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zae-heeyyy · 9 months ago

Text

Pastiche

Summary: You and Arthur escape through writing. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x gn!Reader Word Count: 2,345 Trigger Warning: Tuberculosis, death Tags: angst, sadness, high honor Arthur

a/n: Thanks for you kind words on Chiaroscuro. I've enjoyed writing again so much! I'm in my tragedy era. My hs english teacher's voice haunts me when I'm writing, so I spent a lot of time scrutinizing this. Didn't mean for it to be so long, but I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

pastiche: a work of art or literature that imitates the style or character of another, often as an homage or tribute.

You knew there was something special about Arthur Morgan the day you met him. Despite his best efforts to believe otherwise, he was easy on the eyes, and his dry humor combined with his strong sense of honor sealed your crush on the cowboy. Everybody else could see that he was sweet on you, too, noticing when he pulled you to sit at the fire with him or how he watched you around camp. As more time passed, you'd become mostly inseparable, taking every moment you had to sneak away together. One of your favorite places to escape to was the fields of Little Creek River in Big Valley. You'd be reading a book and glance over to find Arthur staring intently at an animal until it was out of sight. Then he'd open up his journal and sketch it. He wasn't doing that today, though. He was staring across the field, but you could tell he was elsewhere in his mind.

"Got somethin' to say," his eyes met yours earnestly. When he told you he loved you, a laugh erupted deep from your belly. Dumbfounded, he asked, "The hell is so funny?" his own laugh betraying his attempt to be solemn. It was hilarious to you that he didn't think you already knew that and that he didn't know you absolutely felt the same.

Another day, you were lying in Arthur's lap in the grass. Just the day before, he had returned to camp with bruised knuckles and some poor fool's blood on his face—one of Strauss's clients. You longed for a life where bruised knuckles and loan sharking were distant memories.

"Where would you be if you weren't here," you'd asked, holding his hand in yours. He stroked your thumb with his and gazed over the valley like always.

"Hard to imagine." He mumbled, sounding far away.

You nodded in agreement and replied, "You're always writing or drawing in your notebook. Maybe you could've been an artist or a writer." The thought brought a soft smile to your face, and you imagined, just for a second, a life where Arthur's biggest worry was perfecting his latest masterpiece.

He huffed in dry amusement, "Probably wouldn't have known how to read if it weren't for Dutch and Hosea."

You assented again and sighed, the smile on your face growing wider.

"Arthur Morgan: author and illustrator." You held your hands up in dramatic fashion as if envisioning the words in front of you. Then you untangled yourself from him and sat up, "You could, you know? It's not too late. Maybe a biography?"

"A story about my life, huh?" He looked at you with a dumb smile, "I think a book about dirt would be more interestin'." He bobbed his head up and down as if nodding made his thought more true. You shoved him playfully, and he raised his eyebrow at you and held out his hands questionly. "What? There's all different kinds of dirt," he started counting on his fingers." Brown dirt, red dirt, hard dirt—"

You cut him off, "I'm serious, Arthur! This life…it ain't one normal folks live." A shit-eating grin crept up his face as he fought not to make another joke at his own expense. He shoved it down and kept listening. "Sure, it's just your life to you, but other people might find it interesting, exciting, even."

He thought for a second, then put his hands in the air, mimicking you, "The Confessions of Arthur Morgan: The Detailed Life of a Gunslinger by Arthur Morgan. Sounds like a Pinkerton's wet dream."

"I see what you mean," you trail off, fingers playing in the grass. "Could change the name. People publish under a different name all the time. There's a word for that, I think."

"Pseudonym," he responded, his accent thick. "Think it's got one of those silent letters in front." He said it so matter of factly, and it confirmed what you already knew about him: he was far more intelligent than anybody ever gave him credit for. Still, you left the idea alone and thought Arthur had, too.

Then, on another afternoon in the fields near Little Creek River, he spoke out of nowhere. "Arthur Callahan or Tacitus Kilgore?"

"Hmm?" you asked, barely glancing up from your book.

"For the pen name," he confirmed, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

From that day on, your trips to Little Creek River became writing sessions. He bought a notebook that you two would trade off, coming up with ideas for the dramatized life of the gunslinger. You'd taken some creative liberties, and the story wasn't exactly a biography anymore. It had shaped into a Western love story. Arthur Callahan, after living a bad life, met someone who made him want to be better, an angel sent to rescue the devil himself. Arthur Callahan would get the perfect ending; a normal life. It was all Arthur's idea.

"It's not my story; it's ours," he'd told you.

You had been daydreaming about the possibilities for your novel for some time, but the chaos of life with the gang left little room to focus on it. The sudden move from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point made things worse. Somewhere in the move, the manuscript was lost or destroyed—either way, it was gone. You couldn't hold back your tears during your next trip to Big Valley. Arthur's big hands swallowed your face as his thumbs wiped your tears away.

"Shhh, we'll rewrite it, sweetheart," he promised.

Despite Arthur's gentle nudges, you couldn't find it in you to rewrite the story. Another day, he'd invited you to ride with him, heading off to your usual spot. He'd asked once more if you were feeling up to writing again. When you rejected the idea, he shook his head, seemingly surrendering.

"Fine! You're so damn stubborn." There was no malice in his voice, though, and his eyes twinkled a little. "Looks like I gotta take matters into my own hands." Instead of stopping the horse in the fields as usual, Arthur stopped short, cutting into nearby woods. Eventually, he halted outside of the small cabin that was Vetter's Echo and hitched the horse outside.

"Come on," he said, helping you down. "I've got a surprise for you." You walked up the cabin's steps, and he swung the door open to a small living quarters. "It don't got a back door, and I'm pretty sure the feller living here got mauled by a bear, but it's got one of these things." He gestured to the desk in the corner of the small cabin, a typewriter sitting atop it, "I don't have the first clue about using it." So he left it for you to figure out. He'd sit on a stool beside you, reading from a notebook, and you'd type slowly at first, but as time went on, the keys felt as familiar to you as a gun trigger did to him.

