[TFP] From This Moment 01
May. 24th, 2021 07:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: From This Moment
Universe: TFP Alternate Canon
Characters: Rodimus Prime/Orion Pax, Ratchet/Jazz, Ultra Magnus, Starscream, Thundercracker, Skywarp
Rating: M
Description: Rodimus Prime knows that you only get one chance to make a good, first impression. Lucky for him, Orion Pax is not the only cutest archivist he’s ever met, but also the most forgiving.
Commission for Jeegoo.
Rodimus Prime was not panicking.
Rodimus Prime was not panicking, because Rodimus Prime did not panic. He did not, in fact, have any reason to panic.
Technically, Starscream was in his employ so there was no reason for Rodimus to be searching for the nearest exit like his spark was on the line.
And yet.
Here he was, crouched by an obscenely large vase that had no purpose except to be ugly and provide decent cover for a Prime on the run. Seriously. This thing was hideous. Why were they keeping it in the Municipal Archives except as a monument to their ancestors’ bad taste?
“Rodimus Prime!” Starscream’s voice squawked through the interior of the museum, bouncing off the walls, seeking Rodimus in his hiding spot with unerring accuracy. “So help me Primus if you don’t show yourself--”
“Star, you can’t threaten the Prime,” Skywarp interjected with a laugh, his vocals equally loud, if not more so. “He’s kind of our boss.”
Rodimus grinned. Good old Skywarp. He could always be counted on to throw himself in front of a raging Starscream for Rodimus’ sake.
“I’ll threaten him as much as I damn well like,” Starscream snarled. “Especially if he doesn’t get his flame-painted aft out here!”
The last was a shout that echoed around the walls. It sounded close, too. A little too close for Rodimus’ comfort.
It wasn’t that serious. All Rodimus wanted was a little time for himself, a chance to peek at the new History of the Primes exhibit before it opened to the public, and he wanted to do it all without being recognized.
Rodimus Prime couldn’t walk into the Municipal Archives with his trio of Seeker guards flanking him. He’d be spotted in an instant! Then the media would descend, and it would become a nightmare of attention.
Ugh.
Why did Nova Prime have to frag the wrong species on a diplomatic mission, contract a rare form of organic fungi deadly to metallics, and keel over right in the middle of a speech on the importance of intergalactic unity? All while secretly salivating over the billions of galactic creds he was going to make once the trade deal firmly settled into place, of course.
A mental image of the Masil Ambassador floated to the forefront of Rodimus’ processor, and he shuddered. Masils were so… squishy. What was Nova thinking? Mech never could say no to a… pretty? face.
“Rodimus!”
Slag.
Rodimus peered around the vase, catching Starscream and Skywarp’s reflections in the perfectly polished transteel of one of the displays. He couldn’t see Thundercracker anywhere, which didn’t mean the third member of his private guard wasn’t here, just that Rodimus couldn’t see him.
Time to go.
Rodimus eased around the other side of the vase, seeking his escape, and grinned when he spotted it. There was an employee door tucked between two exhibits. It required a key card, but that was no trouble for a Prime. He had an all-access pass to anything and everything in Iacon.
He glanced once more to ensure the coast was clear, then darted across the aisle, swiped the key card, and slipped through the door all within the span of a few seconds. He hit the panel on the other side so the door would immediately close, then paused to catch a vent. When no immediate pounding of anger echoed through the door, he knew he’d perfectly executed his escape.
“And that’s why I’m the Prime,” Rodimus said with a chuckle.
He now stood at the top of a steep rampwell, descending toward rows and rows of dimly lit corridors lined with shelving. This was probably a storage area for the many different exhibits they tended to cycle through around here. Honestly, if Starscream could find him in this maze, the Seeker deserved a raise.
Rodimus descended and peered at the placard on the first shelving unit. “The Reign of Megatronus,” he read aloud, and his orbital ridges lifted with appreciation.
Interesting. Mecha tended to shy away from this part of Cybertronian history. No one wanted to remember the Prime who had turned against his brethren out of a lust for power, and a desire to disobey the will of Primus.
Rodimus didn’t think it was that simple. History rarely was.
He moved to the next column, and here the placard read, “The Trials of Liege Maximo.” Ah, now here was a villain if there ever was one. Megatronus’ crimes were under much debate, but scholars were pretty much unified in their distaste for Liege Maximo. There was a reason he’d earned the title, ‘the great manipulator.’
Still.
As Ultra Magnus always said, he who didn’t learn from the mistakes of the past was bound to repeat them in the future. They studied Liege Maximo now because it was important not to forget.
Were these columns arranged by the assumed creation date as written by the Covenant of Primus. If that were the case, then the next column should be--
“You’re not supposed to be down here.”
Rodimus startled at the unexpected voice which didn’t belong to his advisor or any of his three personal guards. He spun toward the speaker, lifting his hands to show he meant no harm.
“This is a restricted area,” the mech continued as he moved closer and under one of the overhead lights, which glinted nicely off his silver armor. He was a small thing -- clearly one of the data archivists -- and the stern look on his face didn’t match the kindness in his optics. “How did you get down here?”
Rodimus smiled the beguiling smile which had gotten him out of many, many spots of trouble in the past. “Well, you see, I was hiding from my guardians, and I saw a door, so I took it.” He pressed his palm to his chassis, deactivating the nanite displacer which camouflaged his distinct color scheme.
The moment his true nanites flooded his armor, the mech’s optics widened, and he snapped into a low bow. “My apologies, Prime, sir,” he said, speaking to the floor, his arms rigid along his sides. “I did not recognize you. Of course you are most welcome to--”
“It’s all right. I was in disguise. You weren’t supposed to recognize me.” Rodimus chuckled and approached the mech, gently tapping his shoulder. “Come on. You don’t have to do that. Pretend I’m just a regular mech.”
The archivist looked up at him, beautifully confused, but he straightened once more, and yes, he was indeed shorter. He only came up to Rodimus’ shoulder, but he had the loveliest hips, and the longest legs, and such interesting lines of red and blue which accentuated the curves and angles of his frame.
“If you insist, my Prime,” he said.
“No, no. Don’t call me that.” Rodimus waved his hands in front of him. “Call me Rodimus. All of that honorific stuff drives me crazy.” He smiled down at the mech. “What’s your designation?”
The mech’s vents audibly stalled, clicking noisily in his chassis, before he said, “Orion Pax, sir. I’m an archivist here in the Primal Archives.”
“So these are your responsibility to maintain, huh?” Rodimus turned, looking back at the rows and rows of columns, all with their tidy metallic labels. “Are you an expert when it comes to the Primes?”
Orion nodded, his field unfurling with a quiet bloom of pride. “I don’t know if you could call me an expert, but they are my focus.”
“Really?” Rodimus tilted his head, planting one hand on his hips and angling himself to catch the best gleam of light over his armor. “What do you think about me then?”
Hesitation lingered in the flutter of Orion’s armor as it defensively tightened around his frame. “Sir, I don’t think I’m qualified to--”
“Humor me,” Rodimus said. He shifted his weight, tried to adopt a friendly and welcoming posture, though he wasn’t sure he succeeded. “Be honest. I could use some feedback from someone who knows what they’re talking about.”
Orion looked at him, and whatever he saw must have given him encouragement because he said, “You could be a good Prime, sir. One of the best even. If you give yourself the chance.”
Warmth trickled into Rodimus’ faceplate. “Cybertron pretty much runs itself, you know,” he pointed out. “Hard to be the best when you’re just a figurehead.” He brushed his fingers over his chassis, where the Matrix hummed beneath, restlessly shifting when it was usually so calm and still. “Primes are just symbols.”
“Symbols are symbols for a reason!” Orion insisted, and the passion in his vocals took Rodimus by surprise, because the mech seemed to come alive for the first time, losing his reserve to continue, “They stand for something. And the actions of those who carry them can either bring great honor to those symbols, or tarnish them forever.”
“Tarnish,” Rodimus echoed, and he glanced past Orion, to the rows of past Primes, and a few designations that he’d noted and dismissed for how much he despised the legacy they left for him. “I suppose you’re right about that.”
“Of course I am,” Orion said, with great conviction, before he seemed to realize he’d spoken so sharply. His field immediately withdrew, faceplate leeching of color. “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t mean--”
Rodimus held up a hand. “You did, actually, and I’m glad for it. I asked for honesty, and you gave me what I wanted.” He smiled, to soften the blow, though he felt the sting of Orion’s chastisement, as accidental as it was. “I bet you think I’m squandering an opportunity, don’t you?”
Orion shifted, his gaze falling to the floor. “To hold the Matrix is a great responsibility. I’ve seen enough of the past to know that many Primes did not view it so.”
“And I’m one of them, yeah?”
Orion shook his head, and he drew himself up straight, drawing air through his vents, jaw setting so firmly Rodimus was impressed. “You don’t have to be, sir,” he said. “You could be different, if you just put your mind to it. You’re unlike any the Matrix has chosen before. You could be the best.”
His conviction in Rodimus’ potential was so genuine, for a moment, Rodimus felt an intense shame that he hadn’t put nearly enough effort into anything Ultra Magnus or his guard had been trying to teach him. He suddenly wanted to do better so he could look into Orion’s optics and see an archivist recording the history of a Prime he’d felt honored to know.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Rodimus said after a moment. He pressed a hand to his chassis like Ultra Magnus taught him and dipped his head in a polite bow, the lowest a Prime was allowed to bend. “I can see the Archives are going to benefit from your knowledge.”
“I hope that is true.” Orion’s field radiated unabashed pride for the first time. “Alpha Trion requested me specifically because of my research into the Primes.”
Primus, he was adorable. Simultaneously confident and unsure, deferential but outspoken, earnest and sincere.
“Did he?” Rodimus tucked his hands behind his back, shoulders ruffling to try and rediscover his balance. All of his usual verve was off-kilter thanks to Orion. Rodimus had never met anyone like him. “I shall have to send him my thanks and appreciation then.”
