[CtE] From the Shallows 10

[dracoqueen22]

From the Shallows
Part Ten

It had become a habit.

Every morning, upon waking, once he’d managed to drag himself out of the berth and Grimlock’s cuddling embrace, Starscream pulled out the scanner he’d nicked from the medbay and gave it a pass over his frame. He didn’t know if it was truly capable of reading a successful sparking, but he’d calibrated it as best he could based on the data Glyph had supplied and all of the anecdotes they’d recovered.

This morning was no exception.

Starscream onlined, extricated himself from Grimlock's arms despite his every desire to remain there, and went into the sitting room. He grabbed a cube of energon and the scanner, and waited for the results.

He reviewed his schedule for the day. A meeting with Shockwave, where he was no doubt going to remind the scientist he lived only on the whims of their commander. An appointment with Knock Out to discuss the potential of a new paint job. Flying with his trine with possibly Swoop to join.

He had a busy day ahead of him.

The scanner beeped.

Starscream cycled his optics, cube pausing halfway to his mouth, as the device spat numerous results at him, all vastly different than what they’d been yesterday morning.

Nanite activity: elevated.

Core temperature: elevated.

Spark revolutions: increased.

Secondary spark frequency detected.

It was the latter which changed everything. The first three could be illness, a fault in his coding, something a medic could easily fix. The last, however.

The last was significant.

Starscream put down the cube and picked up the scanner, staring at the screen. Secondary spark frequency detected.

They’d sparked.

For a moment, Starscream stared in a stunned silence, his free hand touching his midsection, where he knew the small tank lay nestled beneath his spark chamber. If this scanner was accurate -- and it should be, he’d calibrated it himself -- then they’d sparked.

They’d sparked!

Starscream tumbled the scanner aside and burst into the berthroom. “Grimlock! We sparked!” he announced, unable to disguise the glee in his voice. As far as he knew, this made them the first.

Grimlock lurched awake, visor flickering, the cannons in his arms cycling up with a loud whine. “What?”

“Power down, you big oaf. We’re not in danger, we’re sparked,” Starscream said as he climbed onto the berth and into his mate’s lap, planting a string of kisses over Grimlock’s mask. “I’m carrying.”

Burly arms came around him as if on automatic, though Grimlock’s field remained a befuddled mess. At least his defense protocols cycled down, the blasters tucking back into his arms.

“We did it?” Grimlock asked, head tilting down to press his forehead to Starscream’s.

“I’m sure we’d need a medic to confirm, but if you trust my scientific acumen at all, then yes. We did,” Starscream said and planted another kiss on Grimlock’s mask, his wings flicking up and down.

Grimlock vented quietly. “We’re the first,” he said.

“Damn right we are.” Starscream grinned and rested his hand over his mid-section again. “Who knows what the sparkling is going to turn out to be.”

“I’ll love them regardless,” Grimlock said, his fingers stroking Starscream’s back and armor in gentle sweeps.

Starscream sat back a little, his head tilted. “You don’t sound happy.”

“I am.” Grimlock’s visor met his gaze with an unexpected intensity. “I’m also worried. We’re the first. If anything goes wrong…” He trailed off.

Starscream read between the lines.

He cupped Grimlock’s face and pressed their foreheads together once more. “It’s going to be fine. We’ve got the best medics on Cybertron around to make it so.”

Grimlock rumbled noncommittally, his field a prickle against Starscream’s before he said, “You are my spark, and my priority. I won’t sacrifice you for this.”

“You won’t have to,” Starscream murmured and some of the tension in Grimlock’s frame eased. “If it comes down to it, we’ll just have to try again.”

A puff of warm ex-vent ghosted Starscream’s armor. “As long as I don’t lose you, we’ll try as many times as it takes.”

“Deal.”

~

Consciousness came to him in stages as he floated in a half-aware state where the Matrix purred approvingly at him.

Hot Rod wasn’t sure he cared for the approval. He was more focused on the fact he was alive.

Sore. Exhausted. Battered. Bruised.

Alive.

We are proud of you.

Hot Rod ignored the chorus of voices. He didn’t need anyone’s pride. He hadn’t done it for accolades from a collection of long-dead Primes.

The scent of antiseptic and weld-fire floated to his nose, and the distinct drone of monitoring equipment echoed in his audials. He was in a medical bay which had to be a good sign, though he was probably under Ratchet’s care.

Primus, he ached.

Hot Rod forced his optical shutters to open, relieved that the lights were dim. He couldn’t move his left hand because Jazz was attached to it.

