[TF] Consortium 4/10

[dracoqueen22]

Consortium
Chapter Four
The mood is remarkably lighter around the table this time around. Much of the tension has lifted out of the air, and there is less a sizzling distaste for Optimus.

No one outright glares at him. Optimus considers that improvement. Especially when Jazz rises, climbing up into the center of the table no less, a small stringed instrument in hand.

“I hope you don’t mind a little entertainment with your energon,” he drawls as he holds the nyckelharpa in place and lays a flat rod against the glowing lines. “I’m going to start with something slow and melodic.”

“I, for one, am not going to protest,” Ultra Magnus says.

“I don’t think anyone else is either,” drawls Starscream, his optics glittering as he looks up at Jazz. “Provided you have any talent at that thing, I mean.”

Jazz’s lips pull in a slow, challenging smirk. “Just you wait and see, Screamer.” He drags the bar across the glowing lines, a long, mournful sound rising from the instrument. “I’m gonna knock you on your aft.”

Music flows out, slowly at first, a lovely melody that fills the gathering room and silences all murmurs of conversation. Optimus sits back, enjoying his energon, as he listens, and thinks that he’s getting a glimpse of Jazz’s true self for the first time.

The smirk slides from Jazz’s lips, his expression one of blissful concentration. His visor dims. He sways where he stands, there in the center of the table, hands moving skillfully over the keys of the nyckelharpa. There’s genuine enjoyment, genuine peace, in the escaping wisps of Jazz’s energy field.

Perhaps there’s hope for him yet.

Jazz has everyone’s attention. Conversation is nonexistent as everyone snacks and listens, the ambient tension fizzling out to nothing, as one haunting melody drifts into a second and then a third. They aren’t tunes familiar to Optimus, and he wonders if they are Jazz’s personal compositions.

Something to ask at another time.

It is perhaps that reason it takes Optimus a second to realize that Jazz’s tempo has been steadily increasing, albeit so gradually he almost didn’t notice. The somber, solemn song grows faster and faster and faster, until the rhythm is less a quiet background music, and more an upbeat invitation to rise and seize the day.

Hot Rod grins and leaps to his feet. “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he says, pushing his chair back into place with a loud screech. “Something for us to groove to.”

Jazz chuckles, his visor brightening by a fraction, focusing on Hot Rod. “I thought you might like an opportunity to shake that fantastic aft of yours, hot stuff.”

“Dancing is one thing I’m especially good at,” Hot Rod says with a wink. He spreads his arms. “Come on, my mechs. We can all be stiff and angry tomorrow. Let’s dance tonight.”

“Some of us have dignity,” Starscream sniffs, sipping from his energon with his chin lifted. He can’t hide the rhythmic twitches of his wings, however.

Hot Rod twists his frame, wriggling and rocking to the beat, in Starscream’s direction. “That’s what mechs who can’t dance say.” He waggles his orbital ridges.

“You’re ridiculous,” Starscream says, but amusement glitters in his optics rather than offense. “Go entice someone else, kid.”

“You’re no fun at all.” Hot Rod tries to pout, but the joy in his field betrays him. He sweeps a hopeful gaze over the table, and Optimus makes himself very busy.

It doesn’t work.

“Come on, Optimus,” Hot Rod says, draping himself along Optimus’ left side. He’s already running hot, the thrum of his engine vibrating over Optimus’ armor. “Dance with me?”

Hot Rod smiles up at him, pleading and hopeful, and Optimus’ resolve crumbles like a handful of ruststicks. “Very well,” he says, and the blinding grin Hot Rod bestows on him makes his concession worth the inevitable embarrassment.

He lets Hot Rod pull him from his chair, away from the table, into a clearer patch of floor. Orion Pax had not been much of a dancer, and the Matrix had not bestowed upon Optimus the means to dance either. He lets Hot Rod take the lead, moving awkwardly with the much more graceful speedster, and tries to ignore the optics watching them.

“Alright, Ironhide, get your rusty aft up.” Ratchet’s voice rises from behind them, and Optimus glances over his shoulder to see Ironhide being mechhandled to his feet. “If you can dance half as good as you move on the training pitch, we’ll be just fine.”

“Ya coulda asked,” Ironhide grumbles, but he eyes Ratchet as if sizing up a challenge. “Though guess we’re just going to have to see if you creak and rattle through the whole song.”

Ratchet smirks. “Put your groove where your mouth is, rustbucket.”

