[TF] Consortium 9/9

[dracoqueen22]

Consortium
Chapter Nine

“What’s it feel like?”

Optimus furrows his orbital ridge, looking up from the scratch on Jazz’s thigh he’s attempting to buff out. He’s not as skilled as Sunstreaker, but Jazz had done the same for him, so Optimus is inclined to return the favor.

“You will have to be more specific.”

Jazz lounges on the berth, idly sipping a pouch of coolant, his leg propped on Optimus’ lap. “Having that many sparks bonded to yours.”

Optimus contemplates the question. “It is hard to put into words. My spark feels heavier. Fuller. Occasionally, I will catch a whisper, a thought or an emotion that is not mine, and separating them can be difficult.”

“Sounds terrible,” Jazz murmurs. “Invasive, too.”

“I suppose it can be, to a certain point of view,” Optimus says as he focuses on his work, watching Jazz from his periphery. “It is not dissimilar to what I experienced after assimilating the Matrix, however, so it is a sensation to which I have grown accustomed.”

“Huh.” Jazz makes a non-committal noise, and pulls his leg out of Optimus’ lap, shifting to replace it with the other. “Feels like an itch I can’t scratch. Like I got optics on me at all times. Makes me antsy.”

Optimus rests his hand on Jazz’s thigh, looking up at him. “I hate to sound trite, but you will adjust to it with time.”

“Yeah. I know. Don’t want to have to.”

Jazz’s visor dims. He lapses into quiet, his field a gentle buzz against Optimus’. He can still sense nothing from it, but it is not as unsettling as before. Now that he knows Jazz, despite all Jazz hides from him, Optimus is not so wary.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Jazz says after a moment. “Could use a little practice.”

Optimus gives him a look.

Jazz holds up his hands. “I’m just sayin’. You could use some lessons.” He gestures to himself with a thumb. “I volunteer.”

“I thought you were not interested in a place in my berth.”

“Well…” Jazz trails off and gives Optimus a wicked smile. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for teaching old mechs new tricks.”

Optimus ventilates, but Jazz’s smile is so charming, it’s hard to be truly irritated. If Jazz is feeling comfortable enough to tease, Optimus is all for it.

So he finishes polishing away the last scratch and gives Jazz’s thigh a pat. “I think it is time for dinner. We should go before someone comes looking.”

“Mmm. I’m tempted to make them come hunt you down. That way I can strut out of your quarters like the metallocat caught the canary.” Jazz stretches his arms and sits up, legs draped over Optimus’ lap. “Wonder how envious Roddy will be.”

“I do not think he has a jealous strut in his frame,” Optimus says as he lifts Jazz’s legs from his lap and sets them aside so he can rise. “He may be envious he could not join, but if you are looking for a deeper reaction, I do not think you will find it.”

Jazz taps his chin. “Hmm. You have a point.” He rolls off the berth, bouncing on his heels as he stretches. “Do you think any of us are the jealous type?”

“Consorts know they are expected to share the Prime.”

“That’s not an answer, Optimus,” Jazz says.

Optimus gives him a sidelong look. “I think jealousy is a matter of perspective. It may come down to who thinks they have the most favor, but I will not allow such a thing to happen. No one mech will have my favor more than the others.”

Jazz chuckles and pats Optimus’ on the hip. “You’re so cute when you’re naive. The spark does what it wants and at some point, one of us is going to mean more to you than the others. It’s inevitable.”

“I certainly hope that is not the case,” Optimus says.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” Jazz points out as he heads toward the door, leaving Optimus to follow. “I mean, so long as two consenting adults, yada yada, it’s not all bad. You just gotta tread the line.”

“There are going to be many ways in which I shall have to tread the line, so to speak,” Optimus says.

“And I don’t envy you one bit for it.” Jazz beams a smile and squeezes his hand before pulling away to stroll with some distance between them.

Cuddly in the berth, but distant in the hall, will Jazz ever cease to be a study in contradiction to him? Optimus is sure he’ll never know.

When they arrive, Jazz’s posture shifts into someone partially smug, and partially celebratory. He strides in with his shoulders back and a large smile on his face, to which Starscream rolls his optics and says,

“We’ve all had a taste, Jazz. You’re not special.”