Wait.

Jazz was here?

He was in recharge, vents snuffling, and Hot Rod’s spark clenched with affection. He looked as though he hadn’t done anything more than the basic patching since they’d made their escape from the Guardian. At least, Hot Rod assumed they had, and that he’d been successful.

He was still here.

Hope bloomed unbidden in Hot Rod’s spark, and he didn’t have the wherewithal to beat it down. Maybe they could make it work. Maybe this was a sign Jazz wanted to stay. Maybe they weren’t over.

He must have moved or made some noise because Jazz stirred, coming awake in a flash, his visor online and his attention zeroing in on Hot Rod. His vents left him in a whoosh, fingers tightening in their grip.

“Morning, hotshot,” Jazz murmured as he slowly sat up, rolling his neck to ease the kinks, but not releasing his grip. “Glad you’re finally awake.”

“How long was I out?” Hot Rod asked, and his vocals were striped with static as if he’d swallowed rust and dust for days. “What happened?”

Jazz shifted from the chair to the berth, pressed against Hot Rod’s hips, their fingers still interlaced. “Well, two days ago you stopped the Guardian and there’s nothing left but the clean-up so kudos to you, my Prime.”

Hot Rod winced. “Don’t call me Prime.”

“Sorry. I thought ya were ready for it.” Jazz lifted Hot Rod’s hand, brushing his lips across Hot Rod’s knuckles. “How do ya feel?”

“Sore. Aching. Like I got stomped on by a Combiner.” Hot Rod paused and gave Jazz a long look. “Confused. What are you doing here?”

Jazz froze. Even his vents stalled. Until they seemed to kick back in, and he lowered Hot Rod’s hand. “Do you want me to leave?”

“That’s not what I asked.” Hot Rod struggled to sit up, but there were too many wires and one of the machines started honking at him, so he gave up and patted around for the berth controls until he managed to lift the head of the berth enough he no longer felt like an invalid. “I thought you didn’t want this.”

Jazz ducked his head. “I guess I deserve that.” He cycled a deep ventilation, his hand squeezing Hot Rod’s. “I was wrong.”

Oh, Primus.

Hot Rod made himself keep his voice even, his field retracted, despite the hope threatening to rise up and fill his intake. “About which part?” he asked, and Optimus would have praised him for his restraint.

“Most of it. All of it. Frag, I just wanna start over if you’ll let me.” Jazz’s glossa flicked over his lips as he ex-vented. “I don’t want the out, Rodders. I want you.”

“Do you know what that’s gonna mean?” Hot Rod asked, ignoring the desperate need to pull Jazz into his arms and kiss him senseless and crow with glee. “Because I’m not satisfied pretending to be friends who frag. I want someone who’s gonna wake up with me, who’s gonna help me deal with this stupid thing in my chest, and who’s gonna let me help them, too.” He paused, drew in a shaky breath. “I want a partnership.”

There was a moment of fearful silence, where Hot Rod thought he’d asked for too much, that Jazz wasn’t ready for the realities of what Hot Rod wanted.

But Jazz took in a deep vent and his thumb scrubbed over Hot Rod’s palm. “If you’ll have me and all my faults, then that’s what I want too.”

He sounded genuine, and the touch of his field poured sincerity.

Hot Rod’s spark swelled, and he cupped Jazz’s face with his free hand, drawing him close enough to bring their lips together, relief vibrating through him like the wash of a recharge pad. There was a pulse of warmth from the Matrix, though Hot Rod didn’t care to interpret it, except maybe as a reflection of his own happiness.

He pressed his forehead to Jazz’s, his optics shuttered, soaking up the tangled energies of their fields. “It should be pretty obvious by now that I want you,” Hot Rod murmured. “I know what you are, Jazz, and I want all of you. I just need you to want me, too.”

“Wanting you has never been the problem, spitfire.” Jazz cupped Hot Rod’s neck, his thumb stroking a gentle path down Hot Rod’s main transmission cable. “Even monsters get a little afraid, ya know? And ya scare the pit out of me.”

Hot Rod breathed a laugh. “You’re not a monster.”

“Mmm. Tell that to all the mechs afraid of the dark.” Jazz shifted back, and their gazes met, the walls around Jazz’s expression crumbling bit by bit. “I know what it means to be a Prime, and what burdens you’re gonna carry. Let me shoulder them with you.”

Hot Rod kissed him again. How could he not? He’d wanted to hear this for so long, and thought it would never happen. He didn’t dare push. He’d known the score.