Orion beamed, the sheer delight in his optics making Rodimus’ spark flutter. It was a damn crime to keep a mech this cute hidden away in the archives. “He’ll be pleased to know you find I’m doing an adequate job.”
“More than adequate, I’d say,” Rodimus said, and chuffed a vent, giving himself an internal shake to shed off the intensity of their earlier discussion. “Especially since it made meeting you the highlight of my day.”
Orion cycled his optics before they widened, and heat rose to stain his cheeks. “I, um, thank you, sir. If you’re interested in a tour or would like some other advice, I can help with that, too.”
Precious.
“I’m actually thinking of something more personal. A way to show my gratitude,” Rodimus inched closer toward Orion, leaning in to watch the heat darken in Orion’s cheeks, and his optics burn a little brighter. “Dinner, perhaps. What do you say?”
Orion’s vents audibly stalled. He gaped at Rodimus in a way Rodimus didn’t think mechs did in real life before he shook his head firmly, squared his shoulders, and said, “That’s very kind of you to offer, sir. I’m not sure you’d find me very interesting though.”
“I don’t see why not. I happen to find history very, very interesting.” Not to mention Orion himself. He was a fascinating study in dichotomy, not to mention how much Rodimus really wanted to trace the lines of color on his frame. “Why don’t you--”
“Rodimus Prime!”
The bellow made both Rodimus and Orion startle. It zapped up Rodimus’ spinal strut, made his spoiler halves go rigid, and a sense of impending doom grabbed him by the spark. His optics spiraled wide as he slowly turned to see Ultra Magnus striding toward him, flanked by all three members of Rodimus’ private Seeker guard.
Rodimus threw his hands into the air. “Seriously? You called Magnus!?”
Starscream didn’t look the least bit chastened. He crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “You left me no choice, Roddy.”
“And right that he should.” Ultra Magnus’ expression was one of thinly concealed fury, his every armor plate quivering in place as he stared Rodimus down. An easy task considering that Ultra Magnus was the largest mech present. “You have work to do.”
Rodimus waved to the Archives around him. “You’re the one who told me I needed to be more informed about our culture.”
“Trying to frag a cute archivist doesn’t count as embracing culture,” Skywarp said with a snicker, until Thundercracker flicked his wing. He pouted and gave his partner a wounded look.
“I have been fielding comms all afternoon from interested parties who only wish to speak with the Prime,” Ultra Magnus said, ignoring the chaos behind him with the kind of aplomb Rodimus wished he could emulate. But no one did stoic like his adviser and teacher. “You cannot continue to shirk this duty merely because you find it mundane.”
Rodimus snorted and planted one hand on his hip, waving off the chastisement with his other. “Everyone knows they’re going to decide what they want to do with or without me. I don’t see why I have to sit around and pretend like it matters whether I’m there.”
A gear in Ultra Magnus’ jaw clicked. “You have a responsibility.”
“Yeah, well, I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” Rodimus said and turned back toward Orion with a smile. “You never answered my question. Could I get your comm?”
Orion seemed to have turned into a statue in the last half minute. He’d adopted a pose better suited to soldiers standing at attention, his optics wide and his vents shallow. “Sir, it seems your attention is required elsewhere.”
“Yes, it is.” Ultra Magnus huffed, and his patience must have been frayed abnormally thin, because he struck as quick as a pitviper, massive hand curling around Rodimus’ elbow. “Let’s go, Rodimus. This adolescent behavior needs to cease.”
“If I could get away with mechhandling him like that, this would be a lot easier,” Starscream said with a huff. His wings twitched, and Thundercracker took an abrupt step to the left to avoid getting smacked by one.
Ultra Magnus tugged, and Rodimus stumbled away from the adorable archivist like he hadn’t been upgraded when he accepted the Matrix. It wasn’t fair that Ultra Magnus was still bigger and stronger than him.
“You have my permission to mechhandle him as much as you need if it will keep him safe and where he needs to be,” Ultra Magnus said.
Starscream’s optics brightened with evil delight. “Could I have that in writing?”
“Hey, don’t I get a say in this?” Rodimus protested as Ultra Magnus dragged him away, and Orion stood there watching, confusion blossoming in his field. “Wait. I didn’t get his comm. Magnus, wait!”
He was ignored.
What good was it to have the Matrix and be the Prime when no one listened to him?
“Sorry about him,” Rodimus heard Thundercracker say as he shuffled toward Orion, one hand pressing to his chassis as he gave a little bow of respect. “I will let your supervisor know that any delays to your work is through no fault of your own.”
“Thunder! Get his comm!” Rodimus shouted.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Skywarp drawled as he appeared on Rodimus’ other side, hooking his arm through Rodimus’ free one. “You really gotta learn not to skimp out on the work, Roddy. You know Star will always find you.”
Rodimus sighed.
He glanced over his shoulder, got one last glimpse of Orion, and he swore their optics met. Orion gave him a little smile, a wave, and then he was out of sight because Starscream stepped between them. He was unamused, and Rodimus knew he was going to hear it from everyone for this little stunt.
“I hope you had fun,” Starscream said with an arched orbital ridge. “I might yet convince the council to let me put a tracking device on you.”
Rodimus gave him a blinding, adorable smile, the one that tended to get him out of all kinds of trouble when he was just Hot Rod and hadn’t yet accepted the Matrix. “Awww, you missed me.”
“Like a case of the Rust,” Starscream drawled, and raised his voice to say, “Don’t let him go, Magnus. He’s a slippery one.”
“I’m fully aware,” Ultra Magnus grunted, and his hand tightened around Rodimus’ upper arm, a grip of banded duryllium from which Rodimus couldn’t escape.
Damn it.
He really wished he could have gotten Orion’s comm.
~
Orion’s head was still spinning even hours after his shift had ended, and he’d gone home, back to his one-room habsuite. He curled on his berth, datapad in need of translating in his lap, and a cup of energon in his other hand.
He hadn’t translated anything in the last fifteen minutes because he couldn’t drag his thoughts away from Rodimus Prime. Surely he hadn’t been serious when he was asking for Orion’s comm? Especially after Orion had been so bold to practically chastise the mech?
Orion didn’t know much about their new Prime. Rodimus had only risen to the position within the past decade or so, after Nova’s untimely demise. Orion paid little attention to current politics, since his focus was on historical events.
He hadn’t expected Rodimus Prime to be so handsome and charming.
Orion spent too much time in study of the historical Primes. He’d seen hundreds of statues and artifacts and expensive artistic representations of stodgy, old mechs without a sense of humor. Prior Primes were large and bold and stately.
Rodimus Prime was certainly bold, but there wasn’t a stately thing about him. Those flames! Orion’s face heated in memory of them. They were better suited to adolescent mechs trapped between the wanderings of their sparkling-hood, and the adult-hood which awaited them. They were exciting and enticing, but certainly not respectable for a Prime!
Very handsome though.
Orion groaned and set his datapad into hibernation. He couldn’t focus on his translation, not with Rodimus Prime at the top of his thoughts. He didn’t know what to think, and Orion had often been accused of knowing too much about books and not enough about other mechs.
His comm beeped.
Orion cycled his optics and answered it, knowing it could not be Rodimus but a trill of excitement daring to echo through his spark anyway. “Good evening, Ratchet. How is--”
“Do you know what Pharma did today?” His oldest friend’s voice poured grumpily into his comm, but then, grumpy was Ratchet’s natural state when Pharma was involved. “He stole my patient and had the audacity to tell our clinical supervisor it was because I kept misinterpreting the results.”
Orion’s lips twitched despite himself. “And were you?”
“Of course not! Pharma’s insisting the mech has a condition that no one thinks exists,” Ratchet huffed. There was the distinct noise of items banging around in the background -- sounded like Ratchet was on cleanup duty again. “He’s so desperate for praise, he’s willing to risk a mech’s spark.”
“And there’s no chance he’s right?” Orion asked, trying to make his tone as gentle as possible. The rivalry between the best friends -- and occasional lovers when they could stand each other for longer than ten minutes -- was a universal constant.
There was a very long, noisy pause as Ratchet kept scrubbing and grumbled subvocally. Orion did him the favor of pretending he wasn’t listening. For all that Ratchet proclaimed the importance of logical thought, he could be quite emotional when Pharma was involved.
“There’s always a chance,” Ratchet grudgingly admitted. “But that’s not the point.”
Orion nodded. “The point is that Pharma continues to criticize and correct your work.”
“And he’s not always right!”
“No, but he wants to be,” Orion confirmed. He’d heard this exact same rant before. He only had to wait for Ratchet to run out of steam, and then they could have a reasonable conversation.
His only regret was that they could no longer have these conversations in person. Now that Orion was in Iacon, and Ratchet back in Nova Cronum, their weekly meetings had to go virtual.
Ratchet huffed into the comm. “Look, if I thought for even a second that my patient needed the treatment Pharma recommended, I’d do it.”
“I know you would,” Orion said gently. “Because you’re a good medic.”
“Damn right I am.” Ratchet’s grump cooled into pride, as it inevitably did. “What about you, botlet? How’re things in Iacon?”
Orion took a sip of his energon. “Ratchet, please. How many times must I remind you that I am, in fact, older than you?”
“Maybe in years, but not in the mileage,” Ratchet grunted, and the background noises of splashing solvent briefly camouflaged his silence. “Didn’t answer my question.”
“I am fine, as always. I have settled into both my new hab, and my new job. Alpha Trion is even more fascinating in person.” Orion smiled, insides warming at the thought of his new mentor. “Working at the Archives is a dream.”
“Guess that means you’re not coming back.”
Orion squirmed down into the comfortable foam of his new berth. “No, Ratchet. This is the best thing that has happened to me.” He glanced out his window -- he actually had a window here! “I met the Prime today.”