“At this point, it’s a competition, Starshine,” Jazz says, swinging into Starscream’s personal space to drag his fingers along the leading edge of Starscream’s left wing. “We should compare notes and see who came out on top.”

Starscream arches one orbital ridge. “Sweetspark, I always come out on top,” he drawls.

“Primus, save me,” Skyfire groans, pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor. “Don’t pay either of them any mind, Optimus. I’m sure they don’t mean it.” He gives Starscream a narrow look, to which Starscream smiles brightly, showing off his pointed denta.

“Frankly, I think they should frag each other and get it over with,” Prowl says from behind the safety of his datapad. “We would all be relieved for it.”

Starscream sniffs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I have higher standards,” Jazz says as he throws himself into a chair and tilts into Hot Rod’s space. “Like this bit of hot stuff right here. He’s right up my alley.”

Hot Rod leans away from him with both orbital ridges raised. “What about my standards? Maybe you’re not high enough for mine?”

Laughter rings around the table, but Jazz is nonplussed by the playful rejection. He waves Hot Rod off and swipes a goblet of engex from the table, leaning back in his chair.

“All right, then who is your standards?” Jazz asks.

Hot Rod very pointedly drags his gaze away from Jazz and looks directly at Optimus, who tried to take his chair without attracting any of the attention Jazz seems to invite. “There’s only one mech here who fits that description.”

“I appreciate the compliment,” Optimus says.

Hot Rod grins, his spoiler halves fluttering.

“There is a meteor shower tonight,” Skyfire says, cutting through the noise. “Our orbit ensures we’ll have a clear view of it.”

“Interesting,” Prowl says. “When does it start?”

“If everyone is amenable, we can take our meal to the roof. It’s in progress as we speak” Skyfire’s already rising with a tray in hand; he’s clearly been collecting engex and treats since the table was set.

“If it means we can enjoy ourselves without dreading our eventual return to Iacon, I’m all for it.” Ratchet stands and grabs two heavy pitchers of engex. He kicks Ironhide’s chair. “Come on. This is somethin’ that oughta be on your rustbucket list.”

Ironhide scowls at him. “Then one of those pitchers better be for me.”

“Only if you grab that basket of rust sticks,” Ratchet calls over his shoulder.

Ironhide, Optimus notices, grumbles but obeys. He’s all bluster and no actual bite, Optimus thinks fondly. Given what he knows of Chromia, Ironhide probably sees a lot of her in Ratchet. No wonder they get along so well.

“I think it is a fine idea, Skyfire. I’ll join you.” Optimus rises as quickly as he’d sat down, gathering up his own preferred treats plus his cube of medical grade and Starscream-provided flavor enhancers.

No one opts to stay behind. They all wander up onto the roof, where Jazz helps direct them to the more stable sections, and puts the heavier mechs on the sturdier spots. Perhaps it would’ve been wiser to view the shower from the front drive, but there’s something more romantic about perching on the roof.

It is a dark night, with the false sun gone from the sky, but the stars glitter like diamonds and sure enough, the black is pierced by streaks of orange and yellow in arrhythmic intervals. Luna One shines down on them, the black mark beside it eerie for Luna Two’s absence.

Optimus has Hot Rod on one side, and Sunstreaker on the other. The rest of the Consorts have spread out, comfortably chatting and sharing engex and treats. The night sky offers a gorgeous view, and for a few hours, Ratchet is right.

None of them think about their return to Iacon in a week.

Optimus doesn’t consider it until he’s on his way back to his quarters, pleasantly warm and sated, visions of meteors saved to his databanks, and too many recordings of myths, told by Starscream and Skyfire to match the constellations in the sky.

This peace is only theirs for a week yet. Afterward, they will be plunged into political games and subject to the most intense scrutiny. Each and every one of them will find themselves under the microscope, Optimus especially. His life will never be simple again.

He wonders what they think when they look at him. How many of his Consorts fear that their return to Iacon will cause a change in Optimus, that his friendliness has only been a mask to ensure their compliance. It is easy for Optimus to rest knowing that isn’t the case, but how many of his Consorts find their recharge plagued by night purges of what might be?

