of his own words filtered back through his logistics module. “That is to say, it has always been clear that he lacks the disposition for such a base act as lust. For any mech. With how prude the high caste mecha always were... Right?”
Soundwave continued to stare in complete, unblinking silence.
“You don’t think that…” Megatron’s vocalizer hitched slightly, “that Prime is actually interested in me? In that way?”
The warlord's optic ridges furrowed, dermas tightening as his processor spiraled deep into calculation. His entire frame went rigid, all energy rerouted to his logic sequencer as he rotated the not-so-bizarre idea around his mind, testing every variable, every possible outcome.
Soundwave, sensing that it might take a while, quietly took a seat on one of the two chairs in the office. Oh spare him a couple of kliks of rest.
“By the Pits!” Megatron suddenly yelped. “I’ve been so blind! So unbelievably dense!”
The communications officer jerked upright, genuinely startled by the outburst. Whatever half-fried emotional subroutine had just short-circuited in his leader, Soundwave didn’t have to wait long to find out. And— oh no. Was Megatron about to get poetic on him?
“Did you know?!” Megatron thundered, optics wide with revelation. “Was I the only one so pitifully blind, so narrow-sparked and hopelessly oblivious, that I failed to see it— failed to see him as Optimus Prime has been courting me across the millennia?! Through war! Through fire! Through every cursed battle cry?!”
Soundwave blinked rapidly behind his his visor. Was this the moment? Quickly, he replayed the recording from his short-term memory. Yes, there was no doubt. Soundwave would be collecting all those shanix from that old betting pool. He just needed to get to Swindle before any of his cassetticons gets the wind of what just occurred in his office.
“But now… now another question rises from the depths!” Megatron declared, undeterred by the sudden twitch in Soundwave’s servos. “What am I to do, armed with such staggering revelation? I cannot, I must not, leave Optimus Prime to languish in uncertainty any longer. No… the only righteous course is confrontation! It’s well past due to do so.” His vents stuttered in disbelief, as if even his frame could not keep up with the absurdity of his thoughts. “By the rusting stars of Ultron’s downfall… I have already answered his challenge! Of course! He must have felt the need to abandon tradition, cast aside restraint, to flirt with me in ways even I could perceive. One can only imagine how strong is his yearning for the love to last millennials. To turn away now would be… callous. Criminal! I must rise to meet his fervour. No! Surpass him!” A dramatic laugh burst from his vocalizer, sharp and electric. “Yes! I shall use that longing for connection, that desperation, so it’ll be just a matter of time till he converts to the Decepticon cause out of his own volition!”
He turned his shining, not only from a double polish, frame to fully face Soundwave, who was halfway through unlocking the door. “Soundwave. Summon everyone relevant to the command center in half of a cycle's time. It is time… to craft my courting plan.”
Well it wasn't the preferable outcome, but at least it’s a step forward after 4 million years of unresolved tension between the two leaders and Soundwave will take that any day over another millennia of those stubborn fools pining for each other.