Ratchet muttered a curse as pipes squeaked in the background. “How did that happen?”
“Apparently, he habitually runs away to avoid his work, and he chose the Archives as his hiding spot today.” Orion’s cheeks flushed at the memory. “He’s very handsome, and believe it or not, I think he was flirting with me.”
“Oh, I believe it.” Ratchet’s sour tone was back, but at least it wasn’t directed at Pharma this time. “For one, you’re adorable. For two, Rodimus Prime is a known flirt. You really ought to pay more attention to the newscasts.”
Orion set aside his historical datapad and grabbed his personal laptop instead. “Rarely does the news have anything to offer that’s of use to me,” he said. “But I concede your point. One must stay apprised of current developments in order to properly provide a context for historical ones.”
“Your new mentor tell you that?”
“Yes.” Orion tapped the most recent headlines, resigning himself to a night spent catching up on relevant headlines. “He asked me for my comm and invited me out to dinner. I guess he didn’t mean it.”
The splashing solvent cut off with a bit more squeaking as Ratchet said, “I believe he meant it. I don’t believe you can expect anything more than that, though.”
“I’m not actually interested,” Orion said, skimming the top three news sites. He wasn’t sure where to begin. There was so much here.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” Ratchet hummed thoughtfully and gave a little laugh. “Frag, I’d tumble him if I could. Primus knows how to build a good-looking Prime.”
“Ratchet!”
His friend’s laughter was a much more appealing sound than his earlier grumpiness. “Just being honest.” Ratchet grunted, followed by the rattle of a bunch of metallic items. “Okay, Orion. I have to get back to work, and I can already tell you’re losing yourself down the wormhole of current events.”
“Let me know when you have one of your longer breaks. I’ll come visit,” Orion said, tapping the tab for political developments.
His optics spiraled wide as headlines started scrolling en masse. Since when did politics include celebrity worship and speculation? There were hardly any articles here on Rodimus Prime’s policies or diplomatic relations.
There were, however, dozens of image captures and speculative posts on who he was romantically involved in from week to week.
“I’m in my residency, Orion. It’ll be months before that happens,” Ratchet drawled.
“Even so.” Orion scrolled through the pictures, unsurprised to find Rodimus Prime always beside very beautiful and talented mechs. There were renowned scientists and artisans and published writers.
He must have been flirting out of habit. Surely he wasn’t actually interested in Orion himself.
“I’ll see what I can do. Be good.” Ratchet paused to laugh and added, “Or actually, don’t be good. Go out and do something adventurous. You’ve earned it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Orion said as Ratchet ended the call, leaving him to his research.
Orion ex-vented and stared at the pages upon pages of data.
He was going to be online half the night.
~
Skywarp and Starscream had gone home.
Ultra Magnus lingered in the office just beyond Rodimus’, knowing full well Rodimus had no other egress than to walk directly past him.
Thundercracker sat perched across from Rodimus, ostensibly reading from a datapad, but actually present to make sure Rodimus did nothing more than perch at his desk, moving items from one stack to another, after appropriately reviewing them of course.
It was late. Very, very late.
Rodimus was tired. He could complain about being hungry, but every time he did that, Ultra Magnus sent one of the runners for some energon or treats, and it was not an excuse. There was also a local berth, where Rodimus was allowed to take a brief stasis nap, if he felt he needed to do so to concentrate on his work.
He was completely and utterly trapped.
Rodimus sighed.
“The longer you spend ignoring your work, the longer all of us are going to be here,” Thundercracker said without looking up from his datapad. He handled idle times better than both Skywarp and Starscream, which was why he’d been given the task of supervising Rodimus.
He was also significantly harder to bribe than the rest.
Rodimus moodily signed an acknowledgement of review for his current datapad and added it to the ‘out’ stack. He dragged a new pad from the ‘in’ stack, and swore it didn’t seem to diminish no matter how much he did.
“Magnus is just punishing me. Nothing in here is even urgent,” Rodimus pointed out.
“That does not make it any less necessary.”
There was just no reasoning with Thundercracker.
Rodimus stared at the datapad without seeing it, glyphs blurring before his optics. Thundercracker had not, in fact, obtained Orion’s comm code. He’d instead apologized for the inconvenience that was Rodimus’ visit.
Rodimus drummed his fingers on the desk. Orion was really cute. He’d been so protective of the Archives, until he realized who Rodimus was, and so proud of his work, too. Maybe Rodimus ought to take a cue from that at some point.
He really wished he’d gotten Orion’s comm.
Wait.
“Hey, Thunder?”
“No.”
Rodimus scowled and narrowed his optics at the third member of his personal guard. “You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m quite sure the answer is no.”
Rodimus pressed his lips together, tapping one foot on the floor, before he said, “If I promise to be very quiet for the next hour and work diligently, will you answer my question? Without telling Ultra Magnus I asked.”
Thundercracker was silent for a moment before he lowered the datapad and looked at Rodimus over the top of it, orbital ridges raised. “Fine,” he said, and lifted his chin. “What is it?”
Worth it.
Rodimus patted the monitor on his console. “Do we have access to the personnel records at the Archives?”
“I don’t like where this is going,” Thundercracker said with a disapproving slant to his lips, and of all his advisors and protectors, Thundercracker did disapproving the best. He didn’t use words. He had this look.
“You didn’t ask him for his comm code!” Rodimus explained desperately, waving his hands in the air. “How am I supposed to talk to him if I don’t know it?”
Thundercracker pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge, his wings sinking behind him. “It would not only be a horrible abuse of power to access personnel records because of your position, but it would be a terrible breach of ethics as well.”
“So… you’re saying I shouldn’t just look him up,” Rodimus said.
“Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying.” Thundercracker stared at him.
Rodimus tried and failed not to squirm.
“From what I can tell, Orion Pax is doing an excellent job. He’s not like the other mechs you tend to… date.” Thundercracker clearly hesitated on the last word, the jerk. “Let him do his job in peace.”
Rodimus slumped. “You’re saying I’d just be an irritation to him.”
“I’m saying that you met by accident, and perhaps it should stay that way,” Thundercracker said. At least he sounded gentle about it. “The life of a Prime is a lonely one, sir.”
“Yeah, it is.” Rodimus sighed and plopped his chin on his elbow, glaring at the datapads in front of him. “I’ll do my work now. Thanks, Thunder.”
Thundercracker smiled and lifted his datapad once more.
And Rodimus went back to work, just like he promised.
~
Orion pushed Rodimus Prime from his mind.
It was a fluke encounter, he reasoned, and there was no reason to mull over it any further. He had plenty of work in the Archives to keep him occupied, and if the newscasts were at all accurate, no doubt Rodimus Prime had already forgotten and moved on to someone far more interesting and accessible.
He put his focus into a crate of newly arrived relics shipped from the Protihex archives. They all needed cataloging, proper identification, and proper restoration. Since they were specifically related to the reign of Nexus Prime, the task fell to Orion.
It was the perfect distraction.
His comm beeped.
“Orion, there’s a delivery. Will you receive it, please?”
Orion snapped to attention, though Alpha Trion likely couldn’t see him. “Yes, sir. Of course.” He put down the lid of the crate. “Are we expecting something?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Alpha Trion sighed into the comm. “Glyph does have an irritating habit of sending items without properly notifying me, however. I suspect that is the case here.”
Orion quietly chuckled. Glyph was a very kind, very studious minibot, but he did have the tendency to be forgetful in his enthusiasm. There was probably a draft in his message folders waiting for him to click ‘send’.
“I will receive it and let you know.” Orion peeled the protective strips from the ends of his fingers and locked his console behind him.
“Thank you.”
Alpha Trion went back to work, and Orion went to the dock where they normally received deliveries, but it was dim and locked down. No shipments today. Glyph strikes again, Orion realized with a laugh.
He made for the front desk instead. All deliveries should be received through the loading dock, but if Glyph was feeling particularly protective of a relic, he would send it by courier instead. This happened often enough Orion was no longer surprised by it, and neither was Alpha Trion.
Orion expected a crate splashed with glyphs marked ‘Fragile’ and ‘Priceless’ and ‘Do Not Crush’. Instead, there was a gorgeous bouquet of crystals in a rainbow of colors, each expertly crafted to resemble blossoms and beautifully arranged in a gleaming, metallic vase.
“Do I have a crate here from Glyph in Protihex?” Orion asked the desk clerk while side-eying the massive vase of crystals. Someone was being spoiled today.
Copperpot did not look up from his console. “No, you have an obnoxiously large vase of crystals from an anonymous sender.”
“This is for us?” Orion asked, orbital ridges raising. He inched closer, staring the vase up and down. A small piece of plexifilm dangled from a ribbon, glyphs etched into the surface.
“For you,” Copperpot corrected. “Kindly remove it from my desk. I can’t see the front door around it.”
“Oh, yes. I apologize.” Orion tucked the vase carefully into the crook of his elbow while he pulled the card into view. “Thank you, Copperpot. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Copperpot waved him off.
Orion retreated to the lift, rather than risk taking the ramp. He pressed his palm to the security reader and focused again on the card. There it was, clear as transsteel, his designation in the recipient line. He turned the card over, hoping to find an explanation.
You didn’t have the chance to give me your comm so here’s mine instead. It’s my direct line, too. Give me a call sometime so we can have that date.
It was from Rodimus Prime.
The lift came to a halt and beeped, urging him off, and Orion did so in a daze. He read the card over and over again as he found his way to his station on auto-pilot. Every inch of his workspace was covered in datapads and relics and notations. He had to clear a space for the enormous bouquet, and he couldn’t resist touching one of the delicate blooms. It chimed musically beneath his fingertip, so smooth it felt like liquid.
Would Rodimus go to so much effort just for a conquest? Would he offer his private line to some random mech in the hopes of berthing them?
Orion did not know the Prime well enough to assume.