Ironhide barks a laugh, and now Optimus and Hot Rod aren’t the only ones dancing to Jazz’s music, a lively tune Optimus recognizes. Jazz himself is dancing, impressive footwork in and around the trays on the table, never missing a beat, without looking at his feet.

“Bet I can convince Prowl to dance,” Hot Rod says as he whirls around Optimus, his hands a fluttery flirt over Optimus’ armor. “What do you think?”

“I think it is worth a try,” Optimus says.

Hot Rod laughs and abandons Optimus on the dance floor, beelining straight for Prowl, who appears to be ignoring the fun and games by burying his nose in a datapad. Left alone, Optimus sets his sights on the one mech he knows won’t turn him down.

“You said you’d be by my side for whatever I needed, remember?” Optimus says as he rests a hand on Ultra Magnus’ shoulder, leaning in to murmur by his audial. “Come dance with me.”

Ultra Magnus looks up at him with something akin to panic in his optics. “Optimus, I don’t think--”

“Dancing does not require thinking,” Optimus teases, and pulls Ultra Magnus to his feet, something he never could have done before acquiring his new frame. “Consider it a great bonding moment.”

A gusty sigh whuffs from Ultra Magnus’ vents. “I am ever in your service, my Prime,” he says, and lets Optimus tow him onto the dance floor.

Hot Rod, too, is successful, and now there are at least six of them vying for room in the limited space, enjoying the rhythmic beats with various levels of skill. Jazz leaps down from the table, inserting himself into the middle of the dancing duos, somehow keeping the rhythm as he moves around them, making himself the center of the fun.

Ironhide and Ratchet convince Sunstreaker to stop sulking. Between him and Ironhide, it is less of a dance, and more of a series of martial kata, but it matches the music in such a way it appears to be dancing. Optimus admires their creativity.

Ratchet dances as though he was sparked to do so, and perhaps rumors of his wilder, youthful years are true. Optimus doesn’t hold much stock in gossip, but he has found some interesting pictures buried in the archives, along with fascinating datatract articles. Perhaps when he and Ratchet are closer friends, he could even tease Ratchet about them.

When Hot Rod eventually bounces over to steal Ultra Magnus, Optimus takes the opportunity to escape back to the table. Only Soundwave and Starscream had remained, but the former is gone, and the latter sits watching them, optics half-shuttered as though taking the measure of everyone joining the festivities.

His glass is empty.

Optimus knows an opening when he sees one. He snags a decanter of Starscream’s preferred flavor, plus a tray of Starscream’s favored treats, currently out of reach of the Seeker. He takes both to Starscream, sliding into the chair recently abandoned by Soundwave.

Red optics watch him approach, glittering as if examining Optimus down to his struts. “You’re not going to convince me to dance,” Starscream says.

Optimus rests the tray down in front of him and gestures with the decanter. “Refill?”

“Since you’re offering.” Starscream lifts the empty glass, and holds Optimus’ gaze as he carefully fills it. “Though I wonder what it’s going to cost me.”

“If you want me to leave you alone, you need only say so.” Optimus sets the decanter on the table and nudges the treats a little closer. He’d noticed Starscream’s predilection for the sweeter things, and he doesn’t miss the hungry glance Starscream gives the tray.

He doesn’t take one, however. Perhaps he thinks it would betray a weakness.

“We might as well get this over with. At least the others won’t be paying us too much attention.” Starscream sips his engex, looking at Optimus over the rim of it. “I’ve heard your spiel already. What do you think you can add to it?”

Optimus cycles a ventilation. “I am aware of the circumstances behind your nomination.”

“Who isn’t?” Starscream’s lip curls with derision. “They weren’t quiet about it.” His wingtips flick as he snorts. “They think shoving me into your harem will shut me up.”

“It is foolish of them to assume so,” Optimus says, and when Starscream cocks his head, he adds, “There is nothing I would like more than to hear what it is you have to say, Starscream. You are brilliant and innovative, and were this a different Cybertron, it would be I begging for a moment of your time.”

Starscream’s optics gleam brighter. He sets the engex down and picks up one of the treats, rust flakes flecking down. “Is that right?” he asks. “For a librarian, you already have the diplomacy down. Does that come standard with the Matrix?”

“I have done my fair share of reading,” Optimus says. “The Matrix, I have discovered, is rather useless when it comes to sharing useful information.”

“Pity.” Starscream pops the treat into his mouth, glossa flicking over his lips, still holding Optimus’ gaze as though he considers it a challenge. “So tell me how an archivist ends up holding the planet’s most revered holy artifact.”

