[TF] Consortium 6/10

[dracoqueen22]

Consortium
Chapter Six

“You look pleased. Care to share why?” Ultra Magnus asks as he leans in toward Optimus, the soft comment hidden to the overall chatter at the dinner table.

Optimus lifts a glass of engex and sips it, feigning nonchalance. “I completed my spark bond with Prowl earlier today,” he says, behind the glass. “And judging by the looks Ratchet’s giving me, I’m likely to connect with him as well.”

Ultra Magnus’ orbital ridges lift. “So soon? I’m impressed by your diplomacy, Optimus.”

“I relied on their practicality. I don’t know if it’s really diplomacy,” Optimus says with a little laugh. “One might even call it manipulation.”

“Playing to your strengths and their interests is hardly manipulation,” Ultra Magnus says with a snort. “It’s called negotiation. There’s a difference. I’m sure both of them would agree. Neither seem the type easily manipulated.”

He has a point. Prowl is far too keen, and would read through double-speech in a sparkbeat. Ratchet wouldn’t stand for it either, because if there’s one thing Ratchet does not do, it’s hold his glossa. He speaks his mind without an ounce of tact.

“Fair,” Optimus says. He lowers his glass, grabs one of the treats from the tray Hot Rod has passed around -- his second batch of experiments. “I spoke with Soundwave as well. I’ve left it up to him to tell the others, but pretend to be surprised when you learn he has two symbiotes with him.”

“Frankly, I’d be more surprised if he didn’t,” Ultra Magnus murmurs, and he slants a look at Soundwave, sitting quietly between Skyfire and Prowl, contemplative and focused on his meal. “If he introduced you to them, there’s a fair chance he is beginning to trust you.”

“I hope so,” Optimus sighs.

“As do I.” Ultra Magnus drags a decanter closer, refilling his own glass and topping off Optimus’. “We’re at the halfway point, Optimus. I know you want to do this on their terms, but the closer we get to the departure date, the less anyone will have a choice about it.”

Optimus pushes the glass further away, the taste souring. “I know.”

Ultra Magnus’ field touches his, gentle with understanding and sympathy. “It’s not a position I envy you for, but take spark. The atmosphere tonight is better than it was at the beginning. Clearly, you’re doing something right.”

Again, Magnus has a point.

Optimus looks around and sees Jazz in deep, playful conversation with Hot Rod, over their recent race apparently, while Soundwave and Skyfire have struck up a quiet exchange. Starscream and Skyfire steal glances at one another but Starscream is also deep in heavy debate with Prowl and Ratchet. Ironhide’s regaling Sunstreaker with some story or another, and while Sunstreaker looks bored, he isn’t missing a single word of the tale either.

They are getting along in a way which seemed impossible based on that first night. Perhaps they are not ready to call each other friend but there is a path to it here.

“Truly it is only Jazz who remains the most elusive. I feel I have a handle on what everyone else desires from me,” Optimus says. "Meanwhile, I'm still not convinced I've actually met Jazz, just the persona he wants to show me."

Ultra Magnus frowns. "It may be that you won't ever truly know him. At least, not before the bond must be completed."

"I fear you're right." Optimus sighs and drags his engex back into reach, taking a long sip of it. Engex does not affect him as strongly as it used to, thanks to his upgrade and the Matrix he assumes.

How unfortunate.

"Perhaps one of the others will form a strong connection to him at least," Optimus murmurs. It is his greatest hope that all of the Consorts will get along by the time they return to Iacon, perhaps even form friendships.

If, over time, more should develop, Optimus would be in support of that as well. He knows he'll love them all eventually, in his own way, but romantic feelings may never develop. They are political bonds, after all. Optimus won't begrudge them finding love amongst each other. In fact, he'd encourage it.

"Move over, kid. I need to borrow this chair for a second." Ratchet's gruff voice catches Optimus' attention, and he turns to see Hot Rod grumbling as he gets up, and Ratchet sinking into the chair on Optimus' left.

"Evening, Ratchet," Optimus says, and knows he failed to conceal his amusement when Ratchet gives him a wry look. "I apologize for missing our conversation earlier. I was intercepted by Prowl."

"Yeah, I can tell." Ratchet raises his orbital ridges, but his mouth is pulled in a sardonic grin. "Can't hide much from an old medic with over-powered passive sensors."

"Ah. I see." Optimus takes another drink, though it doesn't do much for him. He's not embarrassed, per se, he simply wasn't expecting it.

Ratchet sits back in the chair, the perfect picture of ease. "So if you're not too exhausted from that, what say you and I get our turn over with, hm?"

It's not a ringing endorsement, but Optimus supposes it is the best either of them can hope for in the immediate present. They are still but strangers, for all that they've had a few conversations. Trust and genuine affection will have to come later.

"I feel well enough. I am assuming your scans tell you the same," Optimus says. "I hate to be trite but... your quarters or mine?"

Ratchet snorts, his field brimming with amusement. "Your berth is bigger, isn't it?"

"Technically, Skyfire has the largest, but likely so, yes." Optimus gives Ratchet a long look. "Are you sure you will be comfortable there?"