It had been a week. Orion was sure Rodimus Prime had forgotten all about him. Why would he remember some archivist in the bowels of the Primal Archives when he was surrounded by more suitable berthpartners?
Orion tried to focus on his work. His gaze, however, kept wandering back to the crystal blooms, and the card dangling from the ribbon. He’d already committed the comm code to memory. Rodimus would not have sent the number if he didn’t intend for Orion to comm him.
It would also be rude not to, at the very least, thank Rodimus for the bouquet.
Orion sighed. He would not get anything done at this rate. He should simply place the call, thank Rodimus, and then he would be able to focus on his work. That was the simplest solution here.
He dialed before he could convince himself otherwise.
Rodimus answered almost immediately. “Orion! I was hoping you’d call.” They couldn’t see each other, but Orion could read the smile in his vocals. “You must have gotten the crystals.”
“I did.” Orion found himself smiling as well as he sank into his chair. “They were very beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome! They are a beautiful gift for a beautiful mech.” Rodimus chuckled softly. “I just wish I could’ve seen you smile when you got them.”
Heat flushed Orion’s face. “They were a pleasant surprise, I’ll admit.”
“Good, good.” Rodimus audibly drew in a vent. “So, I mean, if you’re not busy, I was thinking we could get that dinner I mentioned. Tonight?”
Orion fiddled with one of his styluses, the gleam of the blooms in his peripheral vision. “I am very flattered, sir, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Hey, I meant it when I said you don’t have to call me ‘sir,” Rodimus said, his tone cheerful, but an undercurrent of disappointment threading his glyphs. “Is tonight not good for you or…?”
“While it’s true that I’m very busy right now, I don’t think we should see each other in a romantic capacity,” Orion said, trying to ignore the stab of guilt and disappointment wrapping around his spark. “I’d rather focus on my job. Alpha Trion was very kind to extend this opportunity, and I don’t want any distractions.”
“Sure, sure. I can understand that.” Rodimus chuckled, though there was little amusement in the sound. “Nothing wrong with being dedicated to your work. I suppose I ought to take a lesson from you.”
Orion’s face heated. “No, no. I didn’t mean to imply--”
“I know. It’s okay.” In the background, Orion picked up the low murmur of other conversations. Wherever Rodimus was, he’d stopped just to take Orion’s comm. “Would it be all right if I called you every once in a while? As friends?”
“Friends?” Orion echoed.
“Yeah! I was only halfway kidding when I mentioned Magnus wanting me to learn more about the history of the Primes. And I don’t really have anyone I talk to who doesn’t want something from me.”
Orion’s spark went out to the Prime, who sounded so uncertain and lonely that his walls crumbled. “I always have room in my life for another friend.”
“Great!”
In the background, someone shouted for Rodimus, and it sounded very much like the mech Orion had seen in the Archives. Ultra Magnus, who was known to always be at the new Prime’s side, guiding him throughout his ascension.
Rodimus muttered a curse subovocally. “Look, I gotta go. Magnus is getting that tic in his orbital ridge again. But I’ll comm you when I can. If that’s okay, I mean.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You can comm me, too!” Rodimus said, and there was a lightness to his voice that made Orion grin, his spark offering another throb of affection for this Prime who had none of the formal gravity of his predecessors. “Like I said, this is my private comm and since you have it, you have open permission to use it.”
“Rodimus Prime!”
Orion winced at the bellow in the background, loud enough it translated quite clearly through the comm, almost as if the mech were speaking directly to Orion.
“Slag,” Rodimus muttered. “He has the worst fragging timing.”
Orion chuckled despite it all. “Get back to work, Rodimus,” he said, deliberately using the Prime’s designation rather than the honorific. They were friends after all. “We’ll talk again soon.”
He ended the comm so Rodimus would not be tempted to continue talking, no matter his advisor’s ire. Orion shook his head, lips curved with amusement. It remained so very surreal.
Rodimus was adorable, and he did sound like he needed a friend.
Fortunately, Orion did, too.
Orion glanced once more at the bouquet, one finger gently chiming the nearest spray of carved blue-blossoms. The whole arrangement lightly swayed, crystals clinking together, creating a musical sound. Orion allowed himself to admire them for a full minute before he squared his shoulders and pulled out new strips for his fingertips.
Time to get back to work. Those Protihex relics wouldn’t sort themselves.
~
Orion wasn’t the first mech who ever turned Rodimus down for a date, but he was the first mech Rodimus wanted to see again regardless. Friendship was something Rodimus had never found himself wanting or asking for, but he couldn’t imagine never speaking with Orion again.
He respected Orion’s wishes. He never asked Orion for another date.
They spoke often, more so than Rodimus expected.
Orion would babble about his work in the Archives, and Rodimus would vent about the headache involved in being a Prime, no matter how much of a figurehead he was. Orion listened and didn’t judge. Rodimus listened and asked questions, and the sheer delight in Orion’s vocals at being allowed to prattle about his passion was worth it.
Rodimus greatly admired him for his zeal.
And for once, Ultra Magnus did not harrumph about Rodimus’ associations with someone outside the office of the Prime. If anything, he encouraged it.
“Perhaps Orion will be a good influence on you,” he said as he took one stack of completed datapads and exchanged it for another, much larger pile of work. “I certainly hope you do not intend to be a distraction for him.”
“Nope. Orion tells me to frag off when he’s busy,” Rodimus said. “Or well, he’s more polite about it.” He smiled before he could help it. “He’s polite about everything. It’s adorable.”
Ultra Magnus hummed his approval. “Will you be taking a long lunch today?”
“If Orion will have me,” Rodimus said, distracted already as he grabbed the first datapad on the stack. “I know, I know. I have to do this stack before I can take my break.” He looked up at Ultra Magnus with an innocent grin, waggling his orbital ridges. “Unless I sneak out.”
“Starscream has been given permission to mechhandle you,” Ultra Magnus reminded him. He nudged the datapad stack closer. “If you’re particularly productive, I will set you free this weekend.”
Rodimus perked, his spoiler flicking upward. “You mean instead of going to that boring fundraiser?”
Ultra Magnus smiled at him, however slight the curve of his lips was, and that was worth its weight alone. “I do.”
“You’re the best!”
Between getting out of that fundraiser, and perhaps seeing Orion for lunch today, Rodimus was having a fantastic week.
Ultra Magnus left, and Rodimus did him the courtesy of waiting until the door shut before he dialed Orion’s comm, already contemplating what he’d bring for lunch today.
“Yes, Rodimus, I am free today,” Orion said by way of answer, his voice thick with humor.
It remained one of Rodimus’ greatest victories that he’d convinced Orion out of the habit of reserved politeness when they talked. Orion treated him like a friend now, and the thought filled Rodimus with delight.
Rodimus grinned and spun his chair around, staring out the window into a cloudless sky. He twirled his stylus with his fingers. “Are you free-free or am I going to show up and you’ll be suddenly buried in a project?”
“That’s only happened once.”
“Three times.”
“Three times,” Orion conceded, but his voice stayed warm, as did his quiet chuckle. “It’s not my fault I happen to make the most startling discoveries almost immediately after agreeing to lunch together.”
Primus Orion was so damn cute.
Rodimus spun back and forth in the chair, short little fidgets prompted by the push of his foot. “I’m bringing some of your favorite blend. If I get there and you’re buried in translations, I’m going to drink it all without you.”
“I promise not to start on anything that might distract me,” Orion said quickly. He was always easily wooed by promises of a bit of Iacon’s Finest. “I will even do my very best to finish my inspection of these archaic tomes Glint sent over.”
Rodimus tilted his head. “Oh? What makes them archaic?”
“They’re completely physical!” Orion’s excitement was palpable. “As near as I can tell, they date as far back as Alchemist Prime’s reign, and have never been transcribed into digital form.”
Curiosity got the better of him. “What’re they about?”
“I’m not sure yet. Some of the language is dated, and it’s going to take time to translate. I may need Alpha Trion’s help.” In the background, Orion’s vents audibly whirred, evidence that his current project was one coated in dust. It was an often enough occurrence. “So far, I’ve deduced that at least one tome is Alchemist’s personal recollection of the battle against Unicron.”
Rodimus’ orbital ridges lifted upward. “We don’t have a lot of information on that.”
“I know! That’s what makes this such an extraordinary find.” Orion spoke quickly in his elation, but caught himself almost immediately, his tone shifting to one of calm. “Anyway, I do promise that I will set it aside when you arrive. Especially if you so happen to come upon a box of those oil cakes.”
For all his tactfully polite behavior, Orion could be surprisingly devious. Well, if he wanted to be bribed away from his work, Rodimus could make that happen.
“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Rodimus grinned and spun his stylus across his fingers again. “I’ll let you get back to work now. See you in a few?”
Orion offered a distracted hum, no doubt already conceding to the lure of what might very well be an artifact to bridge the gaps of Alchemist’s history. Rodimus was sure he’d hear all about it when they met for lunch.
Rodimus chuckled and ended the comm, unable to control the smile on his face. Those moments of Orion’s attention, borrowed though they were, had become something of a victory to him. Orion was extremely dedicated to his work, both because he felt he owed Alpha Trion the best of his efforts, and because he truly had a passion for history.
That he’d carve out enough time in his day for their friendship, for sharing a meal with Rodimus, was a testament to their relationship.
It wasn’t a date, by the way. He and Orion did not date. Sometimes, Rodimus showed up at the museum with lunch and coaxed Orion into taking a much needed break -- often with the mysterious Alpha Trion’s encouragement.
They’d talk. Orion enjoyed the more luxurious flavorings of energon and treats. Rodimus enjoyed time spent away from the rigors of being a Prime.
It was win-win for everyone.
It was good. It was great. It was fantastic.
Orion was his friend, and right now, his friendship meant more than any of the meaningless relationships Rodimus had engaged in. They didn’t need to date or share a berth.
Orion was important to him, and Rodimus wanted him to stay.