Optimus spreads his hands. “That I cannot answer. I was as surprised as anyone when I was chosen. I do not understand how I crossed their radar.”

Though he has his suspicions. He has not had the opportunity to explore them, but he does think that the same mech responsible for ensuring Ultra Magnus’ nomination to the cohort is the very same mech who put Orion Pax in the path of the priests seeking the new Prime. Granted, only Primus could have decided the Matrix would respond to Orion Pax, but still…

Optimus has many questions for Senator Shockwave.

“Do you think it was by chance?”

Optimus shakes his head. “No. Nor do I think it was fate.”

Starscream rests his knuckles on his chin, his elbow braced on the table. “You don’t believe in destiny?”

“Do you?”

“Frag, no.” Starscream snorts, and his grin broadens. “It just surprises me that you don’t considering that thing.” He flicks a finger toward Optimus’ chassis. “After all, aren’t Primes supposed to be written in some prophecy or another?”

“I suppose that depends on what you believe.” Optimus plucks one of the treats from a nearby tray and considers it. “I do not want to replicate the errors of my predecessors, and if prophecies are to be believed, that is all of which a Prime is capable.”

“Hmm.” Starscream sips at his engex again, staring into the glowing liquid as he says, “What do you want from me then, Prime?”

For a moment, Optimus watches the dancers.

Hot Rod laughs as he twirls around a flustered Ultra Magnus, a near-unmovable mass in the middle of the chaos. Prowl has coaxed Ratchet into a more formal dance, something Optimus vaguely recognizes as Praxian in origin. Sunstreaker and Ironhide are still in the midst of their modified dance-kata. The atmosphere is light. Joyous.

Much improved.

“I seek allies,” Optimus says. “I seek friends. I seek to make the best of a complicated situation, and I hope to unite the disparate minds the Senate thrust together, hoping to keep me so distracted I will not notice the ways they are further tearing our planet apart.”

“Lofty goals,” Starscream murmurs.

Optimus looks at him. “Yes. There is much I wish to accomplish, and I know I need you by my side to ensure I can meet those goals.”

Starscream leans back, languid and relaxed save for the calculating sheen in his optics. “Convince me.”

“Tell me how,” Optimus says.

“Words aren’t going to do it, I can tell you that much.” Starscream salutes him with the engex and empties the glass, turning to place it upside-down on the table. “But if you’re half as smart as I think you are, I’ll bet you can figure it out.”

Starscream, he thinks, will at least be simpler to understand than Jazz.

Optimus cycles a slow ventilation. “There is another reason I came to speak with you,” he says, and waits until he has Starscream’s full attention before he continues, “Skyfire is due to arrive in the morning. Is there something I can do to mitigate the potential… friction?”

“Ahh, there’s that diplomacy again.” Starscream’s armor ripples, tightening around his frame. “It won’t be a problem, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not an idiot.”

“If I could--”

“Do what? Keep us apart? What’s that going to solve?” Starscream sighs, and his engine changes pitch. “We’re both adults. We can figure it out. It’s not like we have any choice in this game, is it?”

It is partially true. Because if there had been a choice, one or both of them could have refused the Consort nomination.

“We have a choice in how we decide to handle it,” Optimus says, words chosen carefully, as diplomatic as Starscream accuses.

Starscream tips his head, contemplating, dragging the tip of one finger across his bottom lip. “You act like Skyfire and I used to be lovers. It wasn’t like that.”

“Friendship is no less intimate than romance,” Optimus says. “You two may not have ever shared a berth, but that does not mean your feelings are any less valid.”

Starscream’s optics widen by a fraction, and he barks out a laugh, burying his hand behind his face, only a hint of fang visible. “You sound just like him, you know.”

“How so?”

Starscream’s hand drops, and now there’s a sadness in his optics. “He used to say he wasn’t in love with me, that he didn’t want a place in my berth, but that didn’t mean he loved me any less.”

“Perhaps he loves you still,” Optimus says gently.

Starscream scoffs, but he doesn’t refute Optimus’ words. Instead, he rests his chin on his knuckles and gives Optimus a contemplative look. “Fine,” he says. “I suppose that’s enough to earn you a chance.”

“Beg pardon?” Optimus asks.

Starscream huffs a little laugh. “I’m not going to give in to Hot Rod’s blatant attempts to promote you, but I’m also not going to play into the Senate’s hands. Or the Winglord’s for that matter.”