Then things started falling apart. You'd moved from Horseshoe Overlook to Clemens Point, then to Shady Bell in a matter of weeks. The men went on a job to rob the bank in St. Denis, and most didn't return. You'd forgotten about the manuscript while trying to survive and spent weeks worried about Arthur and everybody else.

Then he came home to you, waterlogged but alive. You'd never felt more relieved. He was skinny and had a persistent cough, blaming it all on his rough journey. But it didn't stop him from finishing the book as promised. He'd write whenever he had a chance, and you'd go back to the little cabin in the woods, you typing and him reading.

Then he couldn't get through a page without coughing. You listened, concern etched on your face as he told you about his coughing spell and subsequent visit to the doctor in the city. Tuberculosis: practically a death sentence. After that, he'd step back when you tried to be close to him and wouldn't let you kiss him or be intimate with him. You spent a lot of time crying while he dipped his head in profound shame.

Weeks later, he woke you up at night, gently shaking you and whispering to not alert anyone else. "C'mon, get dressed and ride with me." He was serious, his jaw set, his voice low but demanding. You didn't know what was wrong, but dread ran through your veins. You rode far away from camp, mostly in silence, your anxiety not letting you say anything.

"You're gonna live a good life. "he finally said, breaking the silence. Your eyes stung, and you felt a lump in your throat.

"I don't want to hear this right now, Arthur."

He shook his head, frustrated, and spoke through clenched teeth. "Listen to me." His tone made you flinch. He'd never taken on that tone with you, ever. "This whole thing with Dutch, it's over. You gotta run. Gotta get out and make a good life for yourself."

You wanted to protest; you weren't going to leave him, not now. But then you saw the waiting stagecoach up ahead. Your heart dropped and shattered into a million pieces. You reached around him to pull the horse's reins, coming to a skidding stop. You hopped down and started shaking your head, frantic in your movements and words.

"No, Arthur. No."

You wiped away the quickly falling tears as you turned, fast walking, almost running back to that godforsaken camp that was Beaver Hollow. Even in his sickness, it only took Arthur a few big steps to reach you, grabbing you by the waist and turning you to face him. And then you cursed at him, pounded your fists against his chest, and wailed into the night. He just pulled you close to him, squeezing you until you didn't fight anymore. He gave you a stack of cash, made you promise to run, and said he'd come find you after it was all over. But both of you knew, deep down, that you were setting eyes on each other for the last time. He kissed your head. You sobbed into his chest, only letting go when the impatient stagecoach driver beckoned you.

"Never could've imagined I'd know somebody as perfect for me as you." All you could choke out was, "I love you," over and over and over again. He slipped a folded letter into your hand and helped you into the coach filled with your things. He stood silently with his hat in his hands while you rode off into the night. You sobbed for as long as your body let you while the coach took you down to Copperhead Landing.

First, Tilly showed up with Jack, and then Sadie came with Abagail. But then John arrived bearing Arthur's hat and satchel with a look in his eyes so terrible that it brought you to a screaming sob. That night, when everybody had finally settled down to sleep, you slipped away, leaving a note of thanks and well wishes. You were alone then, the way you wanted it to be without Arthur.

Eight years; it had been eight years since everything went to shit. In eight years, you worked your ass off with any odd jobs you could find. Keeping busy was how you cured your broken heart. You'd tried as hard as you could to forget about the life you'd once lived until you read a headline in the newspaper: MICAH BELL KILLED. The memories flooded back to you, and you returned to a place you hadn't visited in a while. You only kept 2 things from that time: a letter from Arthur and the manuscript you'd written with him. Forged in Fire, you called it. After all this time, you couldn't remember who came up with the name, but you remembered why. You two were like tempered metal; the more you walked through hellfire, the stronger you became.

Then there was Arthur's letter. You'd read it only once before today.

"Things I wanted to say but did not have the courage to say aloud." was scrawled across the top of the page, followed by a list.

"Keep visiting Big Valley.

Keep writing.

Publish the book.

Watch every sunset.

Trust your gut.

Please, be happy."

You heard his voice through every word. He'd underlined the third point: publish the book. In that moment, you decided to take a leap. You wrote to a publisher and sent a copy of the manuscript. And that's all it took. Things went into a tailspin after that, and before you knew it, you were holding a hard copy of the manuscript you and Arthur had worked on together all that time ago.

You'd made an effort, then, to find Abigail and John and Jack. They were held up at a ranch, Beecher's Hope, and were married now. You caught up with the Marstons and apologized for hastily disappearing all those years ago. They were happy for you, and you for them.

On your departure, John took your hand, "I don't talk about him much these days, but I don't think he loved anybody like he loved you." He paused for a moment and forced his eyes to meet yours. "He's buried out in Ambarino, near Donner Falls. Top of the mountain. I can take you." You declined John's offer but set out east toward Donner Falls the next day.

You found him around noon and watched wistfully as an eagle flew from its spot on a rock behind the flowery grave. You fell to your knees, no longer able to control the tears flowing down your face. "I did it, my love," you choked through tears. It'd been a long, long time since you let yourself feel this pain—a longing to reach something impossible. You dabbed the tears away from your eyes and sat in the grass, hugging Forged in Fire to your chest. "Thought I'd read it to you," you spoke into the air. You opened the book, cracked the spine, and read "Chapter One: Heaven's Fall, Hell's Rise."

