[TF] Consortium 2/10

[dracoqueen22]

Consortium
Chapter Two

Optimus' research indicates Prowl is something of an early riser, at least, judging by his propensity to arrive at work earlier than anyone else. It edges on the side of creepy to have this sort of intimate knowledge of a mech he’s only spoken with on two occasions, but Optimus needs the advantage if he has any hope of emerging victorious.

He will not let the Senate have their way.

Optimus arrives at Prowl's assigned quarters with a morning allotment of fuel and pings the door. He could technically invite himself within, but it would be an egregious invasion of privacy.

Prowl opens the door, his face blank of expression, and the sensory panels for which Praxians are known arched high and rigid behind his shoulders. "Good morning, sir."

"Good morning." Optimus offers the cube, and Prowl takes it automatically. "I thought you might like to join me in the study. I believe there was a conversation you wished to have?"

"That would be acceptable." Prowl steps out and joins him, gesturing with the cube. "Thank you for the energon. That was thoughtful."

Optimus leads the way, Prowl falling into step beside him. "It did not escape my notice that few were able to indulge in the refreshments provided. This is the least I can do."

"I did notice some tension," Prowl says. "The ascension of a new Prime is not easy for anyone."

"Especially for a Consort who had little choice in their nomination," Optimus agrees. He gestures Prowl ahead of him into the study, which is a private, intimate room and should suit their purposes.

The large, wide windows make it feel far larger than it is, and the comfortable furniture will hopefully put Prowl at ease. It's also the closest thing the manor has to an office, which should make their conversation seem more official.

"There is that," Prowl says. He surveys the room before selecting a chair suited to fit his sensory panels comfortably.

Optimus sits across from him. "I am not unaware of the stressful circumstances. I wish to do my best to mitigate them." He rests his cube on the table beside him. "There are some things we cannot avoid, but there are things we can control in the meantime."

"An apt way of putting it." Prowl takes a measured sip of his energon. "And what will you expect of me, sir?"

"Actually, I am more interested in your answer to that question." Optimus threads his fingers together and rests his hands in his lap. "What are your wants and needs? What are your boundaries? How can I make this easier for you?"

Prowl cocks his head, a slight motion, the barest hint of a frown curving his lips. "I was under the impression what I wanted no longer mattered."

"Perhaps in the optics of those who nominated you, yes. I am not them, however, and I have very different hopes for what I can accomplish. With your aid, of course," Optimus says.

Prowl's frown does not waver. "And what is it you want to accomplish, if I may be so bold?"

"You may, and you may also call me Optimus. If we are to be bonded, I think doing away with titles is a matter of course." Optimus cycles a ventilation, ordering his thoughts in a manner Prowl would most respond to. "Cybertron is unfair, as I am sure you have noticed. The balance of power, the balance of wealth, the opportunities -- all of it is geared toward a select few. I wish to change that."

Prowl's orbital ridges climb upward. "Lofty ambitions. Downright scandalous, if you were to ask anyone else." He touches his chin, forehead furrowed in thought. "There is a lot of corruption, Optimus. It extends into every level of Cybertron rulership.

"And you were working very hard to root it out, were you not?"

At last, Prowl's stoic facade relents, betraying his surprise. "I was," Prowl says, carefully. "Did you investigate me?"

"I looked into all of my nominated Consorts. I wanted to have an idea of who I would be bonding,” Optimus answers. It doesn’t occur to him to lie as it is not something he intends to hide. They deserve to know. “I did not obtain any information that is not a matter of public record, however. Your arrest records, for example. There are also numerous articles on the intranet about your exploits.

"Exploits," Prowl echoes, and there’s a wry curve to his voice. "Yes, the tabloids are fond of my ‘exploits’." He leans back, the clamp of his armor easing. "True, I had made it a personal mission to clean out the rot. It made me as unpopular as it did popular." His frown deepens. "And is probably the reason for my nomination."

Optimus allows himself to relax, reaching for the energon he'd brought. "You got too close."

Anger flashes in Prowl's optics. "That would seem to be the case," he says, his tone tight and careful. "And you think you can make a difference in the face of such corruption?"

"I think I would try, which is better than what many of my predecessors can claim," Optimus says. "With your help, I would be more successful."

"Perhaps." Prowl's optics dim in thought. "I was promoted under the assumption I would clean out the rot, and yet, when I went to the mech in question with my evidence, it was taken and vanished. He did not want to extricate the rot. He wanted me to find the evidence so it could remain." He looks up then, his jaw set, his optics meeting Optimus'. "How can I be sure you're not interested in the same?"

Anger and distaste burn at the base of Optimus' spark. He's known that Cybertron is corrupted, but it still riles him to hear this proof.

"Words will always be meaningless in the face of that," Optimus says, but he lets his field unfurl, allows Prowl to taste as much of it as he can and sense his sparkfelt sincerity. "I can only show my intentions through my actions, if you will but give me a chance. I want a partnership, Prowl, not a subordinate."

Prowl shifts, ever so slightly, and wisps of his field offer glimpses of approval. "It would be rude of me to assume you'll disappoint me without giving you an opportunity to prove otherwise." He relaxes, his armor opening by another fraction, allowing a glimpse at the substructure beneath. "I will work with you, Optimus. If you're half as intent as I think you are, we'll do much good together."

His instincts have proven right once more. Optimus doesn’t bother to conceal the smile, or the happiness in his field.

"Thank you. I appreciate it." Optimus manages to keep his voice steady as he picks up his energon, appetite returned. "To that end, I wish to speak with all of my Consorts on an individual basis, much like this. I would welcome any insight you might have on the matter."

Prowl's brow furrows. He hesitates, and Optimus realizes a fraction of a second later, how that might be interpreted.

"I do not mean to manipulate," he clarifies, careful to choose his words not because he’s trying to avoid the truth, but because he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. "”Honestly, you have likely spent more time with them than I have, so you might be more familiar with their personality quirks and what kind of approach they would prefer -- whether privately or publicly, for example."

"Ah." Prowl nods slowly and lifts his own energon, one finger tracing the rim of the cup. "Frank honesty would be the best way to reach Ironhide. He has no patience for political games. Be direct. He'll appreciate that."

Optimus nods and produces his datapad, making the notation. "I can be direct. I assume he is not one for formality either."

"No. It'll only make him feel like he's being manipulated." Prowl drums his fingers on the arm of the chair. "For that matter, Ratchet is much the same. Be blunt and honest with him as well. Tell him outright what you want, and what you plan to offer. Political games are what got Ratchet here. He has no mood for them."