“Don’t leave again,” Hot Rod said in between kisses.

“Promise,” Jazz breathed against his lips, and joy bloomed warm and tingling in Hot Rod’s spark, a wave of it spreading through his entire frame.

Warmth, and maybe a tug of fatigue, too. He wanted to kiss Jazz, but gravity pulled him back to the berth, dizziness encroaching on his thoughts.

“You need to rest,” Jazz said as he playfully kissed the tip of Hot Rod’s nose. “Recharge. I’ll be here.”

This time, Hot Rod believed him.

~

“You have my comm if you’re short-staffed, correct?” Knock Out asked as his fingers swept over the datapad, signing on every dotted line needed to release him from his service to the Decepticons.

He would, by the time he stamped his glyph in the last box, officially be a Neutral, and officially free of any and all obligation to the Decepticons.

“I doubt we’ll have need of it, but yes,” Flatline said with his patented bored tone, perched behind the desk which was once Knock Out’s, resembling a little bit the Combiner in a jewelry shop as he was far too large for it.

The sight gave Knock Out a little laugh, though he tried to hide it. He didn’t want to burn his bridges. Escape routes had always been one of his staples. It was how he’d survived for so long.

“You never know, there might be another guardian out there, or another group like the DJD,” Knock Out said as he flicked to the next box and the next box and--

Sweet Primus.

Did they make this unnecessarily painful on purpose? Couldn’t he just hand over his notice and let bygones be bygones? It wasn’t like he had a paycheck to forward or retirement income or he needed to hand over access codes.

Did Ultra Magnus write this?

“If that be the case, I am sure it will be a matter of Cybertronian pride, and we will all stand together.” Flatline pushed around a few items on Knock Out’s former desk as though their very presence offended him.

Knock Out peered at his replacement over the top of the datapad. “You know, you’re rather unpleasant to be around sometimes. Maybe you should work on that.”

“Noted.”

Knock Out rolled his optics and went back to the next checkmark. “Snarl is, of course, going with me. You’ll need to find someone else to fix your equipment or bring it to us.” He smiled, showing his denta, a smile of pride in his partner. “You know there’s no one better.”

“I am aware,” Flatline said, and he ex-vented a long, aggrieved vent. “Are you going to be here much longer? I’ve a need to redecorate.”

Knock Out ignored him. He peered at the datapad, tapped the stylus against the border of it, stamped his glyph in one last box, and voila.

The datapad chimed cheerfully .

Knock Out grinned and stood, resting said datapad on the desktop with a flourish. “Now I’m done,” he said. “Chief Medical Officer Flatline, I leave the Decepticons and all of their drama to you.”

“Why do I feel like you’ve just handed me a processor ache rather than a promotion?” Flatline picked up the datapad and tucked it into an adjacent drawer.

“You volunteered,” Knock Out reminded him, because Glit had the good sense to refuse before the offer came out of Knock Out’s mouth.

Honestly, there was no one whinier than a Decepticon soldier, especially if said soldier needed to visit the medbay for routine maintenance. Maybe that was because Decepticon medical care had always been somewhat lacking. Maybe if Hook was your best option for a repair, that might make one a little leery.

Maybe Decepticons had reason to be wary.

Still. Knock Out was tired of chasing down patients, of changing filters, and berating soldiers about proper care, and he absolutely did not want to deal with the inevitable madness which would arise from this new sparking protocol. No, sir. No, thank you.

“Yes, I remember,” Flatline said in a dry tone. He flicked a hand at Knock Out while he glared at the decorative figurine on the corner of his desk. “Go. Enjoy your new pursuits.”

Knock Out sketched a salute that was a few shades shy of respectful and made his escape. He took the emergency rampwell down rather than the main lifts so he wouldn’t have to say goodbye or be caught by potential patients. No, he wasn’t trying to avoid nostalgia. He wouldn’t miss this facility. He was delighted to put it in his rearview mirror.

In fact, he was happier still to see Iacon growing more distant behind him. The open road between it and the neutral space betwixt the three main cities felt like freedom, despite the way it bumped and spat debris at his undercarriage and coated his armor in a thin layer of dust. Both were a fair trade for the headache he left behind, and besides, he had two partners with clever fingers who would be more than willing to help him polish up.

They had a home all to themselves with more space than Knock Out could ever imagine. They had a business to run -- Knock Out and Breakdown in the clinic-slash-reformatting center and Snarl with his electronics repair a floor above. They would be in high demand -- Knock Out already had clients booked for next week. There were dozens of mechs wanting a new look to reflect their new, more peaceful lives.