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asimplearchivist · 2 years ago

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' 𝕐𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕞𝕚𝕥𝕖 𝔽𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 '

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈𝐕 𝐨𝐟 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄, 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ✴ ⤏ when the kids grow restless during the weekend, you entreat optimus to take the group of you out for 'educational' purposes—all goes well until a thunderstorm strikes, but it could have resulted worse. pairing ✴ tfp!optimus prime/reader word count ✴ 15.1k a/n �� ⤏ I’ve never actually been to sequoia national park, but I read up on it a little and found out you can’t just camp anywhere in the park - but for the sake of this fanfic, I’m going to tweak it a little. thus is the beauty of fanfiction, I suppose. also, since it’s kind of in the middle of the school year, there’s not a lot of people visiting the park so optimus has more leniency on not being confined to his altmode than he would normally (plus he has scanners that would detect anyone nearby).⤏ on a smaller note, ‘s’mol’lis’ is derived from latin ‘mollis solis’, which means ‘soft sunlight’. because cybertronian (at least according to fanon, which I accept as canon) uses a lot of adjective strings describing the word they’re saying all at the same time on different frequencies (see: the masterpiece that is Fortuna Primigenia by SS_Shitstorm), it might be difficult to derive every meaning from hearing it, especially taking into account the fact that we can neither hear all the frequencies they use nor fully understand their language to begin with, but this is can be taken as the full meaning of the word even though it’s technically a descriptor. consider it a term of endearment that’s really subtle but not really a term of endearment at the same time - it’s just how optimus sees you. I also picked latin because that’s what many of the names are derived from and it’s just convenient as well as ancient/alien-sounding when you tweak it a little. ⤏ now that I think about it, this oneshot has a lot of similarities to FP, actually…consider it an homage of sorts, since it’s been my most recent reread of it that inspired me enough to finish this old thing. :) the poem referenced is ‘Serenade’ by Mary Weston Fordham!

“Truth or dare.”

“Um...truth.”

Miko groaned. “You’ve been picking truth this whole time!”

Raf shifted nervously, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he glanced at Miko from his laptop. “You made Jack lick the floor.”

“He’s got a point,” you said, looking up from your textbook.

Miko groaned a little louder, folding her arms and pouting. “You guys are no fun.”

“No one likes licking the floor, Miko. And I would hope you don’t.” You jotted down a definition in your notebook. “He’s still brushing his teeth. He’s been in there for ten minutes.”

“Of course no one does! That’s the point!” the girl cried, her bangs falling into her face. She brushed them behind her ear with an irritated huff. “Fine. What’s a place you want to go to?”

Raf perked up a bit at this, seemingly relieved that it was a relatively tame question from the Japanese girl. “Oh, uh...well, Italy is up there, since that’s where my family is from...but one of my cousins went to Yosemite and he said it was really pretty there. I’d love to see the trees.”

“Yeah, that’s always been on my bucket list, too,” you admitted. You reached for one of the highlighters strewn on the couch cushion next to you, marking an important quote on the page. “I read that they get up to two hundred and fifty feet.” Miko’s eyes rounded. “Wow, that’s like...fifty Optimuses!”

“Only about eight,” Raf corrected, “and it would be Optimi, since his name is derived from Latin the way we understand it, but yeah. Puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

Miko stuck her tongue out at the boy, and you chuckled softly. “What about you, Miko? Got anywhere you want to visit?”

“Besides Cybertron?” she quipped, casting a glance towards the groundbridge looming far behind you. “Not really. I’ve been to most places I’ve wanted to go already.”

“By sneaking in through a groundbridge,” Jack grumbled from the stairwell. He still looked worryingly pale, a stark ivory against his jet-black hair.

Your brow furrowed. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said, raising a palm and sinking into the couch between you and Raf, jumping and scooping the writing supplies towards you. “Remind me next time why I won’t play truth or dare with Miko ever again.”

“Hey!” she cried, and you rolled your eyes with a fond smile.

“Let him lie, Miko. He’s just had a traumatic experience. Who knows what’s been on these floors.”

She huffed, but seemed to drop it nevertheless. She turned her attention to you. “What about you? Truth or dare?”

“You already know my answer,” you responded.

The girl growled. “I might start playing with ‘Bee. He’s more fun.” She tilted her head, rubbing at her chin as Jack muttered a quiet ‘you mean more gullible’ that she, thankfully, didn’t hear. She shot Raf a look when he snickered, though. “Hmm…what about...nah.” She pursed her lips and studied you intensely, as though she were trying to read your mind. You felt dread begin to bubble low in your belly. “Do you...oh!” She straightened sharply, eyes lighting up with mischief. “Do you have a crush on anybody?”

You stilled, feeling your stomach grow cold and leaden. You tried to play off your hesitation by giving her a pointed glance before returning your attention to your homework. “No.”

Unfortunately, the girl was better at reading people than you’d hoped. An absolute shit-eating grin twisted her face and she leaned forward conspiratorially. “Oooh, you dooo!”

“I do not,” you tried again, but you felt your face betray you by warming at her accusation. Dammit, self.

Your denial only served to excite her further. “Oh my god - who is it? Is it someone at school? Someone in your class? Is he hot?”

“Miko!” Jack reprimanded, looking like he was suffering from secondhand embarrassment. He gave her a scandalized glare. “Leave her alone. She said she doesn’t.”

“But she’s blushing!” the girl insisted, gesturing towards your face. You ducked your head on reflex. “You only blush when you’re guilty!”

“It’s because you keep heckling her!” Jack persisted.

“Like you’re one to talk, lover boy!” Miko crooned. “‘Oh, ‘Sierra’ this, ‘Sierra’ that - you’re no better than a girl!” She froze, then nearly gave herself whiplash looking back at you. “Oh! Is it the guy on the track team? I saw him talking to you during lunch the other day!”

“He was asking for my chemistry notes because he couldn’t be bothered to take them himself,” you deadpanned.

“Still! Isn’t that how every high school rom-com starts out? Hot jock asks all-A’s nerd for her notes and they end up plastered over the hood of his car by the end of the movie?”