Political games are one way of putting it, Optimus muses. Personal grudges are another. There were two highly skilled medics vying for the position of Chief Medical Officer, and somehow, one of them ended up being nominated as Consort to the Prime for Crystal City, leaving the other with a clear path to promotion.

Curious that.

"You'll have to be patient with him as well," Prowl continues. "He's known for his lack of tact, and he may test you with purposeful disrespect."

Optimus manages a chuckle. "Oh, I can handle a little name-calling. I will consider it great practice for when I begin managing the Senate. Anyone else?"

"Hmm. I don't know the others well, but I have heard rumors of Starscream. Don't dismiss his intelligence." Prowl's gaze turns sharp and knowing. "I suspect he's spent a majority of his life being underestimated. Be careful you don't make that mistake as well."

"Noted."

Prowl tilts his head, considering. “I sense nothing but support from Ultra Magnus, and given what I know of him, I’m certain that support is genuine. Though I’m not sure I understand why. This seems to be the last post a mech in his position would want.”

“Ah.” Optimus does not hide his wince. “Last night’s discussion did not give me the opportunity to address our prior friendship. Ultra Magnus knew me as I was. He managed to get himself elected, though you will have to ask him the specifics of how he accomplished it.”

“He knew Orion Pax?”

Optimus inclines his head in a nod, finger tracing the rim of his half-consumed energon cube. “He did, and I will not speak for him or presume his intentions. But if you sense no hostility from him, that would be why.”

“It explains a lot.” Fortunately, Prowl does not seem bothered by the information. If anything, he looks like he’s filed it away for later contemplation. “It must be a relief, then, to know you have at least two Consorts who don’t immediately despise you.”

“Two?” Optimus asks.

Prowl gives him a wry grin around a sip of energon. “Surely you’ve noticed Hot Rod’s enthusiasm. I think if you don’t take that mech to berth, he’s going to drag you there regardless.”

Optimus chuckles. "I think you may be right. His earnest desire is rather charming."

"That's one word for it," Prowl says, but it's with a bit of a distracted air as his humor darkens. "I do think you should be cautious of Jazz." He pauses, lips forming a thin line before he continues, "I did background checks on everyone out of habit, and his was the only one so clean you could perform surgery on it. There's not so much as a traffic ticket."

Optimus cycles a ventilation. "I had noticed that myself, and while I am not one to preemptively judge, I am also not aware that my ascension to the office of the Prime was not received well by many."

"You think he might be an assassin?"

"I am honestly unsure what to think. I suppose time will tell." Optimus finishes off his cube and tucks it away, to be returned to the refueling room at a later time. Yes, there are servants, but he is perfectly capable of cleaning up after himself. “I am a patient mech.”

“Something that will work in your favor,” Prowl says. “I am interested to see where this goes.”

“As am I.” Optimus stands and offers Prowl a tilt of his head. “I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your day. I am sure you wish to contemplate our discussion in peace.”

Prowl’s lip curls at the corner. “That would be appreciated, yes.” He settles more firmly in the chair, giving the space an approving glance. “This room seems a good place for such things.”

“You should not be disturbed here at least,” Optimus says. “Thank you, Prowl. I appreciate your time.”

He turns to go, but Prowl’s voice snags him before he can palm open the door.

“You aren’t the only one who did some investigating, Optimus,” he says, as Optimus half-turns to glance over his shoulder, Prowl’s chin lifted with pride. “For what it’s worth, I am beginning to believe the Matrix chose well in Orion Pax.”

Optimus offers a smile of his own. “I can only hope that to be true.” The door activates, but Optimus hovers in the aperture. “Thank you, Prowl. I will see you at the evening gathering.”

“Until then.”

Optimus lets himself ventilate a little easier only when he’s down the hall, and far out of range of Prowl’s no doubt extensive emotional sensors. Those Praxian panels are a marvel, and Optimus is certain Prowl’s are among the best. They would have been an asset during his time as an Enforcer.

Three down, seven more to go.

He rounds the corner, only to come to a halt as he nearly runs into Sunstreaker, the golden mech standing in the middle of the corridor with an intent look on his face. It’s hard to tell what he’s been up to, since his hands are empty. Exploring perhaps.

“Prime,” he greets with a lifted chin. “I thought a Prime would take better care of his chassis.” His gaze flicks over Optimus, and his mouth wrestles with a frown that a thin film of respect for the office of the Prime barely restrains. “You need a detailing.”

Optimus’ mouth opens and closes. He glances down at himself, and yes, there are quite a few scratches in his paint. He has not been detailed since his ascension, and while he had a brief polishing session before their very public, verbal vows, he knows he does not match the standards of the elite. For Orion Pax, his current condition would have been considered extravagant.

“Perhaps I do,” Optimus says. “I admit I have not had as much free time as I would like to take care of such things, even before I received the Matrix.”

Sunstreaker makes a non-committal noise and folds his arms, his own paint gleaming and perfect, without a single smudge to be seen. “It’s one of my specialities,” he says. “If you’re interested.”

“You are offering?” Optimus asks, just to be clear. He reaches out, but he doesn’t even need the Matrix to feel the discord in Sunstreaker’s field. He’s pushing himself to speak to Optimus, but the depths of his field screams of his disinterest in actually doing it.

“Yeah.” Sunstreaker lifts his chin, audibly cycling a ventilation. “It would give me something to do at least. I have standards.” The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile that’s as much pride as it is humor.

Well.

It’s as good an opportunity as any, and it’s a benefit Sunstreaker sought him out first.

“I would be honored to put myself in your care,” Optimus says

Sunstreaker looks at him for a moment that drags toward awkward before he nods and turns. “I have everything in my suite.”

“Lead the way.”

They fall into step, Optimus with his hands clasped behind his back and shortening his stride to match Sunstreaker, who only comes up to his shoulder. As Orion Pax, they’d have met optic to optic. Optimus still is not used to how easily he looms without trying.

“Did you train to be a detail specialist?” Optimus asks.

“No. I taught myself.”

“Any particular reason for the interest?”

Sunstreaker slants him a narrow look. “Should there be?”

Optimus shakes his head. “No. I am merely curious. I would like to get to know those with whom I am going to be sharing my future.”

“What does my personality matter?” Sunstreaker asks, and there’s an edge of a scowl peeking up before he smooths it out. “I’m just here to be a trophy.”

Optimus winces. “Perhaps that is the Senate’s intention, or whomsoever nominated you, but that is not what I would like for you.”

Sunstreaker snorts. “Sure.” He palms open his door and gestures for Optimus to precede him. “Primes go first.”

“We are to be bonded. I do not think we need to stand on ceremony,” Optimus says, but he does enter ahead of Sunstreaker because it’s only polite. “For that matter, you should call me Optimus rather than my title.”