Honestly, it was all a dream come true, a dream Knock Out had never dared imagine, until the possibility of it bloomed in front of him.

Life was strange and grand, he decided. Strange and grand in all the ways that mattered most.

~

“Is this acid?” Sunstreaker demanded as he pushed Drift face down into the berth and bent over his back, peering at his armor. “How in the frag did you get acid damage on your shoulder and your aft, Drift?”

“Blame the guardian,” he answered, voice muffled by the absurdly soft berthcovers of their absurdly large berth.

“I blame you. Be faster,” Sideswipe said. He sat on Drift’s other side, absently petting Drift’s head and finials in an attempt to disguise the concern in his field.

Drift fought the recharge threatening to pull him under. He’d spent hours fighting and worrying and watching Hot Rod’s aft. He wanted to sleep, but he knew better than to do so while Sunstreaker had worked himself into a righteous froth.

Drift was being chastised. He had to take it like a good mech until Sunstreaker ran out of steam.

“This is not an easy fix, you reckless maniac,” Sunstreaker grumbled, but his tone was affectionate as he poked and prodded and measured the damage, no doubt working on a plan of action to return Drift to his normal spit and polish.

“I’m reckless?” Drift echoed, and wow, wasn’t that a turn of events? “I think that’s a bit hypocritical of the both of you.”

“We have each other to watch our backs,” Sideswipe said with a playful pinch to Drift’s finial before he continued petting. “It’s different.”

“You should’ve fought alongside us,” Sunstreaker huffed. “That was where you belonged.” He hadn’t been happy when Drift volunteered to accompany Hot Rod, even if both of them had understood.

They, after all, had stationed themselves right next to Ratchet’s triage center, ready to rip and tear any threat which might wander near their favorite medic.

Drift hummed and touched them both with his field, speaking of warmth and affection and apology. “I wanted to do my part. Surely you don’t fault me for that.”

“You’re too damned noble,” Sunstreaker muttered.

“We kind of love you for that,” Sideswipe said. “Besides, if you had been with us, then you’d have just been more competition. As it is, I killed way more of those things than Sunny did.”

Sunstreaker’s engine revved. “You did not.”

“Didn’t I?” Sideswipe’s tone was both cheeky and challenging. “I distinctly remember my count being higher than yours.”

“They kept regenerating! It doesn’t count if you keep destroying the same one over and over again. That’s cheating!”

“They were still trying to kill me. It counts!”

Drift grinned and rested his chin on his folded hands, listening to them bicker while Sunstreaker methodically fixed his armor and Sideswipe helped whenever he needed.

He loved these two idiots. With every strut in his frame, and every beat in his spark.

~

Jazz’s armor prickled.

His arms were full. There was a vibroblade tucked under several armor panels within reach. He didn’t think he’d need them, but he liked knowing they were there.

“Can I help ya?” Jazz asked, planting as much false politeness into his tone as he was capable of producing.

He turned slowly, lifting his chin in the face of Springer’s bulk blocking the doorway behind him, his expression one Jazz couldn’t read, though he could probably guess what the mech was doing here.

“No, wait,” Jazz said, before Springer could talk. “This is the part where ya threaten me, right? Where you tell me all the ways ya can make me disappear?”

Springer twitched, and Jazz knew he’d scored a point. Mechs like Springer were pathetically easy to read. They wore their emotions on their faces, and their intentions in their frame.

“Right, so let me save you a vent or two.” Jazz shuffled the pile of things in his arms -- all stuff for Hot Rod -- and took a step closer, looking up at Springer to prove a point. Taller, yes. Bigger, yes. More dangerous?

Pfft.

There wasn’t anyone or anything on this planet more dangerous than Jazz. The only thing or person he feared was laid up in a berth being nannied by Ratchet right now, and that fear had nothing to do with physical danger.

“I’m not going anywhere. You don’t gotta like me, but Hot Rod wants me, and that’s what matters,” Jazz said. He lifted his chin, planted his feet, and waited.

Springer tilted his head, optics narrowing to narrow slits. “What about you?”

Jazz furrowed his orbital ridges. “What about me?”

“You sticking around now?” Springer folded his arms over his chassis as if to highlight the breadth of his shoulders, the size of the cannons neatly tucked into their cradles.