“Miko!” Jack exclaimed, leaning protectively over Raf, whose cheeks had turned bright red. He looked like he was trying to melt behind the safety of his laptop screen. “Stop that!”

“What?” she demanded. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

You tried to will away the blush saturating your cheeks. “That doesn’t mean you should - just chill, Miko, I don’t have a crush on anyone at school.”

Unfortunately, you seemed to have only shot yourself in the foot. Miko began to vibrate in earnest, and some distant aspect in the back of your mind that had a maternal love for the girl was worried that she would hit a frequency that would make her phase through the loveseat. “So you do have a crush on someone!” she squealed.

“Would you four quiet down?” Ratchet hollered from the computer terminal. “Some of us are trying to retain our hearing, you know!”

“Afraid of losing it, Docbot?” Miko called back, making you choke on your own spit.

“What?”

“Shut up, Miko,” Jack hissed, ducking his head to avoid the fire cast your way by blazing cyan optics. “Just shut up.”

“Sorry!” you called, crossing your toes within your shoes. You hadn’t written your will yet.

Fortunately, Ratchet didn’t seem too particularly inclined to commit homicide that day, and only gave Miko a hard look before returning his attention to his work with a low grumble of what could’ve been Cybertronian.

You looked back at Miko with furrowed brows and pursed lips, scolding her with your eyes. She shrugged with a smug smile.

“Anyway,” you pressed, “I don’t have a crush on anyone right now, and I’d appreciate it if you’d kindly drop the subject.”

“Fine,” she groaned dramatically. “But I will find out who it is eventually.”

You rolled your eyes again at her insistence, deciding to be the bigger person and refocus on your homework. The four of you lapsed into silence for a long while, the scratch of your pencil and the clicking from Raf’s keyboard filling the silence with a familiar ambiance. Jack seemed to be enduring an existential crisis from the horror he’d experienced (despite the fact that he had willingly taken part of it at Miko’s challenge), but you had the bad sense that Miko was plotting because she was being too quiet, even if she had resumed scratching in her sketchpad with a bright pink pencil.

It was never a good thing for Miko to be quiet.

Distantly, you heard the door of the silo crank open, followed by the deep, familiar rumble of the local Prime’s engine. You perked up and peered over the back of the couch, watching him emerge into the hangar and slow to a smooth stop. He transformed, but while you tried to follow all the moving parts, your eyes failed you. You were sure it would never cease to amaze you.

“Hi, Optimus!” Raf called in greeting, catching his attention. As he drew up to his full height, he regarded the four of you with warm optics and that familiar barely-there smile, returning the sentiment. You cast him a small grin before returning to your studies.

“Did you find anything?” you heard Ratchet ask him.

“Unfortunately not,” rumbled the Prime. You counted his footsteps until he stopped (likely near the medic) - five heavy, even thuds of metal on concrete. “The signals I did track only led to small deposits that are still forming. I saved the coordinates for later observation.”

Ratchet hummed, and you heard him drumming his digit tips on the hollow kibble of his forearm. “We’ve got enough to last two weeks, give or take, not accounting for emergencies. I’d advise checking our usual deposits within the next few days.”

“Noted.” There was a long pause. You could swear you felt your ears burning, but it faded almost as soon as you noticed it. “Where are the others?”

“Patrol. They’re trying to put off their bimonthly physicals,” the medic scoffed. “You’re the ever-noble leader - would you care to set a good example?”

Optimus let out a low hum, but you were surprised to notice that he didn’t sound very pleased. If you dared to consider it, it almost sounded as though he was filled with dread. Nevertheless, he responded, “Of course, old friend.”

He must not like doctor’s appointments, either. Relatable.

“I’ve been meaning to check the pneumatics in your shoulders and upper spinal strut,” Ratchet said absently, and you heard him clicking on the computer console. You glanced over your shoulder and saw that he’d moved over to the monitor he used for medical readouts, squinting and noticing that he was bringing up schematics of Optimus’ frame. “Ever since that incident in the last energon mine, I’ve noticed you’re not lifting as much as you usually do.”

“There is a lingering ache,” Optimus acquiesced quietly, as though hesitant to admit it. “Do you suspect there is some damage?”

“Possibly. You weren’t built a weight-lifting frame type by any means - the fact you held nearly the entirety of the cave ceiling up for as long as you did was by a pure miracle. You certainly aren’t Bulkhead.” Ratchet stroked his chin briefly, then pointed to the rotator joints connecting Optimus’ arms to the concave cuffs that housed them. “I suspect you might have strained the cabling, at the least. That would be the easiest to fix. If there’s a tear in the joint itself, I’ll have to patch it and you’ll have to rehabilitate.”

“I don’t feel the damage is that severe,” Optimus responded almost immediately.

Also doesn’t like being under the knife, you observed sympathetically.

Then an idea occurred to you, and you didn’t stop to consider the pros and cons of it before you spoke up.

“Do you mind if I sit and watch?” you called to Ratchet, catching both mechs and the other kids’ attention. “I’ve been meaning to ask you more about Cybertronian physiology, but it kept slipping my mind.”

Almost as soon as Ratchet opened his mouth, probably to refuse your request if you knew him well at all, Optimus’ optics brightened minutely. “Of course.”

“Optimus,” Ratchet started, staring at him askance. “You realize it will be incredibly invasive - I need to check the integrity of your sparkchamber, among other things-”

“You can prioritize around that, can you not?” the Prime inquired evenly. “It wouldn’t hurt for her to observe everything else. She could depart whenever it came to that.” Optimus cast a look at you, pointed and appraising. “Correct?”

“Yeah,” you agreed, catching the medic’s optics. “I’ll leave when you get to the nitty-gritty stuff.”