****
Universe: TFP Alternate Canon
Characters: Rodimus Prime/Orion Pax, Ratchet/Jazz, Ultra Magnus, Starscream, Thundercracker, Skywarp
Rating: M
Description: Rodimus Prime knows that you only get one chance to make a good, first impression. Lucky for him, Orion Pax is not the only cutest archivist he’s ever met, but also the most forgiving.
Commission for Jeegoo.
Rodimus Prime was not panicking.
Rodimus Prime was not panicking, because Rodimus Prime did not panic. He did not, in fact, have any reason to panic.
Technically, Starscream was in his employ so there was no reason for Rodimus to be searching for the nearest exit like his spark was on the line.
And yet.
Here he was, crouched by an obscenely large vase that had no purpose except to be ugly and provide decent cover for a Prime on the run. Seriously. This thing was hideous. Why were they keeping it in the Municipal Archives except as a monument to their ancestors’ bad taste?
“Rodimus Prime!” Starscream’s voice squawked through the interior of the museum, bouncing off the walls, seeking Rodimus in his hiding spot with unerring accuracy. “So help me Primus if you don’t show yourself--”
“Star, you can’t threaten the Prime,” Skywarp interjected with a laugh, his vocals equally loud, if not more so. “He’s kind of our boss.”
Rodimus grinned. Good old Skywarp. He could always be counted on to throw himself in front of a raging Starscream for Rodimus’ sake.
“I’ll threaten him as much as I damn well like,” Starscream snarled. “Especially if he doesn’t get his flame-painted aft out here!”
The last was a shout that echoed around the walls. It sounded close, too. A little too close for Rodimus’ comfort.
It wasn’t that serious. All Rodimus wanted was a little time for himself, a chance to peek at the new History of the Primes exhibit before it opened to the public, and he wanted to do it all without being recognized.
Rodimus Prime couldn’t walk into the Municipal Archives with his trio of Seeker guards flanking him. He’d be spotted in an instant! Then the media would descend, and it would become a nightmare of attention.
Ugh.
Why did Nova Prime have to frag the wrong species on a diplomatic mission, contract a rare form of organic fungi deadly to metallics, and keel over right in the middle of a speech on the importance of intergalactic unity? All while secretly salivating over the billions of galactic creds he was going to make once the trade deal firmly settled into place, of course.
A mental image of the Masil Ambassador floated to the forefront of Rodimus’ processor, and he shuddered. Masils were so… squishy. What was Nova thinking? Mech never could say no to a… pretty? face.
“Rodimus!”
Slag.
Rodimus peered around the vase, catching Starscream and Skywarp’s reflections in the perfectly polished transteel of one of the displays. He couldn’t see Thundercracker anywhere, which didn’t mean the third member of his private guard wasn’t here, just that Rodimus couldn’t see him.
Time to go.
Rodimus eased around the other side of the vase, seeking his escape, and grinned when he spotted it. There was an employee door tucked between two exhibits. It required a key card, but that was no trouble for a Prime. He had an all-access pass to anything and everything in Iacon.
He glanced once more to ensure the coast was clear, then darted across the aisle, swiped the key card, and slipped through the door all within the span of a few seconds. He hit the panel on the other side so the door would immediately close, then paused to catch a vent. When no immediate pounding of anger echoed through the door, he knew he’d perfectly executed his escape.
“And that’s why I’m the Prime,” Rodimus said with a chuckle.
He now stood at the top of a steep rampwell, descending toward rows and rows of dimly lit corridors lined with shelving. This was probably a storage area for the many different exhibits they tended to cycle through around here. Honestly, if Starscream could find him in this maze, the Seeker deserved a raise.
Rodimus descended and peered at the placard on the first shelving unit. “The Reign of Megatronus,” he read aloud, and his orbital ridges lifted with appreciation.
Interesting. Mecha tended to shy away from this part of Cybertronian history. No one wanted to remember the Prime who had turned against his brethren out of a lust for power, and a desire to disobey the will of Primus.
Rodimus didn’t think it was that simple. History rarely was.
He moved to the next column, and here the placard read, “The Trials of Liege Maximo.” Ah, now here was a villain if there ever was one. Megatronus’ crimes were under much debate, but scholars were pretty much unified in their distaste for Liege Maximo. There was a reason he’d earned the title, ‘the great manipulator.’
Still.
As Ultra Magnus always said, he who didn’t learn from the mistakes of the past was bound to repeat them in the future. They studied Liege Maximo now because it was important not to forget.
Were these columns arranged by the assumed creation date as written by the Covenant of Primus. If that were the case, then the next column should be--
“You’re not supposed to be down here.”
Rodimus startled at the unexpected voice which didn’t belong to his advisor or any of his three personal guards. He spun toward the speaker, lifting his hands to show he meant no harm.
“This is a restricted area,” the mech continued as he moved closer and under one of the overhead lights, which glinted nicely off his silver armor. He was a small thing -- clearly one of the data archivists -- and the stern look on his face didn’t match the kindness in his optics. “How did you get down here?”
Rodimus smiled the beguiling smile which had gotten him out of many, many spots of trouble in the past. “Well, you see, I was hiding from my guardians, and I saw a door, so I took it.” He pressed his palm to his chassis, deactivating the nanite displacer which camouflaged his distinct color scheme.
The moment his true nanites flooded his armor, the mech’s optics widened, and he snapped into a low bow. “My apologies, Prime, sir,” he said, speaking to the floor, his arms rigid along his sides. “I did not recognize you. Of course you are most welcome to--”
“It’s all right. I was in disguise. You weren’t supposed to recognize me.” Rodimus chuckled and approached the mech, gently tapping his shoulder. “Come on. You don’t have to do that. Pretend I’m just a regular mech.”
The archivist looked up at him, beautifully confused, but he straightened once more, and yes, he was indeed shorter. He only came up to Rodimus’ shoulder, but he had the loveliest hips, and the longest legs, and such interesting lines of red and blue which accentuated the curves and angles of his frame.
“If you insist, my Prime,” he said.
“No, no. Don’t call me that.” Rodimus waved his hands in front of him. “Call me Rodimus. All of that honorific stuff drives me crazy.” He smiled down at the mech. “What’s your designation?”
The mech’s vents audibly stalled, clicking noisily in his chassis, before he said, “Orion Pax, sir. I’m an archivist here in the Primal Archives.”
“So these are your responsibility to maintain, huh?” Rodimus turned, looking back at the rows and rows of columns, all with their tidy metallic labels. “Are you an expert when it comes to the Primes?”
Orion nodded, his field unfurling with a quiet bloom of pride. “I don’t know if you could call me an expert, but they are my focus.”
“Really?” Rodimus tilted his head, planting one hand on his hips and angling himself to catch the best gleam of light over his armor. “What do you think about me then?”
Hesitation lingered in the flutter of Orion’s armor as it defensively tightened around his frame. “Sir, I don’t think I’m qualified to--”
“Humor me,” Rodimus said. He shifted his weight, tried to adopt a friendly and welcoming posture, though he wasn’t sure he succeeded. “Be honest. I could use some feedback from someone who knows what they’re talking about.”
Orion looked at him, and whatever he saw must have given him encouragement because he said, “You could be a good Prime, sir. One of the best even. If you give yourself the chance.”
Warmth trickled into Rodimus’ faceplate. “Cybertron pretty much runs itself, you know,” he pointed out. “Hard to be the best when you’re just a figurehead.” He brushed his fingers over his chassis, where the Matrix hummed beneath, restlessly shifting when it was usually so calm and still. “Primes are just symbols.”
“Symbols are symbols for a reason!” Orion insisted, and the passion in his vocals took Rodimus by surprise, because the mech seemed to come alive for the first time, losing his reserve to continue, “They stand for something. And the actions of those who carry them can either bring great honor to those symbols, or tarnish them forever.”
“Tarnish,” Rodimus echoed, and he glanced past Orion, to the rows of past Primes, and a few designations that he’d noted and dismissed for how much he despised the legacy they left for him. “I suppose you’re right about that.”
“Of course I am,” Orion said, with great conviction, before he seemed to realize he’d spoken so sharply. His field immediately withdrew, faceplate leeching of color. “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t mean--”
Rodimus held up a hand. “You did, actually, and I’m glad for it. I asked for honesty, and you gave me what I wanted.” He smiled, to soften the blow, though he felt the sting of Orion’s chastisement, as accidental as it was. “I bet you think I’m squandering an opportunity, don’t you?”
Orion shifted, his gaze falling to the floor. “To hold the Matrix is a great responsibility. I’ve seen enough of the past to know that many Primes did not view it so.”
“And I’m one of them, yeah?”
Orion shook his head, and he drew himself up straight, drawing air through his vents, jaw setting so firmly Rodimus was impressed. “You don’t have to be, sir,” he said. “You could be different, if you just put your mind to it. You’re unlike any the Matrix has chosen before. You could be the best.”
His conviction in Rodimus’ potential was so genuine, for a moment, Rodimus felt an intense shame that he hadn’t put nearly enough effort into anything Ultra Magnus or his guard had been trying to teach him. He suddenly wanted to do better so he could look into Orion’s optics and see an archivist recording the history of a Prime he’d felt honored to know.
“Thank you for your honesty,” Rodimus said after a moment. He pressed a hand to his chassis like Ultra Magnus taught him and dipped his head in a polite bow, the lowest a Prime was allowed to bend. “I can see the Archives are going to benefit from your knowledge.”
“I hope that is true.” Orion’s field radiated unabashed pride for the first time. “Alpha Trion requested me specifically because of my research into the Primes.”
Primus, he was adorable. Simultaneously confident and unsure, deferential but outspoken, earnest and sincere.
“Did he?” Rodimus tucked his hands behind his back, shoulders ruffling to try and rediscover his balance. All of his usual verve was off-kilter thanks to Orion. Rodimus had never met anyone like him. “I shall have to send him my thanks and appreciation then.”