The worry gnaws at Optimus as he returns to his quarters -- briefly hesitating for fear Jazz might be on his berth again. It’s a concern that’s for naught as his habsuite is empty.

Still.

He searches every nook and cranny as best he can until he’s absolutely sure he’s alone. Only then does Optimus collapse on his berth, feeling the weight of the last month bearing him down into the plush surface.

He’s in recharge before he has time to fully rest his head.

~

Why is it when Optimus is deliberately seeking out one of his Consorts, he cannot find them, but he can so easily stumble upon the others?

To be fair, this is only in regards to Soundwave and Jazz, who seem to hide from him and choose when they want to be found. It still frustrates him.

Optimus supposes he could simply comm Soundwave, but he hasn’t done so for any of his Consorts, because it feels too much like he is summoning them. As if he considers them to be his servants, available at his beck and call. He would rather put in the effort to understand them and find them on his own. He’d like to think they appreciate it.

It’s an important distinction, but one he may have to abandon when it comes to Soundwave and Jazz. Sometimes, there are matters of urgency, and Optimus can’t spend his time aimlessly wandering in search of an errant Consort.

He can find Ratchet easily enough, always in the medbay with one victim or another -- today it appears to be Prowl, though Prowl is far more amenable to the maintenance check than anyone else. So long as Ratchet lets him read his datapad, he submits to the painless scans to ensure his optimal health.

“Honestly, I think you’re going to be my favorite,” Ratchet says.

“I am often the favorite,” Prowl says.

Ratchet snorts. “And so modest, too.”

“What is the point of modesty when it is the truth?”

Optimus leaves them to it.

Hot Rod and Starscream are in the kitchen, trying a new recipe apparently, with Skyfire overseeing from his perch at a corner table. It is far too small for a shuttle, and he looks comically large crammed onto the stool, but either he’s used to it or he doesn’t seem to mind.

He scribbles diligently across a large holoboard. “What are we using for the beta coefficient?” Skyfire asks as he nibbles on the end of a stylus. .

“Galaxon’s equation,” Starscream answers without looking and points to one of many ingredients spread out in front of them. “Just a pinch of that, Hot Rod. It’s concentrated.”

“Got it!” Hot Rod leans across the counter, nearly toppling over a bowl that Starscream is quick to rescue, and snags the slim shaker. “How spicy is this going to be anyway?”

“Galaxon’s equation isn’t specific enough. I think we should use Mica’s derivative,” Skyfire says.

“That depends on how much we use,” Starscream says, twisting open the shaker and holding it over the bowl. He gives it a few firm shakes and says, “Not if we trim the outcome by applying Perceptor’s constant.”

Skyfire’s wingtips flutter. “Perceptor’s constant?”

“It’s relatively new. You’ve been off planet since he published the theorem. I’ll send you the proposal.” Starscream caps the shaker and sets it aside before pushing the bowl toward Hot Rod. “Now stir.”

Optimus tiptoes away. There’s enough conversation going on there he doesn’t think he should get in the middle of it.

Ironhide and Ultra Magnus are not on the training grounds, but in the library, surrounded by stacks of military texts, planning for the possibility of battle, which Optimus suspects they are doing for fun.

“I still say ground troops are what win the war,” Ironhide says, gesturing with a datapad like it’s going to win the argument for him.

“Infantry are too often treated like cannon fodder. We need a better plan than ‘throw more soldiers at it’,” Ultra Magnus points out.

Ironhide rolls his optics. “Y’know that’s not what I’m sayin’. If we poured our resources into making the infantry more effective, and trained the cavalry and the aerials to provide a better support rather than treat the infantry like rust-stains on the bottom of their feet, then maybe, we’d stand a better chance.”

“I’m not refuting that point.” Ultra Magnus points to a datapad, tapping it with his fingertip. “I’m merely suggesting we consider alternatives that result in less infantry on the ground, so we have less casualties.”

It sounds to Optimus like they are having two different arguments, but debating back and forth as if the topic is the same.

Far be it from him to intrude, so he doesn’t. He backs away slowly.