“Sure, Prime. Whatever you want.” Sunstreaker points to a chair near the large window, shades withdrawn so the exterior lighting pours into the room. “Sit over there. I’ll get my kit.”

Optimus obeys, lowering into an adjustable seat while Sunstreaker gathers supplies and drags them closer. Optimus is skilled with the basic necessities, but he can’t identify half of the items in Sunstreaker’s arms. If Sunstreaker’s appearance is anything to go by, Optimus will be unrecognizable by the time he walks out of this suite.

“Would talking interrupt your concentration?” Optimus asks.

“No. I can do most of this in my recharge by now,” Sunstreaker says. “Just stay still, trust me, and don’t mind the smell. This stripper reeks, but it’s the best on the market.”

Optimus deactivates his nasal receptors. “Of course. I appreciate you taking the time to do this for me. I admit, I am lacking when it comes to such skills. I had little use for them before I ascended.”

“Well, if most mechs had those skills, I’d have been out of a job. Mechs came to me because they wanted it done right.” Sunstreaker moves behind Optimus, and his dermal sensors tingle as he sprays what Optimus assumes is the stripper. “Whoever shined you for the ceremony did a slag job at it. You should fire them.”

“Perhaps you can help me hire a replacement?”

“Frag that. I’ll just do it myself. Gotta be useful somehow,” Sunstreaker says with a snort. His field, as odd as the harmonics of it are, reek of bitter disgust.

Optimus is careful to keep himself still. “You need not be useful if you do not wish to be. But if there is something you would like to do, I want to encourage that.”

“Don’t think that’s what the Senate has in mind.”

“The Senate and I are going to disagree often in the future, I am sure,” Optimus says. He stares out the window, which overlooks the rather vast grounds behind the mansion where the glitter of the crystal gardens naturally draws an eager optic. “I am aware that acceptance of the nomination is mandatory. Given another choice, you would have likely refused it, correct?”

Sunstreaker goes silent for a moment, his field buzzing against Optimus’. “I’m not supposed to answer that question honestly,” he says at length. “I’m supposed to tell you how happy I am to be here.”

“I would like the truth, Sunstreaker.”

“Is that an order?”

Optimus braces himself, knowing he must tread lightly. “If you need it to be in order to satisfy a restriction, then yes. If you do not want to answer honestly, then no, it is not.”

“Then no, this wouldn’t have been my choice.” Sunstreaker vents in a sharp huff. “But that’s what happens when you don’t have the luxury of choice. When you don’t even own yourself. My brother--”

He silences himself, engine rumbling unhappily.

Optimus glances over his shoulder, but Sunstreaker is out of view, even of his periphery. “Sideswipe,” he says quietly. “I did my due diligence, Sunstreaker. I know of your brother and your time in the pits. You do not have to keep either from me.”

Sunstreaker’s field spikes with fury before it vanishes as if sucked into a void. “You don’t know anything about me,” he says, tone tight and leashed. “All you know are facts, and they mean nothing compared to my reality. So you can take your assumptions and stuff them.”

Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. “Forgive me. I do not mean to assume anything.” Despite his anger, Sunstreaker’s hands do not waver from their confident, rhythmic actions as he takes Optimus’ left arm in hand and continues to peel away the old paint. “You could enlighten me, if you like.”

Sunstreaker grimaces. “No, I wouldn’t like,” he says. “Bad enough I gotta be here, but you want me to tell you all my secrets, too? Frag that.” He chuffs a vent. “I gotta give up everything else. I’m going to keep this.”

His accent, Optimus notices, slips with his growing emotional disquiet, the carefully practiced words sliding into the looser speech of the common mech.

“You do not have to give me anything, Sunstreaker,” Optimus says, only to amend, “Except, of course, for that which is required of both of us in our particular situation.”

“Yeah. My spark.” Sunstreaker’s grimace deepens, his grip briefly tightening before it loosens. He moves around to Optimus’ other arm, leaving bare silver in his wake. “So glad I have no choice but to share it with you.”

“I apologize for that.”

Sunstreaker glances at him, a bit of the anger softening. “Well, you don’t have any choice but to give me yours, too. So I guess I can’t blame you too much.” His orbital ridges draw down. “Though how much I blame you depends on how much of an aft you’re gonna be. Primes don’t have good reputations where I’m from.”

No, Optimus supposes they wouldn’t. Sunstreaker is the Nominate from Tarn and historically speaking, the residents of Tarn have not been treated favorably by the Senate or the Primes. The population is composed of the average mech, workers paid far too little and given even less, their rights stripped to the minimum, as they struggle to eke out a living.

This is actually the first occasion where Tarn has been given a Nominate. Optimus suspects it is due in part to the Senate wishing to quiet the rising tension in Tarn, to give them the illusion of having a voice. That it doubles as adding more friction to Optimus’ cohort, well, they must consider that a bonus.

“My predecessors have left quite a mess in their wake,” Optimus says. “I know it is going to take a lot of effort on my part to change that. I feel I am up to the challenge, but I am also aware that it will not be a quick process.”

“Yeah, well, put in the effort and people will notice.” Sunstreaker moves in front of him and gestures for Optimus to rise. “Legs next.”

Optimus obeys, locking his knees to prevent himself from absently shifting. “Is there anything I can do more immediately?”

Sunstreaker is quiet for a moment as he kneels before Optimus and starts on his right leg. “What do you know about Sideswipe?”

“Very little. Only that he is your brother.”

“Twin,” Sunstreaker corrects, in a voice so quiet Optimus nearly misses it. “He’s my twin. Split-spark.”

Optimus’ optics widen. How it must ache for them to be separated. It is a unique kind of torture to keep twins apart, especially split-spark ones. Why had Sunstreaker been nominated in the first place? Certainly it won’t kill him. It’s a pain and a discomfort, but a survivable one. Optimus has never heard of a pair of twins willingly keeping themselves apart.

Ah.

Willingly.

Still. What punishment is this to force them to near-opposite sides of the planet?

“Is he in danger?” Optimus asks.

Sunstreaker pauses and looks up at him, optics dark and haunted, but the fire of rebellion buried behind them. “Not if I do what I’m supposed to do.”

Foreboding sends a shiver up Optimus’ spinal strut. “I promise,” he says. “If it is within my power, I will do whatever it takes to bring Sideswipe to you.”

Sunstreaker moves to his left leg. “If you can do that, you’ll have my loyalty,” he says. “I mean, there’s a fat chance of it happening, but who am I to tell you what you can and can’t do?” He shrugs, fingers quick and deft as Optimus is stripped to his protoform silver.