Ratchet stands, stretching his arms over his head, cables creaking from the action. "I'll have to get used to it eventually, right?"

Optimus frowns. "No. This need only be a one-time occurrence unless you choose otherwise."

"And that's why I'll be comfortable." Ratchet grins, razor-sharp and keen.

Ah. A test then.

Optimus stands as well, though he turns and briefly leans in to Ultra Magnus, "I will see you tomorrow, my friend. Duty calls."

"Good luck."

He'll need it.

Optimus steps away from the table, Ratchet already several steps ahead of him. "Good night, everyone," he says. "I will see you all throughout the day tomorrow."

More than a few keen pairs of optics follow him out, though no one is bold enough to comment. Starscream might have, were he not distracted by the glances he and Skyfire continue to non-subtly exchange. The two of them are, for the moment, more interesting than Optimus and Ratchet leaving together.

"You asked me what I wanted," Ratchet says once they are in the relative privacy of the corridor. "Well, I want to keep being a medic, and I want to keep working in my clinic. If you don't deny me those things, then you won't have any problems from me."

Optimus nods. "Understood. I would not refuse you either, and if I can help at all with the clinic, let me know." He pauses to cycle a ventilation. "Protocol will require you reside with me in Iacon, but I will ensure you can spend as much time as possible at the clinic."

Ratchet waves him off. "Yeah, yeah. I know there are things out of both of our control. I'm only worried about the things you can do. Got me?"

"Completely."

"Good. So long as that's clear." Ratchet rubs a hand around his face and sighs. "I'm not thrilled I have to bond with pretty much a stranger, but it's not really your fault either, so I won't hold it against you."

“I appreciate it,” Optimus says.

Optimus pauses outside his habsuite. "This is a bond of political convenience. I will not begrudge you seeking true affection in another."

"I'm an old mech, Optimus," Ratchet says with a wry grin. "Political bonds are just about all I have to look forward to." He tilts his head toward the door. "Gonna let me in?"

Optimus keys in the code, the door sliding open as Ratchet precedes him inside. "I do think you underestimate your appeal. If we had met under better circumstances, I might well have been naturally drawn to you."

"You don't have to flatter me. I'm already where you want me." Ratchet chuckles. "Look, I've seen how you've treated everyone so far. Hot Rod sings your praises, and Prowl has already given you his trust. That's enough to convince me." He perches on the berth without hesitation.

Perhaps with time, Ratchet will understand how sincerely Optimus finds him appealing. He suspects there is a deeper reason for Ratchet's dismissal of it, rather than the standard distrust of someone who is a relative stranger.

"I hope to be worthy of that trust," Optimus says.

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge and pats the berth beside him. "You can start by sitting next to me. We're gonna need to be a little closer to bond, you know. I promise I don't bite." He playfully bares his denta.

Optimus chuckles, tension bleeding out of him. He's so worried about offending or hurting the Consorts, it has made him overly tentative.

He sits. "Biting is indeed something that should be saved for much later," Optimus says, and Ratchet's chuckle deepens into a laugh, his field ripe with amusement.

"I knew there was more beneath the poise," he says. "It might help, you know, if you're a little more yourself around us."

"I will keep that in mind," Optimus murmurs and offers Ratchet something of a wry grin. “I admit, I was awkward with social interaction as a data clerk, and the Matrix did not equip me for societal niceties like it should have.”

Ratchet tilts his head. “So you defaulted to stiff formality?”

Optimus vents a quiet laugh. “It seemed prudent given the new responsibilities on my shoulders. I did not know what would earn me respect and what would cause ridicule.”

“Having that thing inside you doesn’t help either.” Ratchet hums thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “It changed more than your frame, I’d wager.”

Given that he often refers to the mech he was as “Orion Pax” as though they are two entirely separate persons, yes, Ratchet is quite right.

“I was gifted with a new name, true,” Optimus says, quietly cycling a few ventilations. “It did not tell me how to draw the line between Prime and Optimus or if I even needed to draw a line, say nothing of where Orion Pax exists, if he does at all.”

Ratchet’s field brushes against his, and the way it yields to Optimus speaks more than all of their interactions. “If you ask me, we’d like to see a bit of Orion Pax and Optimus. Save Prime for the Senate, yeah?”

The Matrix hums in Optimus’ chassis, and he can only assume it is a sort of approval. “Yes,” Optimus says. “I will certainly try.”

“Good.” Ratchet's lips quirk in a grin and he gently taps Optimus' central seam. "So are you going to open up and show me what you got, or am I going to have to work harder to seduce you?”

Optimus laughs for what feels like the first genuine time since he’d taken the Matrix. “Consider me seduced.”

~

Optimus wakes to a knee in his abdomen and a grunted apology as Ratchet climbs over him and stumbles for the door.

"Not ready to be the source of gossip yet," Ratchet mutters as he blows a kiss over his shoulder. "See you later."

Optimus waves him off, still disorientated from the abrupt wake-up, and rolls over on his other side. The fatigue has a stronger pull than he's used to, and he falls back into recharge, only surging back online when his alarm chimes a reminder to meet with Ironhide for his daily training.