Ratchet’s mouth worked wordlessly, optics flickering as he gesticulated in half-aborted movements (such a hand-talker, he was). When it was apparent that he wasn’t going to win the argument (if one could even call it that - he’d been in checkmate the moment Optimus had given you his blessing), the medic ex-vented heavily and cast his optics towards the ceiling. “Very well. But only you can observe,” he pressed with a firm look to Miko, “and for the love of Primus don’t distract me with any lead-helmed questions. It takes long enough to perform physicals without an observer.” He paused, then mumbled to himself, “So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“You needn’t fix it if it isn’t broken,” Optimus pointed out, and you spotted the subtle curve on the corner of his mouth.

Ratchet shook his helm, grumbling low in his chassis, and started towards the corridor. He made a beckoning gesture over his pauldron, and Optimus cast you a glance before following. You smiled giddily and set your homework aside, hurrying across the mezzanine and down the stairwell. You thought you might’ve heard one of the kids snickering, but you were too caught up in your excitement to take true notice of it.

“Transformation seams are intact...energon and coolant flow is normal.” Ratchet glanced up from the datapad he’d laid on the berth next to Optimus, peering into the exposed depths and layers of the larger mech’s forearm. “Have you been experiencing any lag in transformation? Any pain?”

“None that I have noticed.”

“Good. The tension cabling is intact...” Ratchet’s digit tip pressed into a divot in the mech’s wrist and the armor cycled shut with a flourish that reminded you of a bird’s feathers smoothing down. He took Optimus’ servo and rotated it slowly, testing different angles at different pressures. “Any trouble with your servos?”

“No.”

Ratchet twisted Optimus’ servo outward and the Prime winced subtly.

“Liar,” he huffed, reaching to the side and picking up the electromagnetic calibrator he’d been using to stimulate irritated or misfiring wiring clusters. He tapped the curved plate covering Optimus’ radiocarpal joint and it opened at his command. He began to go over the exposed cabling, locating the nodes and poking them lightly to see which one was agitated. “If you’d just tell me the truth this would go a lot faster.”

“If it doesn’t pose an issue, I don’t see the need in pointing it out and delaying progress any longer than necessary,” Optimus rumbled. The armor along his shoulders flared sharply as Ratchet finally found the culprit.

“I’ve told you,” Ratchet started, optics flashing, “if you don’t allow me to fix these things, they’ll get worse - then what will you do when your servo malfunctions and you end up a pile of scrap metal in the middle of a fragging warzone?”

Optimus rumbled low in his chassis, optics glowing. You realized with delight that he was borderline chuckling.

Obedient by nature and not wanting to incur the wrath of your already irate host, you were seated across from the two mechs on the other medical berth in Ratchet’s private medical ward. This was where he performed less urgent surgeries and stored all his supplies, tools, and records. The smaller bay in the main hangar was for general inspection and small repairs (and emergencies, if one of the ‘Bots were hurt in the field and needed immediate medical attention), so this was new - not to mention the fact that you were learning so much more about Cybertronian physiology than you would’ve ever thought possible - and just from watching and listening no less.

Ratchet had started out with preliminary scans and basic questions that seemed a little superfluous (but were no less important, you supposed), things like how his armor was fitting his frame and if he had any injuries he’d been keeping from him. He’d then checked the integrity of Optimus’ armor, poking and prodding and flexing the outermost metal to see if there was any damage. He’d found a couple of ruptures and had made quick work of mending them, then had moved on to the few exposed slivers of protoform and secondary armor protecting the lower half of his chassis. Now he was checking Optimus’ arms, starting low and likely headed up to the larger mech’s shoulders.

Watching Optimus and Ratchet interact was a novel experience, as well. Normally they were rather civil, saving face in front of the other three Autobots (for professionalism, you suspected), but in private it was obvious how long they’d been friends. Optimus was much more open than he was normally, even speaking to you with glittering optics and teasing almost smiles. His voice had taken on a different inflection, as well - he didn’t sound as grave and sober as he did around the others, and he seemed much more relaxed in his wording. (You’d wondered if this was Orion Pax talking and not Optimus, but you’d dismissed the thought as silly - he was still the same person, after all. He’d changed over the centuries, certainly, but that obviously hadn’t affected his core being to the point that he couldn’t relax around one of his oldest friends.) He was plainly comfortable with Ratchet, and you were still mystified that, by extension of him inviting you to be present, he was just as comfortable with you.

It still made you warm on the inside just thinking about it.

“I have held up this far, old friend,” Optimus reminded the older mech gently. “I would inform you if there were a dire enough problem along that vein.”

Ratchet muttered under his breath, sounding suspiciously as though he were mocking the Prime with an exaggerated tone, and you giggled quietly. He shot you a look, optics bright and mouth thin, before straightening and leaving Optimus’ radiocarpal joint behind to check his ginglymus. There seemed to be nothing wrong because he merely jotted something down before continuing upward to the Prime’s glenohumeral joint.

Here, Optimus tensed up. You wouldn’t have been able to discern it, normally, but given how long you’d been in close quarters with him by now and being able to read his tells somewhat, you could see the way his optics dimmed and his servos tensed around the edge of the medical berth. You even saw the cabling at his vocalizer flex as though he were swallowing.

Ratchet tapped the armor protecting the joint with his knuckle. “Open up.”

The red metal folded away obediently, the major panels remaining in place for the most part but flaring out, and the smaller pieces tucked themselves into previously unseen nooks and crannies to reveal the mech’s joint. Ratchet hummed low in his chassis, grimacing as he eyed it.

“You did strain it,” he confirmed. Optimus’ finials twitched back slightly. “But the damage isn’t too severe. The leverage you had prevented any substantial damage, but this is a concern that needs to be addressed now, or else it will worsen. I’ll dampen the nodes within and around it before I repair it, though.”

Optimus ex-vented. “Thank you, old friend.”