Optimus passes a window and sees Jazz in the garden with his nyckelharpa, the faintest strains of music caught by Optimus’ advanced audio receptors. He thinks Jazz is playing for the sake of it, until he catches movement and realizes Laserbeak is out there with him, staring enraptured. Perhaps Ravage is with them, if he’s not skulking around wherever it is Ravage likes to skulk.

Optimus is in the middle of a second circuit around the house when he turns a corner, and nearly collides with Soundwave, who reaches out to steady him.

“Apologies,” Soundwave rumbles, and for a moment, Optimus tries very hard not to gape.

Clearly, this is where Sunstreaker has gone as well, because Soundwave’s armor gleams like new. Every imperfection has been immaculately removed and replaced with a crystal shine. Accentuating lines of paint draw attention to the sturdy angles of Soundwave’s frame. Even his visor has been polished.

“You are stunning,” Optimus says, his mouth getting away from him before his processor can remind him he needs to be more diplomatic. “Sunstreaker, I wager?”

Soundwave’s energy field flushes with embarrassment. “Affirmative,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Did he completely repaint you?” Optimus asks, resisting the urge to run his fingers over Soundwave’s armor. It is such a deep, lustrous navy now that it aches to be touched.

Soundwave cycles a ventilation and shifts his weight. “Sunstreaker insisted,” he says, and the tiniest whine of an engine accompanies the mild tangle of irritation and resignation before he adds, “Final bond to be completed today, affirmative?”

“Yes.” Optimus politely coughs into his hand and steps back, allowing Soundwave some space. “Where would you be more comfortable?”

“My quarters,” Soundwave says.

“Lead the way.” Optimus flashes Soundwave a smile and falls into step beside him, occasionally glancing at Soundwave to admire his new finish. Sunstreaker had really gone all out this time.

“I noticed Laserbeak in the garden with Jazz,” Optimus says, to distract himself from too much staring and therefore, unnerving Soundwave in the process. “Is Ravage with him as well or do you have a... guest?”

Soundwave taps his dock, which makes a low, hollow sound. “Both cassettes with Jazz,” he says. “Privacy optimal.”

Optimus nods. “And is there anything you would like to ask me before we complete the bond?”

“Negative.”

“Pragmatism,” Optimus says, careful to keep the frown from his face. “You told Jazz that he had a job to do. Is that the way you see it? As a job you have to do?”

Soundwave pauses to look at him, head cocked. “Job also Optimus’.”.

“Fair point,” Optimus concedes, but he ventilates a sigh. “There are so many of you I wish I could have known in freedom. I suspect we might have even been genuine friends.”

“Possibility yet exists.”

Optimus makes a non-committal noise. “There will always be a part of me which will wonder if the friendship is true, or a construction of the situation.”

“Impossible to judge. Circumstances complicated.”

“I suppose you are right.”

Soundwave’s room is in the west wing, the last on the hall and around a corner, nearly hidden from the others. The rooms had not been assigned, other than Optimus declaring which one would be Skyfire’s due to the shuttle’s size. He’s not surprised Soundwave had chosen this particular suite. Jazz, after all, had chosen the very same suite, but on the east wing.

Soundwave, like Jazz, had also installed a bit of extra security on his door. His access code is far more complicated than Optimus’ own. Inside, his room is a study in angles and shadows, the shutters drawn over the windows to only allow thin strips of light, and lamps rearranged to create dim pools of illumination.

“Ravage prefers dark,” Soundwave says, by way of explanation.

“You care very much for your cassettes,” Optimus says, flicking on his lights to dim, to ensure he does not trip on anything, though the floor is immaculate. “I would like very much to learn more about cassette and carrier culture if you would feel so inclined.”

“Later,” Soundwave says.

Optimus tilts his head. “Of course.”

The berth is against the far wall, posed to have a clear view of the door and windows, which makes it seem awkwardly crouched in the room. Optimus’ spark squeezes in his chassis. That Soundwave should feel so unsafe in general, and even here, hurts. How many others are like him? How many Cybertronians exist every day with a general dread for their safety?

Soundwave hovers next to it. He looks at Optimus, and even with the mask and the visor, Optimus can tell he’s awkward. He’s no more used to this than Optimus is.

