relatable scenario: subconsciously staring at lord megatrons aft as he walks past in hallway; catching own faux pas at last second and jerking gaze away on reflex, even though lord megatron was not directing optical attentions towards self in the first place
Elita and Optimus composed themselves so well in the public optic.
Oh no, they rarely touched, but every once in a while one might see them pass in the hallway or in a meeting room, or… anywhere, and they would lean in for a moment, just a breath, and whisper something so silent that their audios would shift.
What could they be saying? It had happened often enough that speculations had arisen… Something sweet, no doubt. Something to make a youngling gag. Mushy.
Elita: *walks down a hallway with Chromia* *sees Optimus talking with Magnus*
Optimus: *glances at her and leans back on his ped juuust the slightest*
Look TFA Optimus is absolutely a middle class maybe lower-middle class kid who joined the army out of misplaced patriotism from propaganda and also bc it was one of his best choices
TFA Megatron maybe started with fuck all but he’s now the equivalent of new money. He’s Jay Gatsby. He likes the finer things but also has no fucking idea of the REALLY good stuff that like the Tower nobles deal with. He’s learned manners and speech but he’s still “horrifyingly” plebian
What I’m saying is, if they take over Cybertron together they ducking horrify the old elite bc like. They do the robo equivalent of wearing their shoes inside. Their outside shoes. They have awful kitsch knick-knacks instead of graceful minimalism (Megatron is a hoarder fight me). They garden WITHOUT gloves and plant hodgepodge awful arrangements that are a riot of colors.
Megatron absolutely knows he’s horrifying the elite and why and finds it goddamn hilarious. Optimus is just like “why r people upset that I used the same fork for the salad and the meat”
(Thanks for playing! 🙂 NB – this anon also contacted me again and requested that I add the prompt “medical care”. Hope you like the result! Warning for mild gore in a clinical context. Pre-war, set around the same time as Megatron Origins.)
The blindfold was whipped off, and Ratchet blinked, trying to get his optics to adjust to the darkness. He could make out hulking shapes clustered around him, and here and there, dimly glowing slivers of red, blue, and yellow indicated mecha watching him from the shadows.
“Found ya a medic, just like ya asked for, Boss,” said a voice from somewhere behind him. Close to floor level, it sounded like.
A shadow shifted in front of him, and resolved into a massive silver bot peering down into Ratchet’s face. ”You are a doctor?” he rumbled. Ratchet nodded curtly, biting down on his fear. He’d been in a few nasty situations in the Dead End, mostly trying to get between the circuit speeder dealers and his strung-out patients, and he’d survived that. He could survive this. He could.
The silver mech tilted his head towards the back of the room. It was an oddly graceful gesture. ”We have wounded. Come.”
“Do I get to learn who my patients are?” Ratchet asked, already standing up and taking his medical kit out of subspace.
“They are my followers. They are of great importance to me.”
“And you are…?”
“The mech who will be removing your spark with his denta if you fail.” His voice was as even as if he’d been commenting on the weather. Ratchet didn’t quite manage to suppress his shiver.
There turned out to be three wounded mecha: a minibot who just needed an injection to stabilise his spark after receiving some kind of massive electric shock (like running afoul of an electrified security system? Ratchet wasn’t sure he wanted to know); a seeker with a near-shredded wing, but who was stable and awake enough to snark at him up until Ratchet put him under; and a yellow grounder whose chest and abdominal plating was mangled horrifically, and who graced Ratchet with a cocky smile and a soft, “Watch the paintjob, eh, Doc?” before passing out. It took two hours to make certain they wouldn’t lose him, and another four to patch him up to the point where self-repair could take over. Ratchet was nearly dead on his feet by the time he finished with all three of them.
Turning to his host, who had been watching impassively with his arms folded for the last hour, he snapped, “And now your arm.”
“What?”
“You’re hurt. I noticed you favouring it as we came in.”
The mech glared for a moment; then, slowly, he extended one arm. A meagre patch job and a haphazard lick of silver paint hid what was, once Ratchet got them peeled off, a particularly ugly gash. Clucking, he said, “You’re lucky you don’t have the beginnings of a rust infection. I get that you don’t want it seen, but next time, bathe it in a nanite solution before you wrap it – I can get you some from the clinic.”
“Your generosity to the mech who kidnapped you borders on suspicious.”
“Yeah, the guy who had his minions grab me in broad daylight and take me to a secret lair to treat battle wounds really has grounds to call me suspicious.” He knew he should regret saying it, but somewhere around the fifth hour of surgery, the fear had burned off, replaced by exhaustion and worry. Worry over every patient, from the kid with the torn-open plating to the mystery mech whose arm he was piecing back together.
To Ratchet’s surprise, his current patient said nothing more, until the repair was done. Then he caught Ratchet’s retreating hand in his larger one, and turned it palm up, examining it minutely.
“You have a gentle touch, Doctor.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why they pay me the big shanix.” Ratchet’s mouth went dry, watching the mech turn his hand delicately this way and that.
“I did not mean it as a compliment. I do not require coddling, like a fretful newspark.” He had a gentleness of his own, though, in the careful way he folded Ratchet’s fingers over his palm and released his hand. "However, you are skilled. You have my gratitude.“ For the first time since they’d met, the silver mech smiled, flashing bright, sharp denta. "You may find that a valuable commodity in the time to come.”
Cybertronian Database 