Orion beamed, the sheer delight in his optics making Rodimus’ spark flutter. It was a damn crime to keep a mech this cute hidden away in the archives. “He’ll be pleased to know you find I’m doing an adequate job.”
“More than adequate, I’d say,” Rodimus said, and chuffed a vent, giving himself an internal shake to shed off the intensity of their earlier discussion. “Especially since it made meeting you the highlight of my day.”
Orion cycled his optics before they widened, and heat rose to stain his cheeks. “I, um, thank you, sir. If you’re interested in a tour or would like some other advice, I can help with that, too.”
Precious.
“I’m actually thinking of something more personal. A way to show my gratitude,” Rodimus inched closer toward Orion, leaning in to watch the heat darken in Orion’s cheeks, and his optics burn a little brighter. “Dinner, perhaps. What do you say?”
Orion’s vents audibly stalled. He gaped at Rodimus in a way Rodimus didn’t think mechs did in real life before he shook his head firmly, squared his shoulders, and said, “That’s very kind of you to offer, sir. I’m not sure you’d find me very interesting though.”
“I don’t see why not. I happen to find history very, very interesting.” Not to mention Orion himself. He was a fascinating study in dichotomy, not to mention how much Rodimus really wanted to trace the lines of color on his frame. “Why don’t you--”
“Rodimus Prime!”
The bellow made both Rodimus and Orion startle. It zapped up Rodimus’ spinal strut, made his spoiler halves go rigid, and a sense of impending doom grabbed him by the spark. His optics spiraled wide as he slowly turned to see Ultra Magnus striding toward him, flanked by all three members of Rodimus’ private Seeker guard.
Rodimus threw his hands into the air. “Seriously? You called Magnus!?”
Starscream didn’t look the least bit chastened. He crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “You left me no choice, Roddy.”
“And right that he should.” Ultra Magnus’ expression was one of thinly concealed fury, his every armor plate quivering in place as he stared Rodimus down. An easy task considering that Ultra Magnus was the largest mech present. “You have work to do.”
Rodimus waved to the Archives around him. “You’re the one who told me I needed to be more informed about our culture.”
“Trying to frag a cute archivist doesn’t count as embracing culture,” Skywarp said with a snicker, until Thundercracker flicked his wing. He pouted and gave his partner a wounded look.
“I have been fielding comms all afternoon from interested parties who only wish to speak with the Prime,” Ultra Magnus said, ignoring the chaos behind him with the kind of aplomb Rodimus wished he could emulate. But no one did stoic like his adviser and teacher. “You cannot continue to shirk this duty merely because you find it mundane.”
Rodimus snorted and planted one hand on his hip, waving off the chastisement with his other. “Everyone knows they’re going to decide what they want to do with or without me. I don’t see why I have to sit around and pretend like it matters whether I’m there.”
A gear in Ultra Magnus’ jaw clicked. “You have a responsibility.”
“Yeah, well, I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” Rodimus said and turned back toward Orion with a smile. “You never answered my question. Could I get your comm?”
Orion seemed to have turned into a statue in the last half minute. He’d adopted a pose better suited to soldiers standing at attention, his optics wide and his vents shallow. “Sir, it seems your attention is required elsewhere.”
“Yes, it is.” Ultra Magnus huffed, and his patience must have been frayed abnormally thin, because he struck as quick as a pitviper, massive hand curling around Rodimus’ elbow. “Let’s go, Rodimus. This adolescent behavior needs to cease.”
“If I could get away with mechhandling him like that, this would be a lot easier,” Starscream said with a huff. His wings twitched, and Thundercracker took an abrupt step to the left to avoid getting smacked by one.
Ultra Magnus tugged, and Rodimus stumbled away from the adorable archivist like he hadn’t been upgraded when he accepted the Matrix. It wasn’t fair that Ultra Magnus was still bigger and stronger than him.
“You have my permission to mechhandle him as much as you need if it will keep him safe and where he needs to be,” Ultra Magnus said.
Starscream’s optics brightened with evil delight. “Could I have that in writing?”
“Hey, don’t I get a say in this?” Rodimus protested as Ultra Magnus dragged him away, and Orion stood there watching, confusion blossoming in his field. “Wait. I didn’t get his comm. Magnus, wait!”
He was ignored.
What good was it to have the Matrix and be the Prime when no one listened to him?
“Sorry about him,” Rodimus heard Thundercracker say as he shuffled toward Orion, one hand pressing to his chassis as he gave a little bow of respect. “I will let your supervisor know that any delays to your work is through no fault of your own.”
“Thunder! Get his comm!” Rodimus shouted.
“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Skywarp drawled as he appeared on Rodimus’ other side, hooking his arm through Rodimus’ free one. “You really gotta learn not to skimp out on the work, Roddy. You know Star will always find you.”
Rodimus sighed.
He glanced over his shoulder, got one last glimpse of Orion, and he swore their optics met. Orion gave him a little smile, a wave, and then he was out of sight because Starscream stepped between them. He was unamused, and Rodimus knew he was going to hear it from everyone for this little stunt.
“I hope you had fun,” Starscream said with an arched orbital ridge. “I might yet convince the council to let me put a tracking device on you.”
Rodimus gave him a blinding, adorable smile, the one that tended to get him out of all kinds of trouble when he was just Hot Rod and hadn’t yet accepted the Matrix. “Awww, you missed me.”
“Like a case of the Rust,” Starscream drawled, and raised his voice to say, “Don’t let him go, Magnus. He’s a slippery one.”
“I’m fully aware,” Ultra Magnus grunted, and his hand tightened around Rodimus’ upper arm, a grip of banded duryllium from which Rodimus couldn’t escape.
Damn it.
He really wished he could have gotten Orion’s comm.
Orion’s head was still spinning even hours after his shift had ended, and he’d gone home, back to his one-room habsuite. He curled on his berth, datapad in need of translating in his lap, and a cup of energon in his other hand.
He hadn’t translated anything in the last fifteen minutes because he couldn’t drag his thoughts away from Rodimus Prime. Surely he hadn’t been serious when he was asking for Orion’s comm? Especially after Orion had been so bold to practically chastise the mech?
Orion didn’t know much about their new Prime. Rodimus had only risen to the position within the past decade or so, after Nova’s untimely demise. Orion paid little attention to current politics, since his focus was on historical events.
He hadn’t expected Rodimus Prime to be so handsome and charming.
Orion spent too much time in study of the historical Primes. He’d seen hundreds of statues and artifacts and expensive artistic representations of stodgy, old mechs without a sense of humor. Prior Primes were large and bold and stately.
Rodimus Prime was certainly bold, but there wasn’t a stately thing about him. Those flames! Orion’s face heated in memory of them. They were better suited to adolescent mechs trapped between the wanderings of their sparkling-hood, and the adult-hood which awaited them. They were exciting and enticing, but certainly not respectable for a Prime!
Very handsome though.
Orion groaned and set his datapad into hibernation. He couldn’t focus on his translation, not with Rodimus Prime at the top of his thoughts. He didn’t know what to think, and Orion had often been accused of knowing too much about books and not enough about other mechs.
His comm beeped.
Orion cycled his optics and answered it, knowing it could not be Rodimus but a trill of excitement daring to echo through his spark anyway. “Good evening, Ratchet. How is--”
“Do you know what Pharma did today?” His oldest friend’s voice poured grumpily into his comm, but then, grumpy was Ratchet’s natural state when Pharma was involved. “He stole my patient and had the audacity to tell our clinical supervisor it was because I kept misinterpreting the results.”
Orion’s lips twitched despite himself. “And were you?”
“Of course not! Pharma’s insisting the mech has a condition that no one thinks exists,” Ratchet huffed. There was the distinct noise of items banging around in the background -- sounded like Ratchet was on cleanup duty again. “He’s so desperate for praise, he’s willing to risk a mech’s spark.”
“And there’s no chance he’s right?” Orion asked, trying to make his tone as gentle as possible. The rivalry between the best friends -- and occasional lovers when they could stand each other for longer than ten minutes -- was a universal constant.
There was a very long, noisy pause as Ratchet kept scrubbing and grumbled subvocally. Orion did him the favor of pretending he wasn’t listening. For all that Ratchet proclaimed the importance of logical thought, he could be quite emotional when Pharma was involved.
“There’s always a chance,” Ratchet grudgingly admitted. “But that’s not the point.”
Orion nodded. “The point is that Pharma continues to criticize and correct your work.”
“And he’s not always right!”
“No, but he wants to be,” Orion confirmed. He’d heard this exact same rant before. He only had to wait for Ratchet to run out of steam, and then they could have a reasonable conversation.
His only regret was that they could no longer have these conversations in person. Now that Orion was in Iacon, and Ratchet back in Nova Cronum, their weekly meetings had to go virtual.
Ratchet huffed into the comm. “Look, if I thought for even a second that my patient needed the treatment Pharma recommended, I’d do it.”
“I know you would,” Orion said gently. “Because you’re a good medic.”
“Damn right I am.” Ratchet’s grump cooled into pride, as it inevitably did. “What about you, botlet? How’re things in Iacon?”
Orion took a sip of his energon. “Ratchet, please. How many times must I remind you that I am, in fact, older than you?”
“Maybe in years, but not in the mileage,” Ratchet grunted, and the background noises of splashing solvent briefly camouflaged his silence. “Didn’t answer my question.”
“I am fine, as always. I have settled into both my new hab, and my new job. Alpha Trion is even more fascinating in person.” Orion smiled, insides warming at the thought of his new mentor. “Working at the Archives is a dream.”
“Guess that means you’re not coming back.”
Orion squirmed down into the comfortable foam of his new berth. “No, Ratchet. This is the best thing that has happened to me.” He glanced out his window -- he actually had a window here! “I met the Prime today.”
Ratchet muttered a curse as pipes squeaked in the background. “How did that happen?”