Ratchet nodded once before stepping away to a small tray of vials that were bigger around than you were tall, grabbing an injector and connecting the two pieces with a mighty click. The fluid within the canister glowed a soft blue, though it was duller than energon. It soon disappeared into the protoform exposed just below Optimus’ ginglymus. The tension in the Prime’s armor seemed to dissipate as the next few moments dragged on, and he looked more at ease when Ratchet picked up a tool you were unfamiliar with before beginning to repair the damage to Optimus’ joint. It didn’t take long, and soon he was checking the opposite side and, upon seeing that there was similar damage, performing the same action.

“I’m putting you on medical leave until your self-repair systems finish this up,” he told the Prime. “No heavy lifting, no heroics, limited patrols. I’m also going to give you medical-grade energon to speed it up.”

Optimus let out a soft ex-vent, but he didn’t argue. “Yes, old friend.”

After that, the rest of the examination didn’t take long. Ratchet checked his other arm, then his legs and pedes for joint erosion. He also took meticulous time checking his helm, which surprised you because you hadn’t thought of how delicately they must’ve been constructed - but studying his audials, optics, and even his intake was an affair that Ratchet took great care to ensure everything was tested. It was when he started to read the larger mech’s chassis with the built-in scanner in his forearm that Ratchet cast you a look and made a shooing motion.

“Observation time’s over,” he said dismissively. “Everything after this is confidential and private.”

You nodded, having already prepared yourself for it - you were surprised that he even let you watch at all, for as long as he had.

“Thanks, guys,” you said, slowly climbing down from the medical berth using small grooves in one of the legs as hand and footholds. “I really appreciate you letting me do this - I learned a lot.”

Ratchet merely gave you a soft hum of acknowledgment, while Optimus regarded you with warm optics.

“If you have any questions,” he rumbled, “I will try my best to answer.”

You grinned up at him, not recalling of any currently but sure you’d have some after you had the chance to think about all that you’d seen. “Thanks, Optimus - really. I know it’s probably a little awkward letting a stranger in on something like this.”

He gave a small shrug with his armor, since his shoulders were still probably numb (or the Cybertronian equivalent, anyway), which surprised you - either he was starting to pick up on human body language more than you’d suspected, or he was just that comfortable with you. Either way, it made you smile. “You are far from a stranger, s’mol’lis. You have shared intimate things about your body in the past - I see it only fair that I return the gesture.”

You felt your face warm with embarrassment at remembering the incident a mere month ago regarding your menstrual cycle, but you were touched that he’d been so considerate - he’d obviously put much more thought into this than you’d thought. But you were more preoccupied with that unfamiliar word than anything else - it was definitely Cybertronian, given the way he’d said it and the multiple layers to the word that made it sound like he was humming a song. You hadn’t heard that one before, though you hadn’t had many chances to hear their mother tongue, to begin with - you wondered what it meant because it’d seemed like he’d been addressing you.

Ratchet’s vents let out a short chuff-like sound before he made another shooing gesture with his servo, more insistent this time. “Alright, alright, enough. I can’t take all day on this if I have hopes of updating your records by tonight.”

You laughed a little, waggling your fingers at the medic over your shoulder as you turned to the door. “Fine, Ratch, fine - I know when I’m not wanted.”

You heard that same borderline chuckle from before rumble on a frequency that made your ears sing and your belly flip, and by the time you shut the small, human door off to the side of the ‘Bots’, your face was hot. You rubbed your cheeks with some bewilderment, wondering why your face was so hot, but insistent thoughts reminding you that you had homework to finish put your curiosity to the back of your mind - for the time being, at least.

“All right, which one of you hooligans is ready for their physical?”

A unanimous, hushed silence fell over the previously rowdy hangar and you smothered a laugh into your hand, already serving to prop up your head as you tried to finish your homework. All you had left was a section to read in literature and you’d be done. You glanced to the side discreetly, seeing that Bumblebee’s optics were cycled into pinpricks, his doorwings drooping into the lowest position their housing could manage. His shoulders hunched upward as he clutched the makeshift remote controller Raf had jury-rigged for him, and you had the sudden impression that he was hoping he’d magically turn invisible to the medic’s hawk-like eye. You gave him a sympathetic look.

“I, uh…” Bulkhead reset his vocalizer, optics darting to either side as he raised his servos in a shrug. “Sorry, Ratchet, I - I’ve got a patrol to, um…”

“No, you don’t,” the older mech snipped, folding his arms over his chassis and looking wholly unimpressed about his weak attempt to dodge the matter at hand. “I’ve had Optimus clear your schedules for the next cycle or so. We can afford not to patrol while I’m making sure none of you are hiding anything from me.”

“But what about the kids?” questioned Arcee almost immediately after, sounding tense, and that honestly surprised you because she’d always seemed like the type that wouldn’t be bothered by such a thing. Her steely nerves didn’t extend as far as Ratchet’s examination room, apparently. “They’ll need to go home soon.”

“We’re keeping them over the weekend,” Ratchet responded easily, making the younger three look up in surprise.

“Yeah, but - who’ll watch them?” Bulkhead returned anxiously.

The medic huffed and rolled his optics in such a perfect arc that you wondered whether it was preprogrammed or if he’d just had enough practice over the centuries dealing with medically elusive Autobots. “‘But’ nothing. I’ll start with you, Bulkhead, and that’ll be the majority of it done.” He made an impatient gesture towards the corridor. “Optimus didn’t complain, so neither should you. And, if it will placate your concerns, he will watch the children for the evening.” He cast a look toward the mech in question, who had been standing wordlessly behind the main computer terminal until then. “Right, Optimus?”

The Prime turned and blinked, but didn’t look surprised. He merely dipped his helm. “Of course, old friend.”

Ratchet nodded, looking at the other three Autobots with the age-old ‘see?’ expression. The green mech seemed to wilt, his shoulder plating drooping as he turned and trudged towards the corridor like a kicked puppy. You almost felt bad for him. Almost. Ratchet needed to be on top of the others’ condition at all times, so you knew that even if they didn’t like it and would rather not (and even if there wasn’t anything wrong with them), it wouldn’t hurt them to let Ratchet be Ratchet.