He still wakes groggy, like he’s having a hard time coming online, and wonders if having a fourth bond settle into place might be to blame. He’s a Prime, his spark augmented by the Matrix, but he is also expected to bond with the highest number of Consorts in history. Can his spark support that many bonds, no matter how tertiary they are?

It’s a question he supposes he’ll have to ask Ratchet. Too bad his berthmate has already escaped, despite spending quite the pleasant night in Optimus’ berth. Unlike Prowl, Ratchet had wanted to stay beyond the bond, just to “see what else Optimus has to offer”.

Cheeky medic.

Optimus’ lips curve in a smile. Yes, Ratchet is quite appealing, different in how Hot Rod is appealing, but Optimus appreciates them for their differences.

He drags himself out of the berth, and indulges in a cursory rinse in the private washrack. No point in polishing up if Ironhide is going to leave him covered in dents and scratches. He’s a relentless teacher, insisting Optimus learn to defend himself from all manner of threats.

Optimus appreciates it as much as he’s beginning to loathe it. Never has he ached so much from physical exertion. The newly upgraded shape of him can only do so much.

He reads the daily news over a cube of midgrade, and checks his very limited message account. The last he’d received had been his notification of Skyfire’s arrival. He doesn’t expect there to be anything further, but he’s pleasantly surprised to find a message waiting for him.

It’s a notification, and brief for all that, but it’s good news. Chromia has accepted the position as captain of his Primal Guard, and will meet Optimus upon his return to Iacon. She’s already on her way there to start hand-selecting members to serve in the Guard, which is standard procedure according to Optimus’ research. The safety of the Prime is paramount.

He must inform Ironhide.

Optimus saves a copy of the notification to an external datapad and makes his way to the training pit on the eastern side of the grounds. To get there, he must pass by the sitting room, and voices float out to him from the open doorway. Normally, Optimus would pay this little mind, but it’s early, and one of the voices has Starscream’s distinct… pitch.

He pauses just before the threshold and peeks inside, both of his orbital ridges climbing upward when he sees Skyfire’s broad form, his wings pointed toward the doorway. He can’t see Starscream, who must be seated across from Skyfire, but he can hear the Seeker speaking. They are using low tones, and were Optimus not augmented by the Matrix, he might have never heard them at all.

“--scientist not a politician. I don’t know how to play the game,” Skyfire says quietly. “Nevertheless, I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be so manipulated, and yet, here I am, manipulated once more.”

“We both were and are,” Starscream replies, and his tone is bitter. Hurt. “But I shouldn’t have blamed you for things that weren’t your fault. I was the one who raged. I shouldn’t have tried to turn you into a soldier in my private war.”

Skyfire sighs, and his wings droop. “I would have gladly fought at your side, but I never understood the battle, Star.” Optimus catches a whiff of the shame in Skyfire’s field. “I think a part of me didn’t want to see it.”

Optimus steps back from the doorway, deliberately turning his attention away from the intimate conversation. This is not his to know. They are having the conversation everyone knows they need to have, and it doesn’t seem to be getting heated or violent.

If they want to share the particulars of their pain with him, they are welcome to do so, but Optimus won’t betray their trust by listening further. Hopefully, their discussion will remain amicable and productive. He hopes everyone else will show them the same respect by keeping their distance and not interrupting.

Optimus leaves them to their conversation, buoyed by the forward strides being made all around the estate. His relationships with various Consorts are improving, they are forming friendships among one another, and animosities are being set aside.

The Senate will be out of their processors with frustration as soon as they realize their carefully constructed machinations have failed.

A nearby door slides open, startling Optimus from his thoughts. He turns to look, and his optics widen in surprise as Ironhide steps out of the larger, communal washrack, a billow of steam accompanying him. His dark armor fairly glistens as he distractedly rubs a meshcloth over his head, but he notices Optimus immediately and breaks into a huge grin.

Optimus swallows over a lump in his intake and is ever grateful for the extra boost in self-control the Matrix has given him because there is something monumentally attractive about a recently cleaned and polished Ironhide. Sunstreaker must have tackled the older mech at some point as well, because the black of his armor is so lustrous it has a pearlescent sheen.

“Ya look exhausted, Prime,” Ironhide says, waggling his orbital ridges. “Can’t keep up with the rustbucket?”

Optimus cycles his optics for a moment of control and quietly chuckles. “The gentle ribbing between yourself and Ratchet will never cease to amuse me, Ironhide.”

“Notice you’re avoiding the question.” Ironhide slings the meshcloth over his shoulders and squints at Optimus, the scar bisecting his left optic only adding to his appeal. “Do ya need an acid raincheck on training this morning?”

“Would you think less of me if I said the answer was yes?” Optimus asks. He’s more than a little exhausted. Is it too much to ask for a day’s reprieve?

Ironhide tosses his head back and laughs. “I’ll let ya slide just this once, but I won’t be so easy on you tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” Optimus says, and thinks of the datapad tucked in his subspace. “In lieu of training, perhaps we can talk? There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

Ironhide cocks his head to the side. “That sounds formal for a friendly chat. Am I gonna like what you got to say?”