“Apparently, he habitually runs away to avoid his work, and he chose the Archives as his hiding spot today.” Orion’s cheeks flushed at the memory. “He’s very handsome, and believe it or not, I think he was flirting with me.”
“Oh, I believe it.” Ratchet’s sour tone was back, but at least it wasn’t directed at Pharma this time. “For one, you’re adorable. For two, Rodimus Prime is a known flirt. You really ought to pay more attention to the newscasts.”
Orion set aside his historical datapad and grabbed his personal laptop instead. “Rarely does the news have anything to offer that’s of use to me,” he said. “But I concede your point. One must stay apprised of current developments in order to properly provide a context for historical ones.”
“Your new mentor tell you that?”
“Yes.” Orion tapped the most recent headlines, resigning himself to a night spent catching up on relevant headlines. “He asked me for my comm and invited me out to dinner. I guess he didn’t mean it.”
The splashing solvent cut off with a bit more squeaking as Ratchet said, “I believe he meant it. I don’t believe you can expect anything more than that, though.”
“I’m not actually interested,” Orion said, skimming the top three news sites. He wasn’t sure where to begin. There was so much here.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” Ratchet hummed thoughtfully and gave a little laugh. “Frag, I’d tumble him if I could. Primus knows how to build a good-looking Prime.”
“Ratchet!”
His friend’s laughter was a much more appealing sound than his earlier grumpiness. “Just being honest.” Ratchet grunted, followed by the rattle of a bunch of metallic items. “Okay, Orion. I have to get back to work, and I can already tell you’re losing yourself down the wormhole of current events.”
“Let me know when you have one of your longer breaks. I’ll come visit,” Orion said, tapping the tab for political developments.
His optics spiraled wide as headlines started scrolling en masse. Since when did politics include celebrity worship and speculation? There were hardly any articles here on Rodimus Prime’s policies or diplomatic relations.
There were, however, dozens of image captures and speculative posts on who he was romantically involved in from week to week.
“I’m in my residency, Orion. It’ll be months before that happens,” Ratchet drawled.
“Even so.” Orion scrolled through the pictures, unsurprised to find Rodimus Prime always beside very beautiful and talented mechs. There were renowned scientists and artisans and published writers.
He must have been flirting out of habit. Surely he wasn’t actually interested in Orion himself.
“I’ll see what I can do. Be good.” Ratchet paused to laugh and added, “Or actually, don’t be good. Go out and do something adventurous. You’ve earned it.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Orion said as Ratchet ended the call, leaving him to his research.
Orion ex-vented and stared at the pages upon pages of data.
He was going to be online half the night.
Skywarp and Starscream had gone home.
Ultra Magnus lingered in the office just beyond Rodimus’, knowing full well Rodimus had no other egress than to walk directly past him.
Thundercracker sat perched across from Rodimus, ostensibly reading from a datapad, but actually present to make sure Rodimus did nothing more than perch at his desk, moving items from one stack to another, after appropriately reviewing them of course.
It was late. Very, very late.
Rodimus was tired. He could complain about being hungry, but every time he did that, Ultra Magnus sent one of the runners for some energon or treats, and it was not an excuse. There was also a local berth, where Rodimus was allowed to take a brief stasis nap, if he felt he needed to do so to concentrate on his work.
He was completely and utterly trapped.
Rodimus sighed.
“The longer you spend ignoring your work, the longer all of us are going to be here,” Thundercracker said without looking up from his datapad. He handled idle times better than both Skywarp and Starscream, which was why he’d been given the task of supervising Rodimus.
He was also significantly harder to bribe than the rest.
Rodimus moodily signed an acknowledgement of review for his current datapad and added it to the ‘out’ stack. He dragged a new pad from the ‘in’ stack, and swore it didn’t seem to diminish no matter how much he did.
“Magnus is just punishing me. Nothing in here is even urgent,” Rodimus pointed out.
“That does not make it any less necessary.”
There was just no reasoning with Thundercracker.
Rodimus stared at the datapad without seeing it, glyphs blurring before his optics. Thundercracker had not, in fact, obtained Orion’s comm code. He’d instead apologized for the inconvenience that was Rodimus’ visit.
Rodimus drummed his fingers on the desk. Orion was really cute. He’d been so protective of the Archives, until he realized who Rodimus was, and so proud of his work, too. Maybe Rodimus ought to take a cue from that at some point.
He really wished he’d gotten Orion’s comm.
Wait.
“Hey, Thunder?”
“No.”
Rodimus scowled and narrowed his optics at the third member of his personal guard. “You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m quite sure the answer is no.”
Rodimus pressed his lips together, tapping one foot on the floor, before he said, “If I promise to be very quiet for the next hour and work diligently, will you answer my question? Without telling Ultra Magnus I asked.”
Thundercracker was silent for a moment before he lowered the datapad and looked at Rodimus over the top of it, orbital ridges raised. “Fine,” he said, and lifted his chin. “What is it?”
Worth it.
Rodimus patted the monitor on his console. “Do we have access to the personnel records at the Archives?”
“I don’t like where this is going,” Thundercracker said with a disapproving slant to his lips, and of all his advisors and protectors, Thundercracker did disapproving the best. He didn’t use words. He had this look.
“You didn’t ask him for his comm code!” Rodimus explained desperately, waving his hands in the air. “How am I supposed to talk to him if I don’t know it?”
Thundercracker pinched the bridge of his nasal ridge, his wings sinking behind him. “It would not only be a horrible abuse of power to access personnel records because of your position, but it would be a terrible breach of ethics as well.”
“So… you’re saying I shouldn’t just look him up,” Rodimus said.
“Yes, that is exactly what I’m saying.” Thundercracker stared at him.
Rodimus tried and failed not to squirm.
“From what I can tell, Orion Pax is doing an excellent job. He’s not like the other mechs you tend to… date.” Thundercracker clearly hesitated on the last word, the jerk. “Let him do his job in peace.”
Rodimus slumped. “You’re saying I’d just be an irritation to him.”
“I’m saying that you met by accident, and perhaps it should stay that way,” Thundercracker said. At least he sounded gentle about it. “The life of a Prime is a lonely one, sir.”
“Yeah, it is.” Rodimus sighed and plopped his chin on his elbow, glaring at the datapads in front of him. “I’ll do my work now. Thanks, Thunder.”
Thundercracker smiled and lifted his datapad once more.
And Rodimus went back to work, just like he promised.
Orion pushed Rodimus Prime from his mind.
It was a fluke encounter, he reasoned, and there was no reason to mull over it any further. He had plenty of work in the Archives to keep him occupied, and if the newscasts were at all accurate, no doubt Rodimus Prime had already forgotten and moved on to someone far more interesting and accessible.
He put his focus into a crate of newly arrived relics shipped from the Protihex archives. They all needed cataloging, proper identification, and proper restoration. Since they were specifically related to the reign of Nexus Prime, the task fell to Orion.
It was the perfect distraction.
His comm beeped.
“Orion, there’s a delivery. Will you receive it, please?”
Orion snapped to attention, though Alpha Trion likely couldn’t see him. “Yes, sir. Of course.” He put down the lid of the crate. “Are we expecting something?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Alpha Trion sighed into the comm. “Glyph does have an irritating habit of sending items without properly notifying me, however. I suspect that is the case here.”
Orion quietly chuckled. Glyph was a very kind, very studious minibot, but he did have the tendency to be forgetful in his enthusiasm. There was probably a draft in his message folders waiting for him to click ‘send’.
“I will receive it and let you know.” Orion peeled the protective strips from the ends of his fingers and locked his console behind him.
“Thank you.”
Alpha Trion went back to work, and Orion went to the dock where they normally received deliveries, but it was dim and locked down. No shipments today. Glyph strikes again, Orion realized with a laugh.
He made for the front desk instead. All deliveries should be received through the loading dock, but if Glyph was feeling particularly protective of a relic, he would send it by courier instead. This happened often enough Orion was no longer surprised by it, and neither was Alpha Trion.
Orion expected a crate splashed with glyphs marked ‘Fragile’ and ‘Priceless’ and ‘Do Not Crush’. Instead, there was a gorgeous bouquet of crystals in a rainbow of colors, each expertly crafted to resemble blossoms and beautifully arranged in a gleaming, metallic vase.
“Do I have a crate here from Glyph in Protihex?” Orion asked the desk clerk while side-eying the massive vase of crystals. Someone was being spoiled today.
Copperpot did not look up from his console. “No, you have an obnoxiously large vase of crystals from an anonymous sender.”
“This is for us?” Orion asked, orbital ridges raising. He inched closer, staring the vase up and down. A small piece of plexifilm dangled from a ribbon, glyphs etched into the surface.
“For you,” Copperpot corrected. “Kindly remove it from my desk. I can’t see the front door around it.”
“Oh, yes. I apologize.” Orion tucked the vase carefully into the crook of his elbow while he pulled the card into view. “Thank you, Copperpot. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Copperpot waved him off.
Orion retreated to the lift, rather than risk taking the ramp. He pressed his palm to the security reader and focused again on the card. There it was, clear as transsteel, his designation in the recipient line. He turned the card over, hoping to find an explanation.
You didn’t have the chance to give me your comm so here’s mine instead. It’s my direct line, too. Give me a call sometime so we can have that date.
It was from Rodimus Prime.
The lift came to a halt and beeped, urging him off, and Orion did so in a daze. He read the card over and over again as he found his way to his station on auto-pilot. Every inch of his workspace was covered in datapads and relics and notations. He had to clear a space for the enormous bouquet, and he couldn’t resist touching one of the delicate blooms. It chimed musically beneath his fingertip, so smooth it felt like liquid.
Would Rodimus go to so much effort just for a conquest? Would he offer his private line to some random mech in the hopes of berthing them?
Orion did not know the Prime well enough to assume.