“It is not loyalty I am after, though I would not refuse it either. I simply want to make the best of an unfavorable situation.”

“That can mean different things to different mechs,” Sunstreaker says.

“Yes, I am aware. It is why I am asking each of you individually what your best outcome would be,” Optimus replies.

Sunstreaker shrugs again and stands, gesturing for Optimus to sit down and lean back. “I want my brother, and I want him safe and sound. Everything else is secondary.”

“I would also like for you to be happy, as much as can be reasonably expected in the circumstances,” Optimus says. He stares over Sunstreaker’s shoulder rather than directly at the mech’s more than handsome face. “And perhaps we could be friends, if you were interested.”

Sunstreaker leans back, arching one orbital ridge. “A friend with benefits?”

“Only if it was something appealing to you,” Optimus clarifies with a slight smile. “You are quite beautiful.”

“Yeah. That was the point.” Something flutters across Sunstreaker’s face, too quick for Optimus to read, and he leans back into Optimus’ space, stripper in hand. “We’ll see. Now be still. This’ll go quicker if you stop distracting me.”

“As you wish,” Optimus says.

Sunstreaker has given him much to think about as it is, so he stores any further questions, and lets Sunstreaker work. The mech is both talented and efficient, laying Optimus’ bare to the protoform before he gestures for Optimus to rise so that he can begin the first of what he claims will be several layers.

Sunstreaker seems to relax further in the companionable silence, his field less a thing of razor-wire and more a glancing stroke of focus. Bit by bit, Optimus’ armor flourishes under his care, going from protoform-bare, to lustrous shades of silver, crimson, and navy. It’s a design that’s not Orion Pax, and not Optimus Prime recently of the Matrix, but something that combines the two, and Optimus can hardly believe what he sees in the mirror.

He’s a new mech, a mech who looks as though he better fits into his own armor. He stands tall and confident, more like a Prime than the terrified librarian hiding in the derma of one.

"You have performed a miracle," Optimus says as he turns in the mirror, admiring the gloss of his shine from every angle.

Sunstreaker snorts. "No, a miracle is what I'm going to need to fix Hot Rod's garish mess." He eyes Optimus appreciatively. "But I did do a good job."

"That you did," Optimus says. He turns and gives Sunstreaker a warm smile. "Thank you. You have given me a great gift."

"I did it so I wouldn't have to look at your flaws, not any selfless reason," Sunstreaker says, but he ducks his head, and a hint of heat stains his cheeks. "Anyway, Hot Rod is gonna be here soon, and I gotta get set up for him. So..."

"I will be on my way then." Optimus takes one last glance to the mirror - he nearly doesn't recognize himself -- before he heads for the door. "I will see you at the gathering tonight, yes?"

Sunstreaker flaps a hand at him, distracted at best. "Yeah, I'll be there."

"I am glad to hear it. Thank you, Sunstreaker."

Another distracted wave sees Optimus out the door.

~

That evening, Optimus makes the conscious effort to be first to the dining hall. It gives him more than enough time to discreetly observe his Consorts as they trickle in to join him.

Prowl arrives first, distractedly choosing a seat with his back to a solid wall while his attention is buried in a datapad. It takes him a moment, one marked with a brief flicker of embarrassment, to notice Optimus, and when he does, he audibly resets his vocalizer.

"My apologies, Optimus," he says. "I thought I'd be the first to arrive."

"I thought I would make up for my prior tardiness by greeting everyone as they arrived today," Optimus says.

The corner of Prowl's mouth quirks in a grin. "You know, it's not unlike an old interrogation tactic, to observe the subject's behavior when they're surprised."

"Is it?" Optimus asks, feigning innocence. He can sense nothing of offense in Prowl's field. If anything, he seems impressed.

Prowl actually chuckles. "Clearly, you wouldn't know that though." He raps his fingers on his datapad, head tilted. "I don't think the Senate has any idea what they're in for."

"I shall take that as a compliment," Optimus says as Ironhide and Ratchet stroll into the room, their voices preceding them, clearly engaged in a round of friendly ribbing.

"I'm two whole decades older than you, that hardly makes me ancient," Ratchet retorts as they come into view.

"Two decades wiser," Ironhide says with the sad, sarcastic sigh. "Two decades closer to the rust pile. No wonder ya practically creak."

"The only one creaking here is you! When was the last time you had those slag-poor joints of yours oiled?" Ratchet demands.

Ironhide actually leers at Ratchet. "I get my joints oiled plenty, I’ll have you know."

"You're disgusting."

Prowl coughs into his fist.

The two mechs draw up short and first, glare at Prowl, only to realize they have an audience. Ratchet immediately scowls and yanks out a chair, dropping into it as if the chair itself has offended him. Ironhide doesn't look the least bit ashamed as he puts himself between Ratchet and Prowl, albeit with a lighter touch.

"Good evening Ratchet and Ironhide," Optimus greets, careful to smooth his grin before it emerges on his lips. He's not yet earned the right to tease them. "How have the accommodations been treating you?"

"They're acceptable," Ratchet grunts.

"Gotta be honest, I'm not used to so much frippery, Prime," Ironhide says as he leans back in his chair and slouches. "I mean, it's nice, it's just not my speed."

"Because it's not an energon-soaked trench?" Ratchet goads.

Ironhide's optics narrow. He scratches his orbital ridge, above the left, where a prominent scar gives evidence to a life on the battlefield. "It's no cot in the storage room of the medcenter. Those aren't hardly big enough for two, are they?"

Ratchet bristles.

Optimus shifts enough in his chair that it makes a loud creaking sound. "I had not realized you two were previously acquainted," he says, though he supposes he should have known, Ratchet having spent a good portion of his career as a field medic, and Ironhide a soldier on said battlefields.

"We're not," says Ironhide.

"Passing acquaintances," says Ratchet.

They glare at each other.

Hmm. Optimus doesn’t quite believe them, and judging by Prowl’s amused look, he doesn’t either. There’s a history between the two. Former lovers perhaps? Rivals? Or is it simply one of those friendships that thrive on antagonizing one another?

"I see," Optimus says.

Thankfully, he is saved by Ultra Magnus' arrival, with Soundwave not far behind. The latter offers a curt nod while the former takes a seat beside Optimus with a question brewing in his field, and curiosity pulsing in the thin connection of their spark bond.

"We'll review later," Optimus tells him on a narrow-band transmission, and Ultra Magnus pings an affirmative receipt.

"Thank you for joining us, Soundwave, Ultra Magnus," Optimus says. "How has your stay here been thus far?"