“I hope so,” Optimus says.

Ironhide shrugs and wraps his hands around the ends of the meshcloth, tilting his head toward the corridor. “Let’s take a walk. You need to work out the kinks the old mech left ya with.”

“I will refrain from discussing any kinks I might still have,” Optimus says, and inwardly preens when Ironhide chuckles.

Optimus follows Ironhide out the door and onto one of the various paved paths around the estate, all designed for the casual stroll.

“So,” Ironhide says, “What do ya want to talk about? And don’t bother with any of that political double-speak. Say it like it is, Prime.”

“Very well.” Optimus produces the datapad from his subspace and hands it over. “Chromia has agreed to be Captain of the Primal Guard. By the time we return to Iacon, she will be waiting for us.”

Ironhide stares at him, stopping in his tracks. “I… seriously?” He takes the datapad with something like awe in his expression.

“Her acceptance letter is there.” Optimus points to the datapad. “I meant it when I said I would like for you to be together in whatever capacity I can manage. Once you and I have completed our political bond, there is nothing to stop you and Chromia from pursuing your conjunx bond.”

“You’re serious,” Ironhide says, still staring. He has yet to power on the datapad, but his grip on it makes the device creak.

Optimus tucks his hands behind his back and cycles a ventilation. “I am. I want everyone to be happy as best they can, and for you, that means being able to be with Chromia.”

“Transfers like this don’t happen overnight,” Ironhide says, giving the datapad a shake. “You were considering Chromia before you knew I’d be your Consort. What kind of coincidence is that?”

“A fortuitous one.” Optimus briefly scrubs his forehead as he admits, “I also suspect the Senate was aware of my interest in Chromia and thought it would cause strife to have you as a Nominate by assuming I was the sort of mech to be possessive of my Consorts.”

Ironhide snorts. “That you aren’t puts you in the minority, Prime. You do realize that pretty much every other Prime in history would’ve cut off their own hand before they considered sharing their cohort with anyone, right?”

“I am aware,” Optimus concedes. “I do not intend to be like any Prime before me. Perhaps it’s because I am of a different stock than my predecessors, and I come with a unique perspective. I don’t know why the Matrix chose me, but I intend to do right by that choice.”

Ironhide eyes him. “And you have Ultra Magnus to set ya right if ya start to veer off course.”

Optimus manages a faint smile. “I am ever grateful he volunteered to take on that burden.” He pauses, humor dimmed by the decades upon centuries of historical research in his memory. “Power corrupts. I know I’m not immune to it, so as a precaution, I intend to surround myself with mechs who will temper me.”

Ironhide turns the datapad over in his hands, still without turning it on. “Prowl tells me yer a mech we can trust. Ratchet seems to think so, too. And now this?” He taps the datapad’s screen before looking up, meeting Optimus’ gaze. “I think I can get behind ya, too.”

“I appreciate it.” Optimus settles more comfortably in his frame, letting his armor loosen. “I hope I can rely on all three of you to keep me on the right path.”

Ironhide snorts. “Oh, there’s no worry of that. I’ll put you in yer place if ya even think about becomin’ another Nova.”

“Good.”

“That bein’ said…” Ironhide tucks the datapad into his subspace and plants his hands on his hips, giving Optimus a rakish grin. “We gotta get that bond out of the way eventually, right? So I’m claimin’ ya tonight. Make ya forget all about that rustbucket of a medic.”

Optimus chuckles. “I think your playful rivalry with Ratchet is going to be an endless source of amusement for me. Thank you, Ironhide.”

“Weird thing to be thanked for, but you’re just weird, I’m noticin’,” Ironhide says with a shrug. His grin widens. “I’ll see you tonight then, Optimus. I’m lettin’ you off the hook for trainin’, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be lazy.”

“Fair enough.”

Optimus watches Ironhide go, amusement tugging at his lips. Relief at yet another success lightens the heaviness in his spark. It’s enough to embolden him toward the most complicated designation on his list.

Reluctance initially stays his feet. He stands on the path, soaking up the quiet solitude, and bracing himself for the complicated conversation to come.

Jazz will remain his most challenging Consort yet, but it is a challenge Optimus must meet, so he sets out in search of the elusive musician. The one thing he knows for certain is that Jazz tends to seek out places of solitude, places the other Consorts don’t frequent. The roof is the first obvious choice, but Optimus would rather save said climb for last.

He follows the path back to the east door when his audials catch the distant strains of music. They seem to be coming from his left, so Optimus stays on the pathway, following it around the western corner of the manor, toward the crystal gardens.

If there is a place one might find solitude, the gardens would suit. They are massive, and cover a large acreage of the grounds. They’d been sown by Solus Prime, if Optimus remembers correctly, and each Prime thereafter has brought new crystals, turning the garden into a riot of color. Optimus regrets not having any on hand to add, but he supposes he can always return later and do so.

The music is lovely, but no tune Optimus is familiar with. It sounds improvised, as though the musician is trying something new to discover the best sound. It is how he finds Jazz, sitting near the center of the gardens, not on the bench but on the ground, quietly strumming a small vibro-guitar.