He smiles, to put Soundwave at ease. “I know this is not an ideal situation for you. Have you bared your spark to anyone before?”

“Ravage. Laserbeak. None others,” Soundwave says, and his armor shivers, glistening in the low light, as it slicks closer to his frame. “Risk inadvisable.”

Optimus can’t hide his frown. “Then I am sorry it has to be in such a way. If it were up to me--”

“Apology accepted but ultimately pointless,” Soundwave says, and his shoulders slump to a fair degree. “Apologize by changing.”

It is hard not to take such things personally, and Optimus still feels the sting of the censure, though it is not his fault. “Understood,” he says.

Neither of them, however, move. Soundwave stays as still as a statue, and Optimus realizes he’s going to have to move them forward, so he sits on the edge of the berth. There’s plenty of room for Soundwave to join him.

Or not, because Soundwave still hasn’t moved.

Optimus pats the berth beside him, wordless invitation. “I do not intend to rush you. If you prefer to wait, we still have a couple of days.”

“No.” Soundwave lurches into motion and sits beside him, stiff and unyielding. “It… must be done.” He rests his hands on his thighs, and stares at the ground.

Optimus gnaws on the inside of his cheek and lets himself sag, losing his upright posture. “I had never shared my spark before either. When the Matrix chose me, I had to show my spark to a room full of strangers. I wasn’t given a choice in that either.” He rubs his central seam, remembering the terror of that moment, the humiliation.

So many faces, watching him with disdain and awe in equal numbers. There’d been jealousy and excitement and anger. He’d seen derision. He’d seen hope. And the first time the Matrix touched his spark had been agony, one everyone had witnessed. They watched him writhe, listened to him shriek, with their dispassionate stares, and even when he stood in the aftermath, a completely different mech, he still felt the weight of their stares.

“It’s a unique feeling of vulnerability, and I’d been fortunate to be sparked in a segment of society where I wasn’t as concerned for my safety. I can’t begin to imagine how it feels for someone who has already spent their whole functioning in a state of constant fear.”

Optimus cycles a ventilation, shaky though it is, and nearly startles when there’s a light touch to his hand. He looks over at Soundwave, who leans in toward him, less a solid block of anxiety, now softened with sympathy.

There’s a quiet click before Soundwave says, “You had no choice either.” He rests his hand over Optimus’, his field reaching out in quiet offering. “You understand enough.”

A secondary click precedes the gradual retraction of Soundwave’s mouthplate, and for the first time, Optimus is granted a glimpse of Soundwave’s face. There are small marks around his lips, his cheeks, like he’s been in a physical altercation once or twice. They do not detract from his appeal, and Optimus suspects the mask had not been out of vanity, but out of self-preservation.

Masks to hide behind. Masks to protect oneself. No wonder Jazz and Soundwave get along so well.

“Thank you,” Optimus says. “Perhaps in the same line, if I show you mine first, you will feel more comfortable baring your spark to me?”

The corner of Soundwave’s lips curve in a smile, crooked though it is by the scar bisecting the seam of his mouth. “Together,” he says, gesturing to his own chassis. “No one is more vulnerable than the other.”

“That sounds fair,” Optimus says. “On the count of three?”

Soundwave, for the first time ever, chuckles. It’s an odd, raspy sound, like he has to brush the dust off his vocalizer to produce it, but Optimus cherishes it all the same.

“I will count,” he says.

Optimus grins. Sometimes all it takes is a little common ground.

~

All of the datapads he’s read are nothing in the face of the reality of hosting ten tertiary bonds within his spark. It’s scientifically impossible, but he swears each connection is jostling for space with the other, the tiny representations of his various Consorts milling around, trying to get comfortable.

Skyfire wants to be near Starscream, Jazz would prefer distance between himself and everyone else, Prowl and Sunstreaker dance around each other in a decent simulation of their habit of learning to dance, Hot Rod wants to be nestled closer to the core of Optimus’ spark where Ultra Magnus has planted himself like an impenetrable wall. Ratchet runs herd on Ironhide and Soundwave lingers as distant as possible as if he prefers to observe.