Arcee and Bumblebee exchanged an uneasy look, and Ratchet cast a look over his shoulder. “You two are to wait in here until I call for you. Understood?”

They nodded sullenly, and you smothered a laugh. They were supposed to be hundreds of thousands of years old and they still acted like begrudging teenagers.

“So…” Miko stole your attention away, twirling a pink strand of hair around her finger and glancing to either side conspiratorially. “...what’re we going to do now?”

You shrugged. Raf shrugged.

“Not truth or dare,” Jack iterated firmly.

She rolled her eyes at him. “You’ve already ruined the game, there’s no point in doing it anymore.”

Jack had the air of intensity that warned of a strong verbal retaliation bubbling just beneath the surface, eyes rounded and brows furrowed, but he held his tongue when you made a subtle cutting gesture. He sighed.

“We could ask Optimus if we could get KO Burger for supper,” Raf suggested, and you recoiled slightly.

“Or,” you pressed, “we could go to the supermarket and I could cook something decent. You fools need all the nutrition you can get. I’m thinking stew or something.”

Miko made a face. “Since when have you known how to cook?”

You hesitated, then tried for a nonchalant shrug to cover up the way your stomach twisted. “I’ve got to grow up sometime, living on my own. Eating fast food on the regular is not the way to go.”

Miko looked as though she wanted to question you further, but Raf’s eyes lit up and he straightened abruptly. “Oh! What if we went camping?”

You blinked at him, as did Jack. “What?”

“Since the ‘Bots aren’t going to be able to go out for a while,” he said excitedly, “we could ask Optimus if we could groundbridge to Yosemite for the night! They’ve got a small admission fee per person, but it would give him a chance to relax, and we’d get to see the sequoias! Plus, if we found somewhere discreet, he’d be able to transform and enjoy being outside without being seen!”

That...honestly didn’t sound too bad. Optimus had seemed a bit wearier than usual lately, and you figured he’d enjoy a breath of fresh air out of the base. The only problem would be convincing him.

“That sounds great, Raf,” you said with a warm smile, “but I’m not sure he’d agree.”

“Isn’t that what we have you for?” Miko remarked snidely, eyes glittering.

You stared, ignoring how your ears warmed. “I...guess? What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on,” she groaned dramatically, and you cast an anxious glance over your shoulder. Optimus seemed occupied with his work on the computer terminal, and ‘Bee and Arcee were talking in low tones in the open medical wing of the hangar. Fortunately, no one was paying attention to you. “You’ve got all thirty feet of him wrapped around your pinky! If any of us could convince him to take a day off, it’d be you.”

You remembered how he’d taken care of you when you’d last been inflicted by your cycle (as embarrassed as you were to recall the memory). You remembered the ease with which he’d invited you to accompany him on low-risk patrols and energon scoutings. You remembered when he’d saved your life in the cave. He never treated any of the Autobots like that - he was kind, sure, considerate, and cared for their safety, but it felt...different, the way he’d seek you out to spend some time away from everyone else. You’d always figured he just tolerated your incessant curiosity, but...you hadn’t really considered anything beyond that. Could his motivation be that he simply enjoyed your company? You found the concept flattering, if unlikely.

You powered through the last of the literature passage, chewing on the inside of your lip before closing the book and tucking it back into your school bag. You stood and moved over to the steps, descending silently and walking towards the Prime on the other side of the hangar. When you got close enough, you patted his pede and leaned against him. “Hey, Optimus?”

The Prime leaned over just enough to peer down at you over the top of his chassis, an optical ridge rising. He hummed inquisitively.

“Since the others are going to be caught up in this for a while,” you gestured towards the other two ‘Bots sulking in the corner, “Raf had a thought.”

“And that would be?” Optimus rumbled curiously.

“Could we go camping at Yosemite?” you asked. You paused, but when his brow lowered once again you went on hurriedly, “It would just be for tonight, and since it’s the middle of the school year a lot of people probably won’t be there if you wanted to stretch your legs. We’d get to see giant trees.” You hesitated. “It’d be educational.”

Optimus regarded you for a long moment, his optics shuttering as he thought it over.

“We could come back if you got any signals from Decepticons,” you added. “But I thought you could use a break, even if it’s only one night. You seem like you’re tired.”

The Prime’s optics dimmed a little, and he ex-vented slowly. “Is this ‘Yosemite’ a state landmark?”

“It’s a national park,” you told him, hope sparking to life in your belly. You tried not to seem too excited at tiding him over. “Over in California. I figured taking the groundbridge would be the easiest method - there’s a fee for entry, but we’d be able to set up away from the other campsites if we’re discreet about it.”

He hummed quietly, contemplatively. “I should ensure with Ratchet that someone would be available to activate the groundbridge should you need it, but...I don’t see why taking an evening for the sake of education would be a detriment.”

Bingo. You’d been positive that would snag him.

You smiled, suddenly giddy - you hugged what you could reach and flashed him a bright, thankful look. “Thank you, Optimus - the kids will love this.”

The mech surprised you with the crinkling of his optics and the lifting of the corners of his mouth. “I am unaware of the requirements of camping, but I am sure Bulkhead or Bumblebee would be willing to take you, should you desire. I see no harm in it.”

Your shoulders dropped, and you tried not to look disappointed. You didn’t want to have your hopes dashed so easily. “You...you don’t want to take us?”

Optimus glanced at the screen before him. “I have much work to do. Bulkhead’s physical should not take long, and he’s the most capable of the three to…”

“But you’ve already finished yours,” you pointed out gently, not wanting to come across as argumentative. He returned his gaze to you, attentive. “And your altmode has more room. Besides...haven’t you heard what I said about taking a break at all? You’ve been working nonstop lately, and...well. Even you aren’t indestructible.”