Optimus approaches at an angle, but he’s quite sure Jazz has been aware of him for quite some time. Nevertheless, Jazz performs a believable startle when Optimus steps into view, and gives Optimus a sunny smile.

“Hiya, Optimus,” Jazz says with a cheerful strum of his fingers across the vibrant strings. “Want to join me for a private performance?” He waggles his orbital ridges.

Optimus sighs.

“Are you not tired of this?” He sits on the nearby bench, not within reach of Jazz. “These games?”

Jazz tilts his head, still idly playing, though much quieter now. “Games?” he echoes, and his smile doesn’t falter. “I don’t know whatcha mean, Optimus. This is who I am, down to the very spark of me.” He grins, and it doesn’t reach his visor.

“The only one who genuinely wants to be here is Hot Rod,” Optimus leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands. “He can’t lie to save his spark, and I’m grateful for that. You, however, I suspect are so good at lying that you have almost convinced yourself it is the truth.”

Jazz hums and looks down at his instrument, gently plucking one string after the other, like a warm-up scale. “That so?” His voice is light, unoffended.

It’s as false as the persona he continues to offer.

Optimus rubs his forehead before he continues, “It should not surprise you that I researched all of my Consorts before departing for the estate. I wanted to know what to expect from the Senate’s machinations.”

“All the better to get to know us!” Jazz chirps and flashes another blinding smile, his frame leaning forward. His voice lowers as if conspiratorial. “I’m curious whatcha found on me. How charming do they say I am, hm?”

“Your file painted a very pretty picture,” Optimus concedes as Jazz preens. “You are an exceptionally talented musician. You are quite beautiful. You have a lot of friends, and you are charming. You are, in effect, the perfect Consort.”

Jazz chuckles, and a faint color tints his cheeks. “Aww, Optimus. You’re such a charmer. You know you don’t have to flatter your way into my berth.” He strums the guitar faster, no longer a series of scales, but an upbeat song now. “All you have to do is ask.”

Optimus tilts his head. “If I thought asking would get me genuine consent, I would have done it already.”

“Since when does ‘yes’ mean anything less?”

“When it is under coercion.” Optimus rubs his left thumb along the palm of his right hand, watching Jazz carefully for any tells. “I am under no illusions about the motivations behind most of my Consorts. This is making the best of a situation out of our control. I can talk about consent and willingness all I want, but the truth is, there is the idea of privilege being attached to those who come to my berth.”

Which still makes genuine consent a question. If those who refuse are worried that they will lose Optimus’ friendship or favor, they may pretend to be willing so they don’t lose their position and protection. Or they may feel obligated to please Optimus for fear of the consequences otherwise, and hide that fear behind a false-consent.

It is Optimus’ greatest fear that any of his Consorts would come to him willingly, while secretly loathing their time in his berth.

Jazz tilts his head. “Huh. Then I guess you’ll never really know if any of us are there because we wanna be.” He pauses and strums one last time. “Well, except the kid. Hot Rod genuinely worships the ground you walk on.” He leans over to put the guitar to rest in the case at his side.

“And you?”

Jazz stands, performing an elaborate stretch that highlights his flexibility and the polished lines of his frame. He gleams in the false-light, and while it’s not quite a Sunstreaker-level sheen, it’s clear he’s been making an effort to keep up his appeal. He is quite alluring, but Optimus knows enough to recognize when he’s being manipulated.

“Me?” Jazz tilts his head and stares up at the sky. “I am Jazz, Consort to the Prime, and I’m lucky to be invited into his berth. I mean, Optimus is handsome, and kind as far as I can tell, and probably sincere if I’m lucky.” Jazz looks at him then, lips twisted in a wry smile. “At least he’s not Zeta.”

A chill races through Optimus’ spark. Zeta’s cruelty is a well-known secret. There are no official records of Zeta’s misdeeds, because a Prime can ensure such things are not kept, but the rumors are plenty. Rumors, even, that his death had been no accident, but the machination of Consorts unwilling to endure his abuse any longer.

Perhaps mentioning Zeta is Jazz’s way of warning Optimus.

“I am sorry,” Optimus says, bowing his head a few degrees. “If it were in my power to release every one of you, I would.”

Jazz shrugs, waving a hand through the air. “Don’t hang too heavy on that guilt, Optimus.” He moves closer, gives Optimus a distant pat on the shoulder. “We’re all prisoners.”

“Yet, I am the one with the power,” Optimus argues.

Jazz’s visor flashes in a wink as he turns back and picks up his instrument, slinging the case over his shoulder. “Damn it,” he says, but he’s not looking at Optimus, he’s looking off into the distance. “You just have to be nice, don’t you? They’re going to eat you alive.”

“Let us hope that is not the case,” Optimus says.

He watches Jazz go, vanishing deeper into the crystal gardens, whistling as he does. For once, Optimus feels more settled after a conversation with Jazz. He thinks he might have made some progress, caught a glimpse of the mech behind the mask.

There may be hope for them yet.