It had been a week. Orion was sure Rodimus Prime had forgotten all about him. Why would he remember some archivist in the bowels of the Primal Archives when he was surrounded by more suitable berthpartners?
Orion tried to focus on his work. His gaze, however, kept wandering back to the crystal blooms, and the card dangling from the ribbon. He’d already committed the comm code to memory. Rodimus would not have sent the number if he didn’t intend for Orion to comm him.
It would also be rude not to, at the very least, thank Rodimus for the bouquet.
Orion sighed. He would not get anything done at this rate. He should simply place the call, thank Rodimus, and then he would be able to focus on his work. That was the simplest solution here.
He dialed before he could convince himself otherwise.
Rodimus answered almost immediately. “Orion! I was hoping you’d call.” They couldn’t see each other, but Orion could read the smile in his vocals. “You must have gotten the crystals.”
“I did.” Orion found himself smiling as well as he sank into his chair. “They were very beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome! They are a beautiful gift for a beautiful mech.” Rodimus chuckled softly. “I just wish I could’ve seen you smile when you got them.”
Heat flushed Orion’s face. “They were a pleasant surprise, I’ll admit.”
“Good, good.” Rodimus audibly drew in a vent. “So, I mean, if you’re not busy, I was thinking we could get that dinner I mentioned. Tonight?”
Orion fiddled with one of his styluses, the gleam of the blooms in his peripheral vision. “I am very flattered, sir, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Hey, I meant it when I said you don’t have to call me ‘sir,” Rodimus said, his tone cheerful, but an undercurrent of disappointment threading his glyphs. “Is tonight not good for you or…?”
“While it’s true that I’m very busy right now, I don’t think we should see each other in a romantic capacity,” Orion said, trying to ignore the stab of guilt and disappointment wrapping around his spark. “I’d rather focus on my job. Alpha Trion was very kind to extend this opportunity, and I don’t want any distractions.”
“Sure, sure. I can understand that.” Rodimus chuckled, though there was little amusement in the sound. “Nothing wrong with being dedicated to your work. I suppose I ought to take a lesson from you.”
Orion’s face heated. “No, no. I didn’t mean to imply--”
“I know. It’s okay.” In the background, Orion picked up the low murmur of other conversations. Wherever Rodimus was, he’d stopped just to take Orion’s comm. “Would it be all right if I called you every once in a while? As friends?”
“Friends?” Orion echoed.
“Yeah! I was only halfway kidding when I mentioned Magnus wanting me to learn more about the history of the Primes. And I don’t really have anyone I talk to who doesn’t want something from me.”
Orion’s spark went out to the Prime, who sounded so uncertain and lonely that his walls crumbled. “I always have room in my life for another friend.”
“Great!”
In the background, someone shouted for Rodimus, and it sounded very much like the mech Orion had seen in the Archives. Ultra Magnus, who was known to always be at the new Prime’s side, guiding him throughout his ascension.
Rodimus muttered a curse subovocally. “Look, I gotta go. Magnus is getting that tic in his orbital ridge again. But I’ll comm you when I can. If that’s okay, I mean.”
“Yes, of course.”
“You can comm me, too!” Rodimus said, and there was a lightness to his voice that made Orion grin, his spark offering another throb of affection for this Prime who had none of the formal gravity of his predecessors. “Like I said, this is my private comm and since you have it, you have open permission to use it.”
“Rodimus Prime!”
Orion winced at the bellow in the background, loud enough it translated quite clearly through the comm, almost as if the mech were speaking directly to Orion.
“Slag,” Rodimus muttered. “He has the worst fragging timing.”
Orion chuckled despite it all. “Get back to work, Rodimus,” he said, deliberately using the Prime’s designation rather than the honorific. They were friends after all. “We’ll talk again soon.”
He ended the comm so Rodimus would not be tempted to continue talking, no matter his advisor’s ire. Orion shook his head, lips curved with amusement. It remained so very surreal.
Rodimus was adorable, and he did sound like he needed a friend.
Fortunately, Orion did, too.
Orion glanced once more at the bouquet, one finger gently chiming the nearest spray of carved blue-blossoms. The whole arrangement lightly swayed, crystals clinking together, creating a musical sound. Orion allowed himself to admire them for a full minute before he squared his shoulders and pulled out new strips for his fingertips.
Time to get back to work. Those Protihex relics wouldn’t sort themselves.
Orion wasn’t the first mech who ever turned Rodimus down for a date, but he was the first mech Rodimus wanted to see again regardless. Friendship was something Rodimus had never found himself wanting or asking for, but he couldn’t imagine never speaking with Orion again.
He respected Orion’s wishes. He never asked Orion for another date.
They spoke often, more so than Rodimus expected.
Orion would babble about his work in the Archives, and Rodimus would vent about the headache involved in being a Prime, no matter how much of a figurehead he was. Orion listened and didn’t judge. Rodimus listened and asked questions, and the sheer delight in Orion’s vocals at being allowed to prattle about his passion was worth it.
Rodimus greatly admired him for his zeal.
And for once, Ultra Magnus did not harrumph about Rodimus’ associations with someone outside the office of the Prime. If anything, he encouraged it.
“Perhaps Orion will be a good influence on you,” he said as he took one stack of completed datapads and exchanged it for another, much larger pile of work. “I certainly hope you do not intend to be a distraction for him.”
“Nope. Orion tells me to frag off when he’s busy,” Rodimus said. “Or well, he’s more polite about it.” He smiled before he could help it. “He’s polite about everything. It’s adorable.”
Ultra Magnus hummed his approval. “Will you be taking a long lunch today?”
“If Orion will have me,” Rodimus said, distracted already as he grabbed the first datapad on the stack. “I know, I know. I have to do this stack before I can take my break.” He looked up at Ultra Magnus with an innocent grin, waggling his orbital ridges. “Unless I sneak out.”
“Starscream has been given permission to mechhandle you,” Ultra Magnus reminded him. He nudged the datapad stack closer. “If you’re particularly productive, I will set you free this weekend.”
Rodimus perked, his spoiler flicking upward. “You mean instead of going to that boring fundraiser?”
Ultra Magnus smiled at him, however slight the curve of his lips was, and that was worth its weight alone. “I do.”
“You’re the best!”
Between getting out of that fundraiser, and perhaps seeing Orion for lunch today, Rodimus was having a fantastic week.
Ultra Magnus left, and Rodimus did him the courtesy of waiting until the door shut before he dialed Orion’s comm, already contemplating what he’d bring for lunch today.
“Yes, Rodimus, I am free today,” Orion said by way of answer, his voice thick with humor.
It remained one of Rodimus’ greatest victories that he’d convinced Orion out of the habit of reserved politeness when they talked. Orion treated him like a friend now, and the thought filled Rodimus with delight.
Rodimus grinned and spun his chair around, staring out the window into a cloudless sky. He twirled his stylus with his fingers. “Are you free-free or am I going to show up and you’ll be suddenly buried in a project?”
“That’s only happened once.”
“Three times.”
“Three times,” Orion conceded, but his voice stayed warm, as did his quiet chuckle. “It’s not my fault I happen to make the most startling discoveries almost immediately after agreeing to lunch together.”
Primus Orion was so damn cute.
Rodimus spun back and forth in the chair, short little fidgets prompted by the push of his foot. “I’m bringing some of your favorite blend. If I get there and you’re buried in translations, I’m going to drink it all without you.”
“I promise not to start on anything that might distract me,” Orion said quickly. He was always easily wooed by promises of a bit of Iacon’s Finest. “I will even do my very best to finish my inspection of these archaic tomes Glint sent over.”
Rodimus tilted his head. “Oh? What makes them archaic?”
“They’re completely physical!” Orion’s excitement was palpable. “As near as I can tell, they date as far back as Alchemist Prime’s reign, and have never been transcribed into digital form.”
Curiosity got the better of him. “What’re they about?”
“I’m not sure yet. Some of the language is dated, and it’s going to take time to translate. I may need Alpha Trion’s help.” In the background, Orion’s vents audibly whirred, evidence that his current project was one coated in dust. It was an often enough occurrence. “So far, I’ve deduced that at least one tome is Alchemist’s personal recollection of the battle against Unicron.”
Rodimus’ orbital ridges lifted upward. “We don’t have a lot of information on that.”
“I know! That’s what makes this such an extraordinary find.” Orion spoke quickly in his elation, but caught himself almost immediately, his tone shifting to one of calm. “Anyway, I do promise that I will set it aside when you arrive. Especially if you so happen to come upon a box of those oil cakes.”
For all his tactfully polite behavior, Orion could be surprisingly devious. Well, if he wanted to be bribed away from his work, Rodimus could make that happen.
“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Rodimus grinned and spun his stylus across his fingers again. “I’ll let you get back to work now. See you in a few?”
Orion offered a distracted hum, no doubt already conceding to the lure of what might very well be an artifact to bridge the gaps of Alchemist’s history. Rodimus was sure he’d hear all about it when they met for lunch.
Rodimus chuckled and ended the comm, unable to control the smile on his face. Those moments of Orion’s attention, borrowed though they were, had become something of a victory to him. Orion was extremely dedicated to his work, both because he felt he owed Alpha Trion the best of his efforts, and because he truly had a passion for history.
That he’d carve out enough time in his day for their friendship, for sharing a meal with Rodimus, was a testament to their relationship.
It wasn’t a date, by the way. He and Orion did not date. Sometimes, Rodimus showed up at the museum with lunch and coaxed Orion into taking a much needed break -- often with the mysterious Alpha Trion’s encouragement.
They’d talk. Orion enjoyed the more luxurious flavorings of energon and treats. Rodimus enjoyed time spent away from the rigors of being a Prime.
It was win-win for everyone.
It was good. It was great. It was fantastic.
Orion was his friend, and right now, his friendship meant more than any of the meaningless relationships Rodimus had engaged in. They didn’t need to date or share a berth.
Orion was important to him, and Rodimus wanted him to stay.