It’s an odd, nearly tangible sensation, despite science telling him it’s impossible.

Optimus’ spark quivers, swelling and shrinking, expanding and contracting, as if needing to remold the space within his chamber, to make room for the bonds.

He rests after bonding with Soundwave, and Soundwave is kind enough not to evict Optimus from his quarters, but to let Optimus recharge on his berth after supplying both energon and coolant. He masks himself once more in the aftermath, but his field is open to Optimus, warm with relief and a new sense of kinship.

Optimus wonders if he’s been adopted as a sort of ancillary cassette, because Soundwave is taking care of him to an extent that outshines even Starscream’s nannying. Optimus allows it because it feels nice, and it seems to comfort Soundwave as well.

He dozes, in and out, and in his brief periods of lucidity, the bonds with his Consorts strum the warmest. When he concentrates, he can feel each and every one of them, or at least the shape of them, impressions of them.

It’s as nice as it is disorienting.

Eventually, Soundwave leaves to retrieve his cassettes from Jazz before he decides to keep them, and Optimus heads to his quarters for a quick shower and some time to get his thoughts in order.

He is not the least bit surprised when he emerges in a cloud of steam to find Ultra Magnus seated as his console, typing like a madmech. He, at least, has the code to Optimus’ room, so it’s less of a startling shock.

“I presume you’ve bonded with Soundwave,” Ultra Magnus says, his fingers flying across the keys in a steady staccato.

“I have.” Optimus sits nearby, idly rubbing a cloth over his armor to pick up the last of the damp spots. “I think we have all made great strides with each other. The Senate expects us to return with thinly veiled hatred for each other. They’ll be very surprised.”

“I am in agreement. At least, from the conversations I’ve had anyway.” Ultra Magnus types a few more things before swiveling in the chair to look at Optimus. “Everyone is tentatively hopeful, many of them eager to see what changes might be wrought if we work together.”

Optimus tosses the dirtied rag into the laundry bin. “When I think about how it began, I’m amazed we made so much progress.”

“It’s because you’re genuine and sincere. They can sense it.” Ultra Magnus stands and rests a hand on Optimus’ shoulder. “It’s because you’re you. The Matrix chose well this time.”

Optimus lays a hand over Ultra Magnus’, rubbing his thumb over the back of his hand. “Let’s hope so. But we both know this would have been a hopeless venture without your support.”

“I’m happy to take at least seventy percent of the credit.” Ultra Magnus chuckles and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Come on. We’ve got two more dinners to get through, and then it’s time to face reality.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Optimus drawls.

Optimus doesn’t know how many more moments like this he’s going to get, so he soaks it up for all that it’s worth.

He and Ultra Magnus walk to the gathering room together, and Optimus likes to imagine this is part of what the future has in store for him, many walks with Ultra Magnus, congenially discussing Cybertron’s future.

Optimus takes his usual seat, with Ultra Magnus beside him, and he waits until all of his Consorts arrive, in twos and threes, in high spirits all of them. Even Jazz walks alongside Soundwave, chatting animatedly while Soundwave listens.

Optimus waits until everyone has taken a seat and served themselves from the various treats before he stands, cycling a ventilation to gather attention.

“Oh, Primus, are you giving us another speech?” Ratchet grouses as he liberally fills his glass with the highest concentration of engex they have.

Ironhide kicks Ratchet’s chair and says, “Have some respect, rustbucket.”

Optimus chuckles. “I promise to keep it brief,” he says as Ratchet tosses a glare at Ironhide. “I don’t want to take up too much of the relaxation time we have left.”

“How long do we have?” Skyfire asks.

“The transport comes for us the day after tomorrow,” Ultra Magnus answers as he arranges his treat selection and energon at perfect angles. “Immediately after sunrise.”

Jazz grumbles. “Too damn early.”

“They’re not leaving any of us behind, so they can wait if we’re not ready to go at the aft-crack of dawn,” says Ratchet, saluting Jazz with his engex.

Optimus looses a polite cough into his fist. “While that is true,” he says, attempting to veer the conversation back toward him, “I would like to reiterate how grateful I am for the chance each of you has given me. I know that none of you chose to be here--”

“I did!” Hot Rod chimes in, waving his hand wildly.