"Adequate," Soundwave says. He sits rigid, as though he does not know any other way to behave, and the tight clamp of his armor makes Optimus’ own cables ache.

Optimus waits, but Soundwave doesn't elaborate further.

"I am disappointed by the lack of connection to the intranet, but otherwise, the grounds are a satisfactory location for rest and relaxation," Ultra Magnus says. "Not that I'm usually inclined to either."

"There's no intranet because they don't want us knowing what rumors are being spread," Ironhide says as he rests his head on his fist. "Or contacting anyone for that matter. This is supposed to be our private time." He drawls the latter, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage," Ratchet says with an approving glance Ironhide's way. "It's a really nice prison you got here, Prime."

Optimus swallows a wince, because he knows Ratchet is right. They have little choice in the matter. They cannot leave. Their access to the outside world is restricted. They may not wear manacles or be surrounded by locked doors, but they are imprisoned all the same.

"I understand the circumstances are unpleasant, but if there is anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask," Optimus says as diplomatically as he can manage.

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. “It’s not about the accommodations, and you know it, Prime.”

“I am aware,” Optimus demurs as laughter precedes Hot Rod’s entrance, with Sunstreaker a few steps behind.

-”--going to recognize me!” Hot Rod sweeps into view, performing a little twirl of delight.

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Sunstreaker drawls, amusement thick in his tone, though the mask of disinterest falls over his face as soon as he steps into the room.

“I didn’t look that bad,” Hot Rod protests as he circles the table, beelining for the empty seat on Optimus’ left.

Sunstreaker scoffs, rolling his optics. “If you’ve ever found a berthmate with that paint job, they must have been blind.”

“Hey!”

Optimus chuckles, only because Hot Rod’s affront seems feigned, as if he and Sunstreaker had been engaging in such witty repartee throughout the entirety of their interaction. Hot Rod’s field bubbles with delight as he bounces up to Optimus and makes no attempt to conceal the fact he’s eying Optimus like a delicious meal.

"Wow. Optimus, you look even better than I do," Hot Rod says with appreciation in his optics. He looks Optimus up and down, grinning. "Sunstreaker does really good work, huh?"

"I was lucky enough to receive his care, yes," Optimus says, and politely scans Hot Rod in return. "You look very nice as well."

Hot Rod beams. "I mean, I looked pretty damn good before, but now I'm gorgeous." He does a little spin in place, his polished spoiler catching the overhead lights. "He even let me keep my flames!"

"Under protest," Sunstreaker sighs.

"I think they are charming," Optimus says with a little pat to Hot Rod's shoulder. "They suit you."

Hot Rod's armor flutters, his field flaring with pride and delight. If Optimus were a lesser mech, it would be too easy to sweep Hot Rod into his arms, and ply the adorable mech with kisses. The urge to spoil Hot Rod rises up in him, until propriety forces the urge back down.

All in due time. There are politics to consider first.

"Yes, yes, he's very pretty," says Ratchet, though at least there is no venom in his voice, consistent with the appreciation in his gaze as he looks Hot Rod up and down. "You do very good work, Sunstreaker. I think you could work miracles even with the rustbucket here." He points a thumb toward Ironhide.

Sunstreaker drops into a chair and raises his orbital ridges. "I think you might overestimate my talent.”

Ironhide's engine grumbles. "Come on now. Why are ya siding with the medic? What’d he ever do for you?"

There is a familiarity between Ratchet and Sunstreaker which speaks to prior knowledge of one another, though Optimus' research has not indicated a connection before. Perhaps it is a question worth pursuing. Every bond, no matter how small, is invaluable.

"You make for an easy target," Prowl says as he skims through a datapad without so much as raising his gaze.

"How's that?" Ironhide demands, visibly affronted.

"Because ya react." Jazz strolls into the room, smiling and radiating cheer. Optimus can't trust it. Jazz's easygoing stride and casual delight rings too false next to Hot Rod's honest enthusiasm.

It pings Optimus' radar, not that he can put into words why. Perhaps it's something that bothers the Matrix. The void that is Jazz’s field continues to unsettle him.

"You're fun to rile," Jazz adds as he swings into an empty seat between Ultra Magnus and Soundwave, sprawling with all the poise of a performer.

Prowl arches an orbital ridge. "Are you equating us to sparkling inanity?"

Jazz's visor sparkles. "If the gear fits..." He flashes his visor in a wink.

Servants begin to arrive in that moment, laden with trays and cubes and decanters, loading the table with all manner of treats and energon to delight a variety of preferences and tastes. Jazz had arrived with less than a minute to spare, but with a quick head count, Optimus realizes they are still shy one Consort -- Starscream.

He glances at Ultra Magnus, who no doubt has done his own count, but Ultra Magnus gives a minute shake of his head -- he doesn't know where Starscream is either. It's impossible for the Seeker to have left the grounds without anyone noticing. Security is far too tight for that. Seeker or not, there are optics watching the airspace.

Starscream must still be in his quarters, choosing to skip the community refueling. It's implied to be mandatory, not that Optimus is going to enforce such a thing. If his Consorts wish to keep that element of control in their life, Optimus can hardly blame them, and he won't pusht.

He'll simply have to seek Starscream out on his own, and hope time will encourage Starscream to befriend the other Consorts. Perhaps having Skyfire here in the future will help, though Optimus knows their relationship is fraught with history.

The servants bow and excuse themselves, leaving everyone to enjoy the meal, but no one reaches for the energon. Every pair of optics turn toward Optimus instead, as if waiting.

"Please, do not restrain yourselves on my account," Optimus gestures to the spread. "Eat as you will. You do not have to wait for permission."

"What?" Ratchet asks with a snort. "No big speech this time?"

Optimus shakes his head. "No, though I am happy to answer any questions you might have for me. I think you might prefer that."

"Questions," Jazz echoes as if he's tasting the word before he pops one of the chewy gummies into his mouth. "Seems weird ta just be askin' the Prime questions, innit?"

"Not Prime only," Soundwave says, his distinct monotone carrying over the sounds of dishes clattering and lids being lifted. "Betrothed also."

Jazz’s glossa flicks over his lips as though catching a stray dribble of the sweet energon filling. "Very true, Sounders. But still not equals, am I right?"

"No equals," Soundwave agrees in a solemn tone.

"Perhaps not in the views of the Senate," Optimus concedes. "It is one of many things I intend to change. I do not wish for anyone to be subservient to me, least of all my own partners."

"Hm." Prowl tips his head as he turns a glass of engex in his fingers. "It's a contradiction, to be a Prime yet not wish anyone to be subservient. You hold the highest position in all of Cybertron."