Tch. Jazz had been threatened by Megatron himself once upon a time. Whatever implication Springer had here didn’t hold a candle to Megatron looming over an imprisoned Jazz, determined to rip Autobot secrets from Jazz’s processor.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, I am,” Jazz said, trying to keep his bolts tight and his frame loose. Springer wasn’t going to rile him. Not anymore.

He’d promised Roddy he wouldn’t cause a scene.

“Good.”

Jazz cycled his visor. “Come again?” he said, thinking about resetting both his audials and his visual feed, because surely that hadn’t been approval.

Springer ex-vented noisily and dropped his arms. “I don’t like you, but Hot Rod does, so if he decides you’re what he wants. Fine. It’s not my place to interfere.” He paused to point at Jazz. “But if you vanish on him again, all bets are off.”

Ah. So there’s the threat.

Jazz supposed it was fair. He had, after all, disappeared to Earth at a time when he should have took his licks and had a conversation like an adult.

“Fine,” Jazz said. He juggled his belongings into one arm and stuck out a hand. “Truce?”

Springer eyed his offered hand as if it was a pitviper which might strike. Given that Jazz had easily tossed Springer over his shoulder a time or two before, his hesitation was understandable.

“Truce,” Springer finally agreed and clasped his hand with a firm squeeze, feet planted on the floor as if he could prevent Jazz from tossing him this time.

Jazz decided to be nice.

“Good.” Jazz shifted and raised his orbital ridges. “Are you gonna move now? Hot Rod’s only going to whine louder if I don’t bring him this stuff.”

Springer chuckled and moved aside, barely leaving enough room for Jazz to slide between his bulk and the door frame. “Yeah, he’s always been needy like that. You sure you want to take that on?”

“I came back, didn’t I?” Jazz strutted past Springer, a dance in his step. “I’m sure.”

“Time will tell,” Springer said. “And I’ll be watching.”

Jazz snorted.

~

The knock -- not at all tentative – broke First Aid’s conversation. He swallowed a yawn and cycled his visor. He’d been close to nodding off, he realized belatedly, so he lifted his head and looked up.

Of all mechs, his mentor stood in the doorway, patiently waiting.

“Ratchet?”

“Busy?” Ratchet asked as he politely waited for First Aid’s permission, rather than barging into the much smaller office as was his usual milieu.

“Just paperwork.” First Aid sat back from the desk, wincing as a creak in his backstrut testified to how long he’d spent bent over his datapads. “Something wrong?”

Ratchet finally came inside, taking the chair across from First Aid with something of a lazy slouch. “I hear you finally have your first patient.”

“Yes, Starscream is sparked.” First Aid chuckled. “Somehow, I’m both surprised and not surprised at all. He’s always been something of an overachiever. Grimlock, too.”

Ratchet grinned. “Very true. He did, after all, seize leadership of the Decepticons and convince Starscream it was a good idea to remain as second.”

He paused and gave First Aid a long, penetrating look, which made him squirm despite his best efforts. “You said something earlier, and I think we should talk about it.”

“Did I?” First Aid tried to smile, but it was hard to be flippant. Ratchet knew him too well.

“You did.” Ratchet rapped his fingers on the arm of the chair before he sat up straight, like he was gearing up for a lecture. “What is it you want to tell me, Aid?”

Ah.

First Aid drew in a ventilation and steadied himself. “Sometimes, I think you know me too well,” he murmured, and fiddled with a stylus to give his fingers something to do.

He could do this, he told himself. He loved Ratchet, and Ratchet loved him. Ratchet wanted what was best for him, what would make him happiest. He wouldn’t be angry.

First Aid drew himself straight and put every ounce of conviction he held into his voice, “I don’t want to be CMO.”

There. He’d said it.

He waited, vents caught, for Ratchet’s reaction. But all he got was a slight tilt of Ratchet’s head, a slow nod as though he was absorbing the words before Ratchet said,

“Alright. What do you want to be?”

First Aid reset his visor. “What?” He leaned forward, confusion derailing his thoughts. “You’re not angry?”

“Why would I be?” Ratchet looked as flummoxed as First Aid felt. “It’s your choice, Aid. I want you to be happy, not following in my footsteps because I want you to. I’d be proud no matter what you decide to do.”

First Aid flushed. He’d worried for nothing.

“So if I told you I want to be a sparkling specialist? That I’d rather focus on sparkling care and the sparking process and be the premier expert on it?” he asked.

Ratchet chuckled and his grin widened, his optics shimmering with pride. “I’d tell you to go for it and ask if there’s anything I can do to help. You’re going to be in high demand, kiddo.”