Optimus lingers in the crystal gardens for a while longer, enjoying the peace, the soft chiming of the crystals as they bump and jostle in a faint breeze. He thinks about what he’d like to contribute, one of the lesser grown strains of altaite for example.

Distantly, music starts up again, Jazz perhaps seeking peace of his own.

Times like these, Orion Pax would have buried himself in the archives, deep in the darker, dustier sections where few cared to look. There he could have distracted himself with unchronicled truths and historical accounts, and lost himself in times gone past. He would not have been disturbed.

Optimus Prime has no such recourse. Especially here at the Prime Estate.

The closest he can manage is the on-site library. It is better than nothing, so Optimus rises from the bench and makes his way inside, Jazz’s music following until the door closes behind him.

He passes Hot Rod in the kitchens once again, alone this time, frowning as he stares at the oven as though it will bake his treats faster. He spies Prowl in the sunroom, bent over a datapad, face pinched with contemplation. But it is Skyfire he stumbles upon in the library, the shuttle tucked away in the sciences section, a genuine mound of datapads stacked around him.

His field is the gentlest and most content Optimus has sensed since Skyfire’s arrival. Granted, he has only been here a few days, but a low-grade anxiety had accompanied Skyfire at first, and it is gone now. Perhaps his conversation with Starscream had done much to ease his worries.

“Hello, Optimus.” Skyfire smiles at him. “Looking for something to read?”

“Looking for something familiar. I admit I miss the archives.” Optimus takes a seat near Skyfire, scanning the shelves for something appealing. “How are you today?”

“Better.” Skyfire shifts, resting his hand over the datapad currently in his possession. “Starscream and I cleared the air, so you can stop worrying about that potential issue.”

“I am glad you two are working toward friendship again,” Optimus says. “I am sure it must be a relief to you as well.”

Skyfire rests his knuckles against his chin, wingtips fluttering. “It is. Our friendship was something I treasured, and it broke my spark when it collapsed the way that it did.”

“You do not have to share the details with me. I am relieved you will have each other in these unfortunate circumstances.”

“So am I.” Skyfire smiles, soft and sweet, as if he’s calling on a memory that always sparks joy. “That being said, what were you looking for in here? Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”

Optimus hums and gives another longingly glance to the rows upon rows of datapad, feeling spoiled for choice. “I honestly had nothing in mind. I will take a recommendation if you have one, and if you do not mind the quiet company.”

“I can think of a few.” Skyfire grins and leans over to his own stacks, pondering them. “What genres do you prefer?”

“Honestly, I will read anything.”

Skyfire chuckles. “Oh, don’t tell me that, or I’ll have you reading xenobiologist’s texts just to have someone else to debate with.”

“Interplanetary diplomacy with organic species is probably something I will have to attend in the future. Xenobiology would be a good place to start in my preparations for that,” Optimus says.

“You may regret inviting my babble,” Skyfire teases, but he sits back and digs into his subspace, producing a well-worn datapad. “Here are the first three introductory volumes to the species we are most likely to encounter.”

“Are they your personal copies?” Optimus asks as he accepts the datapads -- much heavier than he anticipates, likely one of the older designs, which are known to be sturdier.

“They are, but I trust you will be respectful with them. It’s in your spark to handle such things with care and respect,” Skyfire points out. He settles into his chair, pulling out his datapad once more. “I also have snacks.”

Optimus chuckles. “You planned your afternoon well.”

“I planned not to leave the library until it was time for the evening refuel,” Skyfire says wryly. His field ripples amusement. “I myself am focusing on historical accounts of the nomenclature behind the surrounding star system.”

Optimus squints at him. “You’re reading mythology regarding the constellations.”

“Yes, I’m reading fictional tales.” Skyfire laughs genuinely, and it is a wonderful sound. His openness is unbelievably charming. “See? I’m not some stodgy scientist alone.”

“I never assumed you were.” Optimus grins and powers on the well-worn datapad. “If you should have any rust sticks, I would not refuse.”

Skyfire holds out a box.

Optimus is polite enough to only take a few.

~

There’s something to be said for spending an afternoon buried in stacks of information alongside a mech as quiet as yourself. It’s nostalgic, and comforting, and Optimus feels a part of him settle, down to his very spark.

He and Skyfire speak very little, only occasionally commenting to each other about their respective materials. Instead, they sit in a mostly peaceful silence, passing a box of rust sticks back and forth between them.

Time passes too quickly for Optimus’ comfort, an alarm soon chiming to remind him of the lateness of the hour. He sighs and powers down the datapad, stretching to ease the kinks in his frame from being too still.

“It is that time,” he says, reluctantly. “Thank you for loaning this to me. I found it quite fascinating.”

“I am surprised you stuck with it.” Skyfire waves him away. “Keep it. At least until you finish it, I mean. I trust you’ll keep it safe.”

Optimus inclines his head. “Thank you. I will.” He tucks the datapad safely away. He knows all too well the value of a collection of important information. “There is something we should discuss if you have a moment.”

“We’re going to the same place. We have plenty of time,” Skyfire says. He begins making tidier stacks of his accrued datapads. “It sounds serious.”