Optimus arches an orbital ridge. “Which means…?”

“They gave me to you because they expected me to cause problems. Won’t they look foolish when I form an alliance with you instead?” He chuckles again, and there’s chaos in his optics, a bit of vicious glee in the curve of his smile.

There are worse reasons than spite to inspire the start of a working relationship. Optimus will take what he can get. So long as Starscream’s ire is pointed at the Senate and their games, Optimus considers himself to have a powerful ally.

“They will indeed,” Optimus agrees.

“Exactly.” Starscream reaches across the table and snags the decanter of engex, refilling his own glass. “But don’t think that means I’m going to keep my mouth shut if you do something stupid or cruel.”

“I sincerely hope you do not,” Optimus says.

Starscream grins and dives back into the tray of treats.

It feels like victory.

Optimus glances back to the others, realizing that the music has softened to something more soothing rather than dance-worthy. Ratchet and Ironhide have gone -- he must have missed their departure. Ultra Magnus catches Optimus’ gaze -- a somewhat drunk Hot Rod slung over his shoulder.

“I’ll put this one to berth,” he says.

Hot Rod grins and pats Ultra Magnus’ back. “You could stay in it with me if you want.”

Ultra Magnus sighs. “No, thank you. I prefer my berthpartners fully sober.”

“I’m sober,” Hot Rod says brightly. “Enough, I mean.”

“Recharge well,” Optimus says before they vanish out the door, and the rumble of Ultra Magnus’ polite refusal of Hot Rod’s adorable overture floats back toward them.

Starscream, too, excuses himself, leaving only Prowl and Sunstreaker left to enjoy the music, Prowl rather patiently walking Sunstreaker through the complicated steps of a traditional Praxian dance. Optimus isn’t surprised that Sunstreaker is catching on quickly. Praxian dances are not unlike martial kata.

Optimus allows himself another drink -- a weak spritzer this time -- as the servants quietly bustle in to clear the table, and Jazz finishes up the last song with a musical flourish. Prowl thanks him, and Sunstreaker must echo the sentiment before they walk away, heads bent together in quiet discussion. Optimus catches the mention of more dancing lessons as he tips his head at them in farewell.

The quiet lingers. Jazz returns to the table, pulling a case from beneath it and placing the nyckelharpa into the lined interior with care.

“Thank you for the performance,” Optimus says as he nudges a glass of chilled energon toward Jazz. “I am sure everyone appreciated it.”

“I can tell.” Jazz eyes the glass before he sweeps it up and drains half in one go, licking his lips with a satisfied vent. “It’s nice to play like that. Been awhile since I could let my spark do the dancing.”

There’s a glimmer in his visor then, so brief Optimus almost misses it, but there’s so much longing, so much regret, it’s consuming. Then it’s gone again, and Jazz’s curved smirk is back.

“You are exceptionally talented. Were most of those songs original creations?” Optimus asks.

Jazz reaches his arms over his head, threading his fingers together, arching his spinal strut in a languid stretch that causes cables to pop and squeak. “Yep,” he says. “Most mechs only wanna hear remixes of old favorites, so it was nice to indulge in my own compositions for once. I’m gonna miss that.”

Optimus tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Jazz gives him a long look. “I’m a Prime-Consort. I can’t just wander off whenever and wherever I like. That part of my life is gone now.”

“I would not impose such restrictions on you,” Optimus says.

Jazz rubs the palm of his right hand with his left thumb. “And it ain’t up to you, is it? Besides, what Prime would want his Consort out of reach?” He rolls his shoulders, and gives Optimus a laconic grin. “Not that I can blame you, I’m pretty hot stuff.”

Optimus frowns. “That is not what I want from you.”

“Right, right. Your whole trying to change the world thing.” Jazz waves a hand and downs the rest of his chilled energon. “I gotta admit, it sounds pretty damn good. If you can actually pull it off.”

“I would be more successful with you as an ally,” Optimus says.

Jazz grins and slinks around the table, fingertips of one hand lightly dragging along the surface. “What makes ya think I’m not?” he asks, his field tapping against Optimus’, warm and sultry. “I’m all for what you want. I’m behind you one-hundred percent, Prime. I don’t think you can find anyone else more in your corner. Except mebbe Hot Rod, but that kid runs volcanic.”

Optimus chuckles. “Yes. His enthusiasm is quite refreshing, I must admit.” He shifts to face Jazz. “I appreciate your support, but I hope you understand that the freedom to explore your music is not contingent upon it. I would never try to keep you from your craft.”