“Tell me about it.” Starscream was only the first. First Aid knew once word got out, it wouldn’t be long before more mechs took the plunge.

“You know what this does mean, right?” Ratchet asked as he leaned on the arm of the chair and propped his chin on his palm.

First Aid gave his mentor a sidelong look, cautiously asking, “What?”

“You have to help me find someone else to take over. I want to retire eventually,” Ratchet said with a chuckle.

“I think that’s a fair trade,” First Aid agreed, though for the spark of him, he couldn’t think of a blessed one.

By Primus, he hoped some new refugees arrived soon. They didn’t have near enough medics to account for all of the sparklings sure to start popping up as well, though he already had it in mind to try and enlist Swoop in this new venture.

Ratchet would probably get a little cranky about that, too, even if Swoop spent most of his time in Iacon with his lovers.

“Good.” Ratchet grinned and stretched, leveraging himself out of the chair. “Well, I’ll leave you to your datapads. I’ve got a slew of patients who need my attention including our upcoming Prime.”

“I don’t envy you that,” First Aid said and reluctantly picked up his datapads once more, relief settling around his spark with an affectionate warmth.

~

For a moment, Optimus merely watched as Hot Rod and Jazz sat together, talking in hushed, affectionate tones, their fingers tangled, their fields enmeshed. The both of them looked happy, relieved, settled.

It was a balm to Optimus’ own spark. He’d long hoped for Jazz to find someone special. He never would have guessed Hot Rod, but in retrospect, it made perfect sense. They were well-suited to one another.

Optimus hated to interrupt, but needs must.

He rapped his knuckles on the frame to announce himself before he stepped inside, both mechs looking up at him, first with surprise, then with greeting.

“Ratchet tells me you’ll be discharged soon,” Optimus said as he located a stool and dragged it closer to the berth.

“It should be sooner, if you ask me,” Hot Rod grumbled, shifting on the berth with all the contained energy of a Kremzeek. “I think he’s run every test in the database and then some.”

Jazz chuckled and patted Hot Rod on the hand. “That’s just how he is, Roddy. You know that. Ratch gets protective of his Primes.” He slanted Optimus a look as if reading his field before he stood up and planted a kiss on Hot Rod’s forehead. “Anyway, I’m going to take a walk. You two have the talk Optimus is itchin’ to have.”

“Perceptive as always,” Optimus demurred.

"Is this a conversation I want to have?" Hot Rod asked, but there was tease in his tone, and his posture remained at ease.

"I suppose you'll just have to find out." Jazz paused by Optimus, briefly laying a hand on his shoulder. "Good to see you up and about, too, sir."

"Sir?" Optimus echoed with a raised orbital ridge. "Since when do you call me 'sir'?"

Jazz grinned, full of mischief. "Seemed the thing to do." He patted Optimus. "Don't break my lover, OP."

"I promise."

Jazz flashed his visor in a wink before he grooved out of the room, hitting the panel with his elbow so the door would close behind him, offering them a modicum of privacy. Ratchet was likely passively monitoring them, but Optimus trusted his discretion.

Hot Rod shifted on the medberth. "Is this the part where you ask me if I'm ready to take on the mantle of Rodimus Prime?"

"I know you're not ready for the title, and perhaps won't be for some time," Optimus conceded as he shifted closer. "I did, however, want to ask how you feel now."

Emotion flickered over Hot Rod's face. "The Matrix is less chatty, but it feels like it... fits better, I guess?" He rolled his shoulders. "I don't know if I can really explain what happened inside the Guardian, except I don’t think I did what it wanted me to do, but won anyway."

"Perhaps you broke the cycle," Optimus said.

Hot Rod shrugged again. “Maybe." He cycled a ventilation and gave Optimus a watery smile. "I still think Primus is out of his mind for picking me, and I still don't really want this, but I think I'm starting to see why it had to be me. Or someone like me."

"Oh?"

Hot Rod squirmed, his face flushing, and he scratched at his jaw. "I mean, you know, I don't really care. About the traditions, about the way things are supposed to be done, about all the stupid slag that started the war in the first place. I don't care about destiny or whatever." He spread his hands. "I'm going to be me, and if the Matrix doesn't like it, it can pick someone else."

Warmth flooded Optimus' chassis then, tingling around the mounts where the Matrix used to be. It was as if he'd been touched physically, and he started with a little jerk, his vents stuttering.

"I think you're right," Optimus said as the ache in his chassis abruptly vanished, and he gasped when a weight he hadn't realized he was carrying went with it.