“Only so much as it needs to be for our circumstances,” Optimus says with a sigh. “Before we return to Iacon, I do need to form a spark bond with each of the Consorts, not dissimilar to an amica bond.

“Ah.” Skyfire nods. “I was aware this was a necessity. It’s not ideal, but you are trapped in this as much as we are. Do not trouble yourself over a requirement we both must meet.”

Optimus’ shoulders sink with relief. “Your understanding is a treasure to me, Skyfire. I appreciate your patience.”

“I suspect few of those here have been so kind,” Skyfire says dryly. “When would you like to complete this?”

“I have prior arrangements tonight, but otherwise, my schedule is open to you,” says Optimus.

Skyfire stands and stretches to ease his own tense cables. “Tomorrow then,” he says. “It’ll be a pleasure to know you better.”

He sounds as if he means it.

“I feel the same way,” Optimus says. “Come. Let us go to dinner.”

Skyfire offers him his elbow. “Shall I escort you, my Prime?”

Optimus chuckles. “I would be honored.”

It’s an old-fashioned style of courting, but Optimus admits, he’s charmed by it. There’s a sense they have genuine affection for each other, rather than the interaction the Senate has forced upon them.

He thanks Primus the Senate had been so short-sighted as to nominate Skyfire.

Starscream seems glad for this as well. The moment they arrive, Skyfire escorts Optimus to his seat, only to take the empty one beside Starscream, the two of them instantly leaning in toward each other with a long-time familiarity. Starscream’s wings twitch cutely, and the small smile on his lips is the most adorable thing Optimus has seen in quite some time. It’s as if all the rough edges have been softened by their reconciliation.

It’s beautiful.

“See? It’s not all terrible endings,” Hot Rod says as he leans in toward Optimus, nudging him gently in the side. “You should cut yourself some slack, Optimus.”

“You’re right.” Optimus favors Hot Rod with a smile. “It also seems I have you to thank. I hear you’ve been championing me to the others.”

Hot Rod beams, his spoiler twitching up and down. “I’m only telling them the truth as I see it. It’s not like I’m lying.”

“I know.” Optimus rests a hand on Hot Rod’s shoulder, letting the outer edges of their fields knit together in a show of affection. “I mean that I appreciate you and all you’re doing for me. It brings me great comfort.”

Hot Rod’s smile grows larger, his face coloring with delight. The urge to sweep him up into a kiss is overwhelming. Optimus restrains himself, but only just.

Hot Rod taps a playful rhythm on Optimus’ chassis. “When this is all over and I can be in your berth whenever you let me, we are going to have so much fun,” he says with a playful wink before he draws back and leaps to his feet. “Alright, my mechs, guess what I found today?”

“Primus,” Ratchet groans, snatching the nearest decanter of engex and pouring himself a liberal glass. “What is it this time, kid?”

“You out of energy, old mech? Not as young as you used to be?” Ironhide teases.

“Shuddup.”

“Go on, Hot Rod,” says Prowl. “We’re listening.”

“Thank you, Prowl.” Hot Rod flashes him a winning smile before he scoots out from the table and fetches a nearby crate. He hefts it up and drops it with a solid thunk on the table, but not before Sunstreaker quickly rescues a tray of treats. “This is full of games we can play.”

“Games?” Skyfire leans forward, intrigue written in the vibrations of his field.

“Yep! Better than sitting around and staring at each other over engex like we always do, right?” Hot Rod peels off the lid, tossing it over his shoulder where it clatters to the ground. “There’s Battlefield and Peril and Syndicate and Fullstasis and some other game that I’ve never heard of, plus a few sets of cards.”

“Battlefield?” Ratchet asks. “Toss me that one, kid. It’s old enough even you should be familiar with it, Ironhide.”

Ironhide rolls his optics, but he clears a space on the table between them. “Bring it, rustbucket. I’ll show you why I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

“What do you say, Skyfire? Would you like to try a round of Fullstasis with me?” Starscream asks, already leaning across the table to dig in the crate himself.

“Sure,” says Skyfire, and soon enough, Hot Rod is distributing games all around the table, with Prowl and Sunstreaker and Soundwave taking part in a rousing battle of Praxus Fold’Em while Ultra Magnus and Optimus invite Hot Rod to join them for a game of Peril.

It is only Jazz who does not join the festivities when normally he would be one of the first to volunteer. He waves off Prowl’s invitation to join their group, offering a wan smile.

“Actually, I’m not feelin’ that great,” he says, holding up his hands as he backs away from the table. “Think I’ll take a rain check on that.”

“What? Not feeling well?” Ratchet leans back in his chair to see around Ironhide’s bulk, eying Jazz suspiciously. “What are your symptoms?”

Jazz waves him off. “Calm down, medic. Think I’m just tired. Didn’t recharge well, you know how it is. Holster your scanner.”

“I haven’t even pulled it out,” Ratchet protests, and lets the chair thunk back into place. “Honestly, the way all of you flee a standard maintenance check is ridiculous.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t insist on bullying mechs into it,” Ironhide points out.