“You really don’t have to be so formal. We’re friends now.” Jazz rests a hip against the table, leaning in toward Optimus, warmth emanating from his frame and his field an inviting murmur. “You did say we could call you Optimus.”

“Indeed I did.” Optimus works his intake, suddenly intensely aware of Jazz, and the raw attractiveness surrounding him. He feels more than a bit like the metallocanary stalked by a voltaic cat.

He coughs into his palm and rises from the table, gently sweeping up Jazz’s free hand as chastely as he can manage.

“You will have to excuse me, Jazz. It is late, and I had an early morning collecting dents from Ironhide,” Optimus demurs as he brushes a gentle kiss over Jazz’s knuckles. “Thank you again for the lovely performance. I do hope it will not be the last.”

“I’m sure it won’t.” Jazz grins as Optimus lets his hand slip free, looking up at Optimus, head tilted, coy and inviting. “You’re sure you don’t want company?”

“Not tonight, though I thank you for the offer.” Optimus gives Jazz a gentle smile and eases out of reach of both Jazz’s field and his hands. “Recharge well, Jazz.”

“You too, Optimus.”

He makes his escape, only he doesn’t call it such, and leaves the gathering hall, more than a little flustered. Jazz has that effect on him, which he supposes had been Jazz’s intentions. Despite Jazz insisting he wants the same things, Optimus doesn’t trust Jazz’s words.

It rings false in a way Optimus can’t put his finger on, only that when he compares Jazz’s flirtations to Hot Rod’s, there is a distinct difference. Hot Rod is youthful, naive, but clearly, enthusiastically, interested. Jazz approaches Optimus like a courtesan might, knowing his flirtations are a duty, and acting out a script he’s long since memorized.

Unlike with Hot Rod, Optimus doesn’t feel tempted for a moment. For all that Jazz is saying yes and implying yes with his behavior, there’s something in his gaze which radiates ‘no.’

It’s unsettling.

He’s no closer to getting through to Jazz than before, and Optimus is at a loss as to how to change that. How does he get past the mask? He supposes it’s not something that can be done in a few conversations. Jazz is a longstanding project, where Optimus can only prove himself through his actions, and hope that eventually, an understanding can be reached. A true understanding.

He is not opposed to the amount of work involved, but it does rather complicate things. It will be a tricky balance, to refuse Jazz’s advances without refusing Jazz, and ensuring Jazz does not feel slighted or out of favor compared to the rest of the Consorts.

Ah, it’s a headache.

Optimus returns to his private suite, and debates the merit of a long soak before he collapses on his berth instead. He fears slipping into recharge in the bath, and he can’t risk it.

He sets his alarm a bit earlier instead. Skyfire is due to arrive in the morning, even earlier than Optimus’ now-standing training date with Ironhide, and Optimus wants to greet him in person. Ultra Magnus has also expressed an interest in accompanying Optimus.

His second in all things, Optimus muses. He is still of the opinion Ultra Magnus would be more effective and happier in another role, but it’s not his place to put such assumptions on Magnus either.

This, after all, is Ultra Magnus’ choice.

Recharge comes fitfully, the Matrix continuously stirring within his chassis, as though roused by the day’s events and Optimus’ own circuitous thoughts. He doesn’t dream, but he feels as though he ought to have, and he onlines to his alarm, groggy and thoughts stuffed with mesh. He opts for a rinse in the washrack before he hurries to the helipad where Ultra Magnus already waits, optics bright and armor perfectly polished.

“You look tired,” Ultra Magnus observes before he produces a cube of energon from nowhere and hands it to Optimus.

“I suspect that will be a recurring theme,” Optimus sighs, giving Ultra Magnus a grateful smile. “Though this time the Matrix was to blame. It was unexpectedly… energetic.”

“Hmm.” Ultra Magnus frowns. “Approving?”

“I can only hope.” Optimus sips his energon and lifts his gaze to the sky, watching for Skyfire’s arrival. “I’ve spoken with everyone but Soundwave, and I am optimistic they’ll be won to my side.”

“All of them?”

Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Jazz is vocally approving, but I do not trust it. I don’t think his support is genuine.”

“We have time. Perhaps we can get through to him before our return to Iacon. I’ll do what I can on my end,” Ultra Magnus says.

A dark speck on the horizon grows closer as Optimus receives an alert ping.