"Optimus?"

He shook his head, a smile curling his lips before he could stop it. "I'm quite all right, Hot Rod. Thank you." He looked up into Hot Rod's concerned gaze. "I do believe that was Primus' blessing toward my retirement."

"Retirement?" Hot Rod squeaked.

Optimus chuckled and patted his knee. "Don't worry. I'm not abandoning this post yet. I was, after all, elected to it. You'll have my counsel for many years to come."

"Elected. That's right." Hot Rod perked up, his spoiler dancing, his optics bright. He thumped his chassis. "I got this stupid thing but that doesn't necessarily mean I'm going to be the leader. I've got to be elected." He smacked his fist into his palm, looking excited for the first time since he was told he was going to be a Prime.

"The ownership of the Matrix holds great weight with the people of Cybertron. Don't be so sure they won't vote you in," Optimus cautioned.

Hot Rod's grin got even wider. "Yeah, but even if they do, it means they chose me, right? Not just Primus, but the people, too. It's not a given!" He looked like he would vibrate right out of the berth, so excited was he.

"That is true," Optimus said, smiling despite himself. Hot Rod's enthusiasm was infectious. "It's a sign, I think, that Cybertron needs new leadership. A new generation. Those who are willing to cast aside our previous shackles and guide us to a brighter future."

"And you want to retire, too." Hot Rod said, giving him a knowing look. "You've been Prime for a long time, through a lot of slag. You deserve to retire."

"I'd like to, yes," Optimus conceded. He had made the promise to Soundwave, after all, that one day he'd be Soundwave's alone. "But even when that moment comes, I will still be around to offer counsel, should you need it."

"And I'll need it." Hot Rod scratched the edge of his jaw again. "And I guess it wouldn't be so bad if you called me Rodimus every once in a while. Just to help me get used to the name."

Optimus smiled and tilted his head. "How about only when you're on duty?"

"That's perfect." Hot Rod's spoilers did a little dance again. "Thanks, Optimus. For everything."

"You're welcome." Optimus patted Hot Rod's knee and stood, nudging the stool back into place under a nearby medical console. "Get some rest. I'll see if I can't convince Ratchet to loose his tight grip and release you sooner."

"That really would be a miracle."

They shared a laugh before Optimus took his leave, the door closing behind him. He noticed immediately, however, that when Jazz said 'take a walk', he must have meant 'wait outside the door until they're done'. He was crouched, back to the wall, visor dim as though in recharge, but he perked as soon as Optimus stepped into view.

"All done?"

"Are you so concerned about him?" Optimus asked.

Jazz tried to wave it off, but his field gave it away. "Maybe I wanted to catch you instead?"

"Did you?" Optimus' lips curved, amused. "Walk with me?"

"Sure thing." Jazz fell into step beside him as they made their way down the corridor, empty of other mechs. Most of the patients from the Guardian attack were on a separate floor.

"Kind of wish everyone was here to see this, you know?" Jazz said as they walked. "Prowl and Ironhide and Red Alert and all the rest. It's kind of unbelievable."

Optimus hummed in agreement. "There was a time even I feared we would never get to this point of peace and renewal. I am glad I was wrong."

"Can't blame ya for doubtin'. The war got pretty dark along the way. Especially at the end." A shadow crossed Jazz's face before it vanished in the wake of a sunny smile. "I'm glad we got here though, got to a point where you can even retire."

"Yes. I am happy for that as well." Optimus tilted his head and drew to a halt in a deserted corner, catching Jazz's gaze. "Is that what you really wanted to discuss?"

Jazz folded his arms under his bumper and rocked on his heelstruts. "I guess in a way it is." He looked up at Optimus and a slow, genuine smile bloomed on his face. "I wanted to say I'm happy for you. Happy about you and Soundwave, happy we finally got peace, just... happy about alla it."

A pang of worry crept into Optimus' spark. "Why does it sound like you're about to say goodbye or do something terrible?"

Jazz laughed and rolled his shoulders. "I guess 'cause it's hard not to sound ominous." He tilted his head. "Though I guess it is goodbye in a way. Hot Rod needs lookin' after, not you, so I won't be around to watch yer back much anymore. That's Soundwave's job."

"You are not just someone I trust to guard my back, Jazz, you are a dear friend."

"Oh, I know. I know." Jazz sucked in his bottom lip before letting it pop free again. "This is as much about me letting go as anything else. Moving on. Getting closure. That kind of thing." He gave Optimus a sidelong look.

Oh.