"A position that only has as much power as the Senate allows," Ultra Magnus says, giving Prowl a keen look. "I think it's unfair to say that the position of Prime is omnipotent."

Sunstreaker flicks off a piece of raw magnesium from a rust-dusted cake. "I think you're arguing over semantics. When you're at the bottom, no one really cares who's the one in actual power. The heel feels the same."

"Huh. A gladiator with a processor. Who would have known?"

Optimus looks up as Starscream struts into the room, making no attempts to conceal his tardiness. If anything he looks proud of it, wings arched high, lips curled into a big smile. He makes a production of his arrival, sweeping in to sit between Soundwave and Ratchet, leaning across the table to grab a treat from the tray nearest Hot Rod, though there is one much closer to him.

"I thought your type had nothing going for you but brawn and murder," Starscream adds airily, the very picture of nonchalance though his optics glitter with thinly disguised mischief.

Sunstreaker's optics narrow. "Give me a chance, I'll be happy to show you." He bares his denta in what might be considered a grin if Optimus is feeling generous. It looks like a threat.

Starscream chuckles and pops the treat into his mouth, his gaze switching to Optimus, challenging, as if demanding to be reprimanded. "The orrery in the conservatory is broken, Prime. What kind of palatial estate is this?"

"I was unaware of the disrepair," Optimus says, and hides a smile when Starscream blinks at him, as if surprised Optimus isn't heading straight for a reprimand. "I will call someone to come fix it at once."

Starscream flicks a hand at him. "Don't bother. I can do it myself."

"Don't those things take very precise calculations?" Prowl asks.

Starscream grabs another treat, flicking it with his glossa before sliding the whole thing into his mouth. "Yep."

"Thank you, Starscream," Optimus says. "I will leave that in your capable hands. If you need any equipment, let me know, and I will acquire it for you."

"I gotta question," Ironhide says as Starscream gives Optimus a surprised look, but says nothing. "Did any battle skills come with that big frame upgrade of yours?"

Optimus cycles his optics. "Battle skills?" he echoes as his attention diverts to Ironhide. "Orion Pax was a librarian, Ironhide. What little he knew of battle came from textbooks."

Ironhide stares at his chest. "That magic artifact inside you didn't come equipped with a strategy guide and military skills?"

Jazz snorts a laugh.

"Not to my knowledge," Optimus replies. Though it would have been quite handy. All of the knowledge and wisdom of the millennia and the past Primes is lodged within his chassis, and as far as he can tell, there’s no way to directly access it.

Such a shame.

"Any halfway decent Prime should be able to defend himself," Ironhide says around a mouthful of very potent engex. He looks Optimus up and down, critically assessing. "You're not that unusual a design. I could teach ya how to use it."

Jazz snorts a laugh. "Ya tryin' to proposition him, Ironhide?"

"Shuddup. Wasn't talking to you," Ironhide says without so much as a sideways glance at Jazz. If anything, he holds Optimus' gaze steadily, as if taking the measure of him. "Well?"

"There is an open space on the grounds we could use for training," Optimus says. "I would be honored to receive instruction from someone with your experience."

"Good." Ironhide tips his head back, chugging down the rest of his engex before setting the empty on the table. "That goes for the rest of you, too. We all got targets on our back now, and ain't but a few of you I'd wager could handle yourselves."

"And even those of us who can, there is no harm in learning something new," Prowl agrees.

"Targets?" Hot Rod echoes. Some of his visible enthusiasm dampens, and the look he gives Optimus betrays his worry.

Optimus hates to see even a glimpse of darkness in Hot Rod’s optics. There should be a law against causing harm to such a bright individual.

"You're Consort to the Prime, kid," says Ratchet with a rattling ex-vent. "There are a lot of mechs who can think of a lot of bad things to do to someone like that."

Optimus rests a hand on Hot Rod's shoulder, leaning into the younger mech’s space to offer reassurance in his field. "While Ratchet is not wrong, do not worry, Hot Rod. You will be safe here, and in Iacon. I will do my best to ensure that."

Hot Rod gives him a wan smile. "Not that I don't trust you, Optimus, but maybe it wouldn't hurt to have a few lessons. You know. Just in case."

"A wise decision," Ultra Magnus says. "I would recommend everyone take Ironhide up on his offer for some self-defense lessons."

"First thing tomorrow," Ironhide says. "Best way to start the day."

"I can think of far better ways to begin my morning," Starscream drawls as he tugs a tray of treats closer, clearly laying claim to it.

"I've got a question." Ratchet leans back in his chair and casts a quick glance around the room. "Now, I'm a medic not a mathematician, but aren't there supposed to be ten of us?"

Prowl sits up a little straighter, his datapad flashing into his hands as though he can’t bear to be parted from it. "You are correct, Ratchet. There should be ten, but I am a mathematician, and I count only nine."

"Skyfire had to be retrieved from an off-planet expedition. He should be here within a few days," Optimus explains.

"Ten is an unusually high number of Consorts, isn't it?" Starscream asks, his tone dripping with nonchalance, but his armor slicking tighter to his frame.

Optimus is not unaware of the fraught history between Skyfire and Starscream. He largely suspects it is the reason one of them was chosen. He hopes to have an opportunity to speak with Starscream before Skyfire's arrival. The quicker he can temper possible friction, the better.

"The highest in recorded history," Ultra Magnus answers. He pulls out a datapad and starts to flick through it, he and Prowl moving in an eerie tandem. "Nominus was Prime for several centuries, and Sentinel even longer before him. Cybertron has changed much during that time. We've expanded, and power has shifted."

Prowl lifts his glass of engex, contemplating the swirl of colors within. "What Ultra Magnus means is that there are more mechs fighting for political sway, and to appease them, more Consorts were nominated and approved."

"Political pawns," Soundwave states.

"Yep." Ratchet pops the word and looks further disgruntled, a cloud forming over his head. "Isn't it grand?"

Optimus cycles a careful ventilation. "I am not unaware of the machinations this tradition has invited, but I do hope to change their intent. I do not want pawns. I would like friends and allies."

"And berthmates," Jazz chirps.

"I am not a mech ruled by my interfacing system," Optimus corrects, schooling his expression so as not to frown. Jazz’s jibe sounds playful, but there are harmonics layered in the comment which suggest he’s trying to provoke. "I have no interest in having someone in my berth who is unwilling or coerced.”

Hot Rod grins, and Optimus has all of a moment to dread what the mech is going to say before he leans in and bumps Optimus' shoulder. "But it's different if they're eager and willing, right?" He waggles his orbital ridges.

"Primus," Ironhide groans. "Easy to see who's going to be the favorite, isn't it? I mean, not that I blame ya, Prime. He's pretty."