“I appreciate it.” Optimus finishes off the energon and crushes the empty, letting the energy disperse into the air. “We’ll talk more later.”

“Of course.”

A non-sentient transport sets down a few minutes later. A large shuttle disembarks, his white armor streaked with dust, his shoulders slumping from fatigue, pulling a crate behind him, the wheels creaking and the underside dripping dust. He looks in need of a decanter of engex and a long soak in the oilsprings, not a heavy discussion about political ramifications and Optimus’ intentions.

He’ll have to speak with Skyfire about such things later. For now, greeting him is more important.

“Welcome to our temporary home, Skyfire,” Optimus says warmly. “I hope your journey was without trouble.”

Skyfire smiles, though his optics are dim with fatigue, and offers Optimus a hand. “For all that it was hurried and a bit of a surprise, yes. We didn’t run into any trouble.”

“Here, allow me to help you with that.” Ultra Magnus deftly slides the wheeled crate from Skyfire’s hand without waiting for an answer. “I am Ultra Magnus, by the way. Once you’ve rested, we’ll introduce you to the others.”

“I could use a stasis nap,” Skyfire admits, his field openly leaking fatigue. “They didn’t give me much time between the notification and my departure.”

Optimus winces. “I apologize for that.”

“Why? You and I both know it wasn’t your decision,” Skyfire says. He falls in step beside Optimus, with Ultra Magnus on his other side. “I still don’t understand why I was chosen. I have nothing to offer a Prime.”

“The Senate would argue otherwise,” Ultra Magnus says.

Skyfire sighs, his shoulder slumping. “Somehow, I don’t think my scientific acumen is what they are hoping to exploit.”

Neither does Optimus. No, he suspects Skyfire’s presence here is solely because of the anticipated trouble it will cause with Starscream. Optimus’ Consorts aren’t meant to be his supports, after all, they’re meant to be his distractions.

“Maybe the Senate does not, but I would be personally delighted to hear anything you wish to share about your research. I find it fascinating,” Optimus says.

Skyfire’s orbital ridges lift. “You do?”

“Obtaining the Matrix has not lessened his thirst for knowledge.” Ultra Magnus’ voice is thick with affectionate amusement. “He was an archivist.”

“Oh.” Understanding ripples in Skyfire’s field. “I see. Perhaps we will have much to talk about after all.”

“Once you have rested,” Optimus says as they step into the manor, heading toward the largest habsuite. He’s ensured Skyfire is at a distance from Starscream, to avoid awkward encounters before either of them are ready for it. “You have private quarters and a private washrack. There is an energon dispenser in your room as well. Feel free to take all the time you need.”

“I’m not expected anywhere?”

Optimus shakes his head. “No. You can spend your time here as you wish, though the powers that be might argue your presence is required for our evening refuel.” He offers Skyfire a gentle smile. “I would like it if you joined us, but I would not insist.”

“It will be a good opportunity to meet everyone,” Ultra Magnus adds as they arrive at Skyfire’s habsuite, where he keys it open before offering Skyfire a datachip with the door code. “Last night, we were even treated to a performance.”

“Everyone,” Skyfire echoes, and his expression darkens. He retrieves his crate from Ultra Magnus and lingers in the doorway, looking down at them. “Starscream is here then, I presume?”

“Yes. His room is on the other side of the manor.” Optimus privately marvels that has at least one Consort over whom he will not accidentally loom. “He will likely be present tonight if that at all influences your decision to join us.”

Skyfire draws in a deep vent, his free hand rubbing his orbital ridge, a few flakes of grit fluttering to the floor. “I can’t avoid him forever. I’ll be at the gathering.”

“The choice is yours,” Optimus says gently. “I will not think less of you if you choose to take your time with it.”

“Thank you.” Skyfire pauses as if he’s going to say something else before he steps back into his habsuite, and the door slides shut.

Ultra Magnus rolls his shoulders with a quiet sigh. “That went better than I expected. Clearly, he’s the level-headed one of the bunch.”

“More likely he is not one prone to confrontation. He’s a scientist, not an Enforcer or a warrior or a former field medic.” Optimus turns away from Skyfire’s door, aiming toward the training grounds where Ironhide is no doubt waiting for him. “He’s practical.”

“Thank Primus for that.”

Optimus hums agreeably. “Indeed.” He pats Ultra Magnus on the shoulder. “I appreciate the back-up, but I’m sure you have other plots in mind.”