Optimus may have lost the Matrix, but he hadn’t lost his innate perceptions.

"I see," Optimus murmured. "I apologize, Jazz. I wasn't aware."

"Cause I didn't want ya to be. I worked really hard at hiding it." Jazz lifted his chin, and if there was hurt in his visor, Optimus couldn't see it. Instead, Jazz looked... well, he looked at ease and happy like Optimus had never seen before. "You were an easy mech to love."

Were.

Optimus drew some comfort from the past tense.

"A hard mech to get over, too, but I managed." Jazz fluttered his visor in a wink and gave Optimus a playful rap on the windshield. "Snagged me the newer model and everything."

Optimus palmed his face. "Jazz. Honestly."

Jazz snickered. "Ya know I'm teasin'." He sucked in a vent and let it out in a whoosh. "Phew. Finally got that off my chest. Didn't realize how heavy it was." He thumped his own chassis now, and his field danced a playful buzz against Optimus'. "Feels good."

Affection swelled within Optimus. "Thank you, Jazz. For everything."

"You know I never needed that, OP, but I'll take it anyway." He took a step back with a smile. "Now I gotta get back to Hot Rod before he thinks I left again. I got some mistakes to make up for on that front. Give Sounders a kiss for me?"

"I'm sure he'll treasure it always," Optimus said dryly.

Jazz's laugh followed him down the hallway.

~

The clean up would take months, if not years. Fortunately, the surviving Cybertronians had become quite adept at recovering post-battle. It was easier, they’d discovered, when they worked together, and many of the civilians who had evacuated were willing to bend to the task, a quiet gratitude for their safety.

Perceptor was confident the star bridges could be rebuilt, and that this was the last they’d see of the Guardian. It had been well and truly defeated.

“Come next year, we should be able to proceed with moving Cybertron. All we need to do now is choose a suitable location,” Perceptor explained as Brainstorm cheerfully dumped an armful of datapads on the table with a noisy clatter.

“Take your pick of them,” he said.

Twelve mechs sat around the table, a gathered coalition of former Autobot, former Decepticon, former Neutral, all Cybertronian, tasked with the revival and protection of Cybertron. They were warriors and scientists and medics and soldiers. They were survivors and lovers and friends and former enemies.

One of them was sparked.

Another one was, too, only he didn’t know it yet. Such would be a pleasant surprise come the next time his partner ran a deep-frame scan, which would be later that evening, as a matter of fact.

They didn’t know two more ships were even now speeding toward Cybertron, carrying a few dozen surviving Cybertronians between them, former Autobots and former Decepticons and former Neutrals, all who heard the call to come home.

Dreadwing didn’t know his missing twin was among them. But it would be a cause for celebration when the ships arrived, delivering survivors, reuniting families and partners and bringing some much-needed skills.

The ships would arrive before Cybertron’s great move, but in time for the election to determine who would lead the Autobots on their path toward re-integration and continued peace. Bit by bit, the lines dividing the Cybertronians dissolved, but it was a long, hard road, and only time would take them to the end of it.

Optimus would not offer his name for election. He would make a speech, announcing his retirement, with Soundwave silent and approving at his shoulder. Optimus was a Prime without a Matrix, and while his chest no longer ached, he was ready for a life of peace.

Optimus would recommend the Autobots vote with their sparks and their confidence while Rodimus Prime watched from the sidelines, smiling and secretly hoping to win, if only so he could prove himself.

He forbade Jazz from influencing the election. Jazz teased him about taking all the fun out of it. Later that night, Hot Rod would remind him he was still all kinds of fun, and Jazz would consider it an apt substitute.

Rodimus did not know he would take command with an exceedingly high majority vote. But the Matrix would be pleased, and Optimus would smile because he knew it all along.

For now, however, it was just a meeting. A scientist offered his research. Plans were debated, discussed, made. Their population could grow now, one by one, each new spark as precious as the last.

Peace was held.

And Primus was proud.

The End

a/n: And that's all folks! That's the end of Crown the Empire, at least all of the full-length fics at any rate. I don't have any further plots hanging around at the back of my mind. I do hope you enjoyed the journey. :)

That being said, I would like to write a sort-of follow-up collection of drabbles and oneshots to answer any small lingering questions. If there are any characters you are specifically curious about what happened to them, let me know! I'm going to make a list of things to answer, and I'd love to know what the readers want.

Thank you so much for being with me all the way. Thank you for your comments, your kudos, your continued support. It has meant the world to me. <3

Until the next journey... take care!