"Hey," Hot Rod starts to rise, indignant, but Prowl's voice cuts him off.

"If anyone is to be the favorite, it will be Ultra Magnus," Prowl says, one orbital ridge arched as he meets their gaze steadily. "He and Optimus are previously acquainted."

"Wait." Sunstreaker sits up now, optics narrowing. "What do you mean, Prowl?"

Optimus cycles a ventilation as multiple gazes turn on him, and not all are mere curiosity. "Ultra Magnus and Orion Pax were friends," he says before Prowl can answer for them, though he’s sure bringing this truth into the light is Prowl’s intention. "I apologize. I meant to address this sooner, but Prowl is correct. That does not mean I intend to play favorites.”

"Are," Jazz says with a little curl of his mouth, a grin that's not a grin. "Are friends. Orion Pax isn't gone, no matter how much they tell you he is." He points at Optimus' chassis. "That mech is right there, with a Matrix wrapped around him."

"I would like to know how that happened," Ratchet says. "You talk a nice game about not playing politics, but somehow you managed to get your pal into your cohort?"

Optimus opens his mouth to answer, but a spike of barely contained anger startles him, rising first from the thin corona around his spark before it registers from beside him. Ultra Magnus’ engine rumbles quietly, and he speaks up.

"Optimus had nothing to do with my appointment," Ultra Magnus says. "I was the one who contacted the relevant parties and ensured I would be nominated. Optimus had no idea until he received the final list of his approved Consorts."

"You volunteered?" Sunstreaker asked, his voice thick with shock.

Ultra Magnus nods. "I did."

"Why?" Prowl asks.

Optimus busies himself with selecting some of the treats and piling them onto a plate. This is Ultra Magnus’ truth to share. He doesn't want to give any appearance of having coached or manipulated his friend.

Ultra Magnus vents a quiet sigh. "Because not only do I feel I can effect more change in this position, I also know Orion Pax, and I knew if we -- if Cybertron -- has any hope of the new Prime keeping Orion's gentle spark, he'd need support he could trust, before the Senate and the power corrupted him."

This is the first time Optimus has heard of corruption. He speaks before he can temper himself, Orion Pax surging forward as he slants a look at Ultra Magnus. "You worried I would be corrupted?"

"History suggests it is inevitable for all those who take the office of the Prime," Prowl says.

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and all that," Ratchet says. "And rumor has it, the Matrix has a sentience into itself. Maybe Magnus has a point."

Ultra Magnus gives him a long, apologetic look. "Orion was a good mech. Is a good mech. It's not Orion I didn't trust, but what something as powerful as the Matrix could do to him.”

“And so, what, you decided to protect him? Out of the goodness of your spark?” Starscream asks, his vocals layered with disbelief, but something else in them. Something almost like envy.

“I am pragmatic enough to recognize that my motivations are two-fold,” Ultra Magnus replies without missing a beat. “In this role, I can not only look after a dear friend, but I can accomplish my own goals of working toward the betterment of Cybertron.”

“How altruistic of you,” says Prowl.

Beneath the table, Optimus rests his hand on Ultra Magnus’ knee with a light tap as he gives Magnus a look from his periphery. They will discuss this later.

Magnus, for his part, doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic.

“Perhaps it is also selfish,” says Ultra Magnus. “However, if this is an issue with any of you, I ask that you approach me about it, and not think ill of Optimus. He had no idea of my machinations.”

Who could it have been, Optimus wonders. Who had Ultra Magnus conspired with to place him here, at Optimus’ side? Who would have cared? He knows Senator Shockwave had been one of those Ultra Magnus had approached, but Shockwave on his own would not have been convincing enough.

“It doesn’t matter what you do and don’t know, Prime,” Starscream says, his lip curled as his wings arch high. “The truth is that you already like Ultra Magnus. The rest of us are just the nuisances the Senate put in your way.”

Ratchet scoffs. “Speak for yourself, Seeker. I was a highly respected medic.”

“Is was the operative term here?” Starscream asks. “Because it seems highly unusual to me that someone so skilled and respected should be reduced to berthmate.”

Anger flushes Ratchet’s field, his jaw visibly tightening.

“Come on, this is supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it?” Hot Rod asks. “Being the Prime’s Consort and all, I mean.”

“Ahh, youth,” says Prowl with a shake of his head.

“Colony mech,” Soundwave tilts his head toward Hot Rod. “Knows nothing better.”

“True,” Prowl concedes.

Hot Rod scowls and crosses his arms. “Just what the frag is that supposed to mean?”

“There may have been a time the Prime Consort was as near respected as the office of the Prime itself, but it has not been so in recent history,” Optimus says quietly. “There are layers upon layers of politics, and none so thick as those involving the nominations of the Consorts. They are not my stories to tell, but it might behoove you to speak to the others, and learn why they are here.”

Some of Hot Rod’s outrage deflates. “Not all volunteers, I guess.”

“Not by the true definition of the word,” Optimus concedes gently. He raises his gaze to the others. “For that matter, I do encourage you to speak to one another. The political game wants us to be at odds, to hate one another. Let us not do their work for them.”

“I think the Matrix chose your new designation well,” Starscream says with an arched orbital ridge. “You’re optimistic to think we’ll all be friends.”

“Are you saying it’s too much of a challenge?” Prowl asks, and there’s provocation in his voice, his gaze steady and measured as he looks at Starscream. “Is it beyond your ability, Starscream?”

Starscream rolls his optics. “I’m not going to fall for an obvious goad.”

“Aren’t you?” Jazz challenges.

Fields clash throughout the room, twisting and tangling with invisible bursts of emotional lightning. At least this time, it is not aimed at Optimus himself.

“This is stupid,” Hot Rod says into the rising tension. He snags a tray of treats and pops two into his mouth before he tucks the tray against his chest. “You guys keep talking about how I’m too young and too inexperienced to understand what’s really going on and whatever, but from where I’m standing, everyone in here is acting like a bunch of sparklings.”

Starscream’s jaw drops.

Jazz snickers into his hand.

Prowl’s mouth snaps shut with a click of denta on denta.

“Well,” Ultra Magnus says into the following silence. “Hot Rod might have a point.” He glances at Ironhide. “Training you say?”

“First thing in the morning,” Ironhide says. “Can’t think of a better way to work out this tension, if you ask me.”

Hot Rod laughs. “Umm, I can.” He looks up at Optimus with a wink.

Judging by the chorus of groans from around the table, no one’s overly offended. Optimus manages a smile. Hot Rod is irrepressibly charming. Resisting him is going to be one of the hardest things Optimus will have to do.