“I had considered cornering Prowl.” There’s an impish curve to Magnus’ lips, a streak of playfulness Optimus knows few are allowed to see. “Perhaps between the two of us, we can figure out a means of approach for Jazz.”

“A worthy endeavor. Don’t let me keep you.”

“Try not to collect too many dents.”

They part ways, Ultra Magnus in search of Prowl, Optimus to his punishment at Ironhide’s hands. He’s not even late, but Ironhide is already waiting, looking far too eager in Optimus’ opinion.

“Round two,” Ironhide says with a playful grin.

Optimus sighs.

He’s never happier to see Sunstreaker than when the golden mech shows up an hour later, perfectly polished and lugging a case full of assorted hand-to-hand weaponry. He must have brought it with him, which begs the question of why? Did he think himself in that much danger or is it merely a habit?

“How about a rematch?” Sunstreaker asks, challenge gleaming in his optics, and Ironhide returns it with an expectant grin of glee.

“You can escape now, Optimus,” Ironhide drawls, rolling his shoulders, cracking struts in his neck and upper back with anticipation. “Looks like a youngling needs to be taught respect for his elders.”

Optimus doesn’t argue. He flees the scene, looking back only once to see Sunstreaker and Ironhide debating the merits of various weaponry. It will undoubtedly turn to physical attempts to prove the domination of one weapon over the other.

At least they seem to be getting along.

It’s the perfect opportunity to seek out Soundwave, after a quick rinse in the washracks at any rate. Optimus is sore, replete with dents, and when no one’s watching, he lets himself limp. His right ankle throbs from a too-quick twist, and while Ironhide had proclaimed him undamaged, it still aches.

He resolves to avoid Ratchet, lest the medic demand he needs berthrest. There is far too much to do to spend his time in his berth.

Finding Soundwave, however, is no easy task. Optimus is not familiar enough with the mech to be able to divine where Soundwave might spend his free time.

He passes Ratchet and Ultra Magnus in the small, but fully-stocked on-site clinic, and tiptoes past the door so as not to be noticed by either of them. It seems Ultra Magnus had either finished his conversation with Prowl, or had been spotted by Ratchet and subsequently caught.

“--was the last time you had a full maintenance?” Ratchet gripes, his voice carrying easily into the hall. “Whoever did it is an inept moron. There’s grit in your secondary homokinetic joint.”

“My what?”

Optimus moves out of range before he can hear Ratchet’s answer.

Sweet smells and low conversation lure him to the kitchen, but Soundwave is not inside. Instead, Optimus finds Starscream and Hot Rod in the midst of creating something, the countertops dirtied with various ingredients, and the oven humming as a timer counts down.

“I think I’ve got it this time,” Hot Rod says as he whips some concoction in a bowl, and Starscream nudges a pan closer to him.

Amusement curves Starscream’s lips. “It’s too early to tell, kid.”

“No, no. I mean it,” Hot Rod says. “It looks perfectly fluffy and everything. They’re going to be delicious.”

“We’ll see.”

Optimus leaves them to it. He debates for half a second warning Starscream about Skyfire’s arrival, but he’d hate to ruin what is clearly a comfortable moment.

He doesn’t find Jazz, no surprise there, but he does run into Prowl in the library, a neat stack of datanovels within easy reach. Optimus glances at their titles -- Romance novels? Really? -- but keeps his comments to himself.

Prowl looks up at him, amused. “You look a little lost, Optimus.”

“I have been wandering around the manor for the better part of an hour,” Optimus admits. “You have not seen Soundwave by chance, have you?”

Prowl’s attention returns to his novel, finger flicking the screen to move to the next page. “I saw him in the sitting room earlier. He’s probably still there.”

“I will try it next. Thank you, Prowl.”

Amusement flickers in Prowl’s field. “You’re welcome.”

It’s barely an interaction, but Optimus can see a marked difference between now and the first time he had met Prowl, where he’d gotten a frosty reception at best, ice glittering in Prowl’s pale blue optics, and in his field.

He prays their interactions continue to improve.

He sees no sign of Jazz as he makes his way to the sitting room, but he swears he hears voices as he approaches the open door. Perhaps Jazz is with Soundwave? He can’t pick out actual words, just the cadence of conversation. There is also music playing, further muffling the voices and their words.

However, he sees no one but Soundwave when he steps inside. The music itself is absent of lyrics, and Soundwave is alone where he sits on one of the lounges, a datapad in hand. Optimus cycles his optics, confused, and a quick glance around the room confirms that Soundwave has no company. There’s nowhere for another mech to hide either.