“It’s not bullying to care about someone’s physical welfare,” Ratchet snaps. “Now make your move or consider the game forfeit.”

In the midst of their bickering, Jazz vanishes, escaping the medic’s threatened scan. Optimus frowns, concerned, but knows better than to give Jazz chase. Whatever thoughts occupy Jazz mind, he won’t be comforted by Optimus seeking him out.

“I’ll check on him later, if he’ll let me,” Hot Rod says whilst he contemplates the board in front of him, face pinched with concentration. “If not, I’ll make Soundwave do it. They get along for some weird reason. A mech who talks too much, and a mech who barely talks at all.”

“I suspect it has something to do with their respective backgrounds,” Optimus says. “I appreciate you keeping an optic on him, however. I don’t think he would welcome my concern.”

Hot Rod gives him a keen look. “He would if he thought it was what you wanted.”

“That’s very insightful of you, Hot Rod,” Ultra Magnus says. He doesn’t quite manage to hide the surprise in his voice, though there’s a new respect in the way he looks at their youngest companion. “You are more perceptive than you let on.”

“I volunteered for this, but the Senate would’ve never nominated me if I didn’t have more than a pretty face.” Hot Rod grins and winks. “Promise there’s a bit more up here than baking skills and being cute.” He taps his head for emphasis.

“I am glad you are finally comfortable enough to show it,” Optimus says. “Now I do believe it’s your turn.”

Hot Rod groans and peers at the board. “This is more complicated than it looks.”

“Diplomacy often is,” Optimus says with a laugh.

Amusement is, in fact, what seems to be floating around the common room. Optimus sneaks glances on occasion, pleased to find his Consorts getting along and having fun. There are friendly rivalries of course -- Ratchet and Ironhide have made it into an art -- but for the most part, everyone is having a pleasant time.

“This was a good idea, Hot Rod,” Optimus says as the hours draw later, and they’ve moved on from Peril to Syndicate. Ultra Magnus is currently sweeping the board with them. “I should put you in charge of all activities for the rest of our residence here.”

Hot Rod grins and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I’ll see what I can do, though I don’t think scheduling time in your berth should be my responsibility. I might not be so unselfish if that were the case.”

Ultra Magnus barks a laugh.

Optimus demurely picks up the dice to roll them. “No, perhaps not,” he says.

“Especially since he’s mine tonight,” Ironhide declares his hand lands on Optimus’ right shoulder, his grip firm. He leans in, pressed against Optimus’ back, an appealing, strong heat, and peers over his left shoulder. “This kinda game goes on all night, Prime. Don’t we have an appointment?”

“We do indeed,” Optimus says while Hot Rod gapes. Ultra Magnus takes the opportunity to lean over and the properties from Optimus’ hand.

“I’ll take care of these for you,” he says.

“That’s not fair!” Hot Rod splutters. He lurches across the table, snatching up the fake creds Optimus has accumulated. “I’m claiming these then.”

“It seems I am free of my obligations in this game,” Optimus says. “Ultra Magnus. Hot Rod. If you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

“Have fun!” Hot Rod chirps.

“Oh, he will,” Ironhide says with more than a little swagger.

“Did you win against Ratchet?” Optimus asks as they make their farewells and slip out of the common room. Ironhide takes the lead, not toward Optimus’ hab, but to the one assigned to Ironhide.

“That depends who you ask,” Ironhide says.

Optimus chuckles. “Fair warning then. If you play against Ultra Magnus, you must be prepared to lose. Repeatedly. Try as we might, neither Hot Rod nor I could emerge victorious.”

“Really?” Ironhide rubs his chin, contemplating. “I’ll have to see about that then. Don’t think I’ve gotten Magnus in the ring yet either. Might be I should do that sooner rather than later.”

“Let me know when you do. I would like to observe,” Optimus says. He pauses outside Ironhide’s door, waiting for him to input the code, but doesn’t yet enter.

Ironhide stands on the threshold and looks at him. “Change your mind? Because I don’t think that’s really an option.”

Optimus shakes his head. “No, I only…” He pauses and cycles a ventilation. “You and Ratchet have something of a rivalry, and while it was his decision to spend the entire night in my berth, I would like you to understand--”

Ironhide grabs his hand and yanks him inside. “You think too much,” he says, as Optimus stumbles into the room, still surprised how well Ironhide can match his strength. “Let’s just get the bond outta the way first, then we’ll see if either of us want to go for more, all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

Ironhide’s still holding his wrist, but it has gentled as he tows Optimus toward the berth. There’s no hesitation, no thinly concealed anger. Beneath the primary waves of his field, there’s acceptance, resignation, but no animosity toward Optimus. The spark merge will inform him better, but as far as Optimus can tell, this is as consensual as either of them can manage.

“There are some things that shouldn’t be a competition,” Ironhide says as he backs Optimus toward the berth and cages him in with brawny arms, the scar over his optic glinting in the overhead light. “But even if it were, we both know I’d win, right?” And he waggles his orbital ridges, confident and teasing, and Optimus’ reservations melt away.

“I suppose there is only one way to find out,” Optimus says.

Ironhide grins.

***