“And with that, I’m calling it a night.” Ratchet leverages himself from his chair as if purposefully trying to make every joint creak. “Especially since it looks like I’m going to be patching up a bunch of idiots in the morning.”

“We’re lucky to have you,” Optimus says diplomatically. “I have heard nothing but good things about your talents.”

“Sure.” Ratchet snorts. “You’ll probably change your mind once you get within reach.” He flicks a hand at the room at large. “We’ll see what happens tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it,” Optimus says, both to Ratchet and to Ironhide. “Thank you for the offer. I must admit, I am eager to learn how to protect myself.”

Ironhide’s lip curls in a smirk as Hot Rod muffles a laugh behind his hands. “Y’know, Prime. I’m startin’ to think you’re trying to be enticing on purpose.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Optimus demurs.

“Sure ya don’t,” Ironhide says, but the twinkle in his optics is the most playful he’s been since they first met.

Optimus considers it a win.

The communal gathering winds down not long after, the Consorts saying their goodbyes and drifting out of the dining hall to their respective quarters. Only Optimus and Ultra Magnus remain, though Hot Rod does linger, making his exit at a slow pace, as if hoping Optimus will invite him to share his berth if he waits just a moment longer.

Not yet.

Finally, the door clicks shut behind Hot Rod, and they are alone.

“That could have gone worse,” Ultra Magnus vents as he relaxes in the chair, losing his stern posture.

“Which part?” Optimus sinks lower into his own chair and drags a half-eaten tray of treats closer. He tosses a handful into his mouth.

Ultra Magnus tips his head. “I could make a list.” He chuckles, but it’s raw and tired. “They took our prior acquaintance with more grace than I expected.” He eyes Optimus peripherally. “I should have known it would be Prowl to bring it up.”

“I told him earlier today, and he also admitted he’d run background checks on all of us prior to his arrival.” Optimus nibbles on another treat, considering. “He’s practical enough, however, that I think I can win him to our side through my deeds.”

“True.” Ultra Magnus’ lips thin together. “I have concerns.”

“About?”

“Jazz.” He rests a hand on the table, fingers drumming a rhythmic beat. “I think Prowl is right to be suspicious. All of my research has been as useless as yours, and I don’t like unknown quantities.”

Optimus tilts his head. “You think he’s dangerous?”

“Very. But whether or not that danger is directed at you or I or any of us…” Ultra Magnus draws in a heavy ventilation. “Jazz has a mask, a very, very good one, and I’m not ashamed to admit how wary I am of what it hides. Be cautious around him.”

Optimus hums and finishes off the last treat, sucking his fingers clean in such a way he’d never show the others. “I doubt the Senate would be so bold as to put an actual assassin forward as a Consort Nominate.”

“Then your faith in them outstrips mine.” Ultra Magnus shakes his head. “I don’t think Jazz is an outright assassin, but nor do I think you should trust him. He’ll say whatever he thinks you want to hear, even if it’s not what he wants or intends for himself.”

Optimus frowns. “He’s already a Consort. He doesn’t have to do anything to ensure he has a place. What would be the point of ingratiating himself to me?”

“The same reason any of the others might try it -- to gain your favor and have all the power.” Ultra Magnus rubs his forehead. “Though if that’s what he’s in for, it’s not for his own sake. I think someone’s pulling his strings.”

“Like most of my Consorts,” Optimus sighs. His own head starts to ache, and he knows, this ache is not leaving anytime soon. At least, not for the length of this month. He has an extraordinary task ahead of him, trying to win these seven Consorts to his side.

He pauses and gives Ultra Magnus a faint smile. “Have I mentioned how grateful I am that you would sacrifice your own aspirations for my sake?”

“My reasons were selfish as well. It was hardly a sacrifice.” Ultra Magnus’ words are dismissive, but his field flutters with warmth.

Optimus works his intake, cycling a ventilation. “I suppose not, given that you were concerned about the Matrix corrupting me.”

Ultra Magnus vents a sigh. “I should have mentioned that to you sooner.” His field turns apologetic as he looks at Optimus. “Orion Pax is one of my dearest friends. His spark has always been a kind and generous one. But history has shown what power can do to a mech. I didn’t want to see that happen to you.”

“Some might argue I am not Orion Pax anymore,” Optimus says quietly.

“I suppose that depends on your definition.” Ultra Magnus leans on the table, hands clasped, optics troubled. “I will always see the echoes of Orion Pax in you even if I am the only one. Cybertron needs Orion Pax to temper Optimus Prime.”

Optimus runs a finger around the rim of his cube. “And if Orion Pax is gone and all that’s left is the Matrix, running the spark of Optimus Prime?”

“It won’t come to that,” Ultra Magnus says, his voice firm and determined. “Other Primes have fallen because they didn’t have anyone who truly supported them. That won’t be the case here. I am by your side, Optimus, for both our sake, and for Cybertron’s.”

The band around his spark that is Ultra Magnus’ presence seems to vibrate with his words as if proving his sincerity.

“Thank you,” Optimus murmurs. “I am lucky to have someone like you watching out for me.”

Ultra Magnus straightens, his gaze shifting elsewhere as though embarrassed. “You don’t have to flatter me. I’m already yours.” He rests a companionable hand on Optimus’ shoulder in an awkward pat. “Save those flirtations for one of the others.”

“You think I’m not genuinely attracted to you?” Optimus lays his hand over Magnus’ before his friend can pull away. “I may not view you as a romantic partner, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind to your appeal. Any mech would be lucky to have you, and I’m luckier still that you’ve chosen me.”

He looks up, meeting Ultra Magnus’ gaze, trying to push sincerity into every wisp of his field. He does not hold romantic feelings for Ultra Magnus, true. He has never harbored deep fantasies of taking Ultra Magnus to his berth either. But he does love Ultra Magnus, and he does treasure their friendship, and it was no hardship to spark bond with Magnus, just as it’ll be a pleasure to take Magnus to berth, should they both desire it.

Those truths do not make their relationship any lesser than whatever Optimus might earn with the other Consorts.

Ultra Magnus’ field wobbles before it surges with affection, washing over Optimus in a wave of warmth. “And that, my friend, is why this was no sacrifice.”

He leans down, brushing his lips over Optimus’ temple. “Get some rest. Tomorrow is another busy day.”

“And a painful one, if Ironhide has anything to say about it,” Optimus says. “Good night, Magnus.”

“Rest well, my Prime.”

Ultra Magnus departs, and Optimus is not too ashamed to pick over the rest of the treats, selecting all of his favorites and stashing them away. Some habits are not forgotten, no matter how quickly the change in status.

***