Odd.

“Prime,” Soundwave intones, greeting him with a sharp inclination of his head.

“Good morning, Soundwave. Do you have a moment to talk?” Optimus asks. He glances around the room once more, but it remains empty of others. Had he imagined the voices? Maybe they’d come from further down the hall.

The music lowers in volume, barely audible, and Soundwave sets the datapad aside. He gestures to an empty chair. “Time available,” he says.

Optimus sits. “I apologize for not approaching you sooner,” he says, rather than addressing the voices he may or may not have heard. Perhaps Soundwave is the sort to talk to himself. Optimus has known his fair share of mechs with the habit including himself. “If you are amenable, I would like to discuss our rather unique situation.”

Soundwave nods. “Acceptable.” He rests his hands in his lap, fingers laced together. “Terms?”

“Would it be more comfortable for you if I discussed this as though it were a business arrangement?” Optimus asks. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get used to Soundwave’s rather terse way of speaking. The vocal modulator is an interesting choice as well.

It’s difficult to divine what Soundwave is thinking with only his frame language to rely on. Mask and visor both work very well to hide Soundwave from the rest of the world. His field is difficult to parse as well, as if it works on different harmonics than other Cybertronians. Even the Matrix struggles to make sense of it.

“Affirmative,” Soundwave says. “Contract terms defined and clear. No misunderstanding.”

“Fair point.” Optimus contemplates, reorganizing his thoughts. “I do not expect anything from any one of my Consorts, though I would appreciate it if no one actively tried to work against me. I will not interfere in the private affairs of my Consorts either. You are free to do whatever you wish within the established guidelines set by a governing office I do not control.”

Optimus can say whatever he wants, but they all know, his position as Prime has been reduced to figurehead over the centuries. He holds enormous sway with the populace, with those devoted to the tradition of the Prime, and the legacy of the Matrix. But when it comes to those who actually have the power to effect change? The Prime is leashed.

Soundwave nods sharply. “Agreed,” he intones. “Allyship offered. Privacy sought.” He pauses as if he intends to say something else before lapsing into silence.

“Of course. Everyone will have their own private rooms, and I will not pry into your affairs,” Optimus says. “I have much I wish to accomplish. I will be more successful with the aid of my Consorts and the unique knowledge and experience each of them possesses. If there is anything I can do to make these unfortunate circumstances better, you need only ask.”

“Understood.” Soundwave cycles a ventilation, something in his field flickering before it smooths out and he says, “Service wished, nothing more.”

Optimus barely keeps his frown away. “You do understand you can refuse anything I ask of you, yes? I do not want you to fear saying ‘no’.”

“Affirmative.” Soundwave shifts, his visor brightening by a few degrees, and there’s a quiet click before he softly adds, “I only wish to serve.”

Soundwave’s file suggests he’s here voluntarily. But then, so does Sunstreaker’s, and so does Jazz’s. Optimus knows now that the latter two are carefully constructed lies. Sunstreaker must appear to be willing because of Sideswipe. Jazz has ulterior motives as well.

Hot Rod and Ultra Magnus are the only two Optimus can be reasonably certain are here fully by choice, rather than forced necessity. Refusing a Prime Consort nomination, after all, is not done. It’s meant to be a great honor that no sane mech would refuse, and never in history has a mech refused the nomination.

Or there’s simply no record of it. Primes hold enormous power, Senate or not, and Optimus can think of a few past Primes who would have no problem forcing a mech into their cohort out of a perverse want. Or ridding themselves of a mech who dared refuse them to avoid the potential embarrassment.

“If service is what makes you happy, then I will not protest,” Optimus says, drawing upon every book on legislature and legal matters he’s ever skimmed. Their conversation feels like a binding agreement, and he doesn’t like the sensation of it. “Only know that it is not required of you.”

Soundwave makes a non-committal noise. “Requirement subjective.”

Optimus does not like the sound of that. “I understand,” he says, and plants a light smile on his face. “Still, do not hesitate to speak with me if there is anything you need. I will do my best to accommodate you.” He stands to excuse himself, unsure how to reach Soundwave. “I will leave you to your datapad.”

“Appreciated.”

Optimus leaves.

Behind him, the music rises in volume once again, but it still has no lyrics, and Optimus does not pick up any voices, even when he lingers outside the study, audials tuned specifically for conversation.

He must not have heard anything after all.

***