Low laughter echoes around the table. Optimus tosses him an indulgent smile.

“Yes, you did. And so did Ultra Magnus, for which I am forever grateful,” Optimus says. “That is not the case for most of you, however, and yet, you have done me a great service by allowing me a chance to explain my plans for the future and get to know you a little bit.”

“You’re pretty persuasive,” Starscream drawls.

Optimus’ face warms, and he tilts his head at Starscream in thanks. “I appreciate the compliment.” He tips his glass, still full of flavored med grade, at his assembled Consorts. “We will have a lot of work to do when we get back. There are going to be many, powerful mechs who will not be happy about the kinds of changes I plan to make, but they must be done. I vow that the promise I made each of you will come to fruition.”

“I thought you said this was going to be a short speech,” Sunstreaker grumbles, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, like he’s teasing.

“You are right, I did,” Optimus concedes, so he lifts his glass once again. “A toast, then, to the bonds we have made, the changes we are going to bring, and a Senate who is soon going to realize how short-sighted it has been.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Jazz says.

They all drink, in fact, and Optimus sits back down, waving them on. He’d promised a short speech, and really, he’s said all he needs to say to his Consorts. They know his intentions. They have tasted his spark. They have a piece of him as much as he carries a fraction of them.

The atmosphere is lively. Hopeful. His Consorts chatter amongst each other. Food and drink are plentiful. At some point, Jazz climbs onto the table with the nyckelharpa Optimus spotted earlier and starts to play a rousing tune. It takes little coaxing to get everyone on their feet, to start dancing like they had in the early days.

Optimus doesn’t even have to urge Ultra Magnus to do it. Hot Rod is already there, tugging the large mech out of his chair, smiling up at him with bright optics, impossible to resist.

“It’s my turn to show you a thing or two,” Sunstreaker teases as he pulls Prowl into the center of the open space, his mouth a curve of wickedness.

Soundwave does not dance, but Laserbeak does, and she hops back and forth on his shoulder, trilling along to Jazz’s music, only stopping to accept the tiny bits of treats Soundwave feeds her. Occasionally, Optimus catches a glimpse of Ravage, skulking about, but he thinks he might have imagined things because the dark feline is there and gone again.

“Come on, Ratchet. Show me why they call you the party ambulance,” Starscream says as he sets one of Ratchet’s tires to spinning with a flick of his wrist.

Ratchet grunts, but there’s challenge in his optics. “That’s an old nick, Seeker. How’d you hear about it?”

“Dance with me, and I’ll tell you,” Starscream says, bouncing toward the open floor with Ratchet hot on his heels, giving chase to a Seeker with flirtatiously flicking wings.

Perhaps the engex flows a little too easily tonight, but there’s no harm in that, Optimus supposes. They are on their vacation before they face the real trials. They need to soak up all the peace they can get.

A hand claps down on his shoulder.

“Come on, Prime. You, too,” says Ironhide, leaning in to pluck Optimus’ drink with his other hand and set it on the table. “Right now, until we go back, you’re just Optimus.”

“I will always be Optimus to you all,” Optimus replies, but he lets Ironhide pull him from his chair, out into the chaos that is several frames trying to wriggle and spin in too small a space. “But perhaps I may be Orion every once in awhile.”

Ironhide grins and fits an arm around Optimus’ waist, pulling him into the angles and dips of Ironhide’s frame. “I think that can be arranged. Now show me what those hips of yours can do.”

He has very nice hips, Optimus remembers Ironhide saying, particularly the night they completed their spark bond and Ironhide had been full of many, many compliments.

“Save a dance for me,” Hot Rod demands as he goes grooving by, on his way to claim Skyfire and drag the shuttle away from his stack of scientific manuals.

Optimus chuckles and lets himself be carried away by the joy of the moment, the precipice of hope to which they all cling.

When they return to Iacon, things would be very different, but right here, right now, Optimus is confident the future is going to be a lot brighter.

Maybe there’s something to the Matrix’s choice in him after all.

****


a/n: Yes. There will be more. :)