Optimus regarded you for a long moment, but it didn’t look as though he was actually focusing on you - his optics had a far-away look, a million-mile stare that you didn’t dare interrupt. They shuttered some more, his mouth thin. Your left hand, still lingering on the brace plate on his pede, tensed subconsciously, and it seemed to draw him out of his thoughts. He ex-vented and dipped his helm, an odd half-smile playing at the edges of his mouth and optics.

“Very well,” he submitted, and you realized with a start that his expression was fond. “You raise a very compelling argument, s’mol’lis.”

Too distracted to feel the full throttle of embarrassment at having that look directed at you of all people, you grinned a little wider. “I have a good feeling that you’ll love it there, Optimus - they’ve got these massive trees that’re five times bigger than you are.”

His optical ridges inched upward in clear surprise. He looked immediately curious. “Oh?”

“They’re called sequoias, or redwoods,” you told him. “They’ve been growing there for a very, very long time - scientists speculate since ancient times. The biggest one is about thirty-six feet around and over two hundred and seventy-five feet tall.” You chuckled a little. “The people who found it called it ‘General Sherman’, and it’s the biggest tree recorded on the planet.”

He stared, seeming uncharacteristically shocked. “I...was not aware that earth housed such large flora.”

You grinned, hopeful. “I’m sure you’ll get to see it.”

Optimus hesitated, then dipped his helm. “...I look forward to it.” He glanced over to the kids, the groundbridge controls past them, then back over his shoulders towards the corridor. “Allow the children time to pack what they need,” he told you, “and I will speak with Ratchet over comms to establish the plan.”

You gave him a double thumbs-up, smiling brightly up at him and backing up to give him room. “Will do, Chief - thank you, again!”

He said nothing more as you turned and trotted back over to the stairwell, already telling the troublesome trio that the green light had been issued, but the warmth in your face lingering from the fact that he hadn’t referred to you as a child was making your stomach do flips you were sure weren’t good for your health. Fortunately, you missed the soft look with which Optimus had followed your path - but you weren’t fortunate enough to miss the smug grin on Miko’s face behind the can of soda she was taking a sizeable swig from.

“Are we there yet?”

You dug your fingertips into your eyes and gritted your teeth, ignoring the urge to throttle yourself against the window you’d been trying to merge with molecularly for the past thirty minutes. “For the fifteenth time, Miko,” you murmured as gently as you were capable of, “we are not there yet. We had to groundbridge far enough out that other people wouldn’t see it or question why a semi is pulling onto the road in the middle of the woods.”

“But did it have to be this far out?” she groaned, dropping her head against the headrest in the back seat dramatically.

“Unfortunately so, Miko,” rumbled Optimus over the radio, effectively silencing her complaining with rounded eyes and a sheepish expression at the indirectly aimed paternal note his voice had taken on. “But it is better safe than sorry to merge as best as we can with our surroundings.”

She mumbled indistinctly under her breath, folding her arms over her chest and pulling her legs onto the seat to curl up against the siding. Raf glanced uncomfortably between the two of you, one of his earbuds removed and obviously not unaware of the exchange. He said your name hesitantly, and you felt the tension uncoil within you instantly. “...do you think we’ll get pulled over if you’re driving? It’s not really normal for an eighteen year-old to drive a semi.”

You stilled, fingers dropping to drape over your lips as you glanced at the radio’s screen. It flickered softly in response.

“Worry not, Rafael,” came the Prime’s rather cryptic answer. “I have a plan.”

You met Raf’s questioning gaze in the rearview mirror, and you offered him a bewildered look and a shrug in return, before looking back out the window at the passing scenery. The trees were already big, bigger than anything you’d ever seen in Nevada, but you couldn’t help but feel the anticipation build for the potential of getting to see the famed redwoods you’d heard so much about over the years in school.

Jack shifted in the passenger seat, chin propped up on his fist as his fingers drummed on his leg. He glanced over at you, chewing on his lip, then looked at the radio, too. “Hey, um...Optimus?”

The engine rumbled in an attentive hum.

“Do you mind if I, uh...channel surf? It’s kind of quiet in here.”

A pause. Then, the cab of the truck shifted upwards and downwards just enough to allude to a shrug - the others must’ve missed the minute movement, or taken it as a bump in the road, but you smothered a smile in your palm and wondered at how easily you’d grown to be able to read him so well. (Not that you were able to read him clearly all the time, but you were proud of what you could manage. It seemed that what you could perceive of him was always whatever he wanted you to perceive.) “I would not mind that at all, Jack. Please be mindful of anything...obtrusive, however.”

“No heavy metal. Got it.” Jack grinned when Miko let out a cry of indignation, reaching over to fiddle with the dial on his side. He passed over the top forty stations because of the high ratio for suggestive themes, skipped intense rock at Optimus’ gentle declination, and finally settled on an old country station that had Miko grumbling and curling her hands over her ears in frustration. You began to hum along with some familiar songs, and it helped to kill the time it took to finally reach the entrance of the park. When he rounded the bend and the check-in station appeared about half of a mile out, you felt the mech shift on his axles subtly, murmuring your name. “...I would ask that you move into Jack’s seat - and Jack, please move into the back with Rafael and Miko.”

You exchanged a curious glance with the teen but did as the Prime bade nonetheless, buckling yourself in and opening your mouth to question him. You did a double take when the air around you seemed to crackle with static, and a holographic image of what resembled nerve impulses slowly solidified and took on the shape of a man. Your breath caught when it finally stopped, the image of a stranger grasping the steering wheel despite having no need to do so. The kids were speechless.

“Optimus?” you breathed, and the image of the man tilted his head to look at you. The stratospheric blue of his eyes made your heart flip.

“I’m sure you are familiar with the holomatter avatar that Arcee utilizes due to the nature of her alt-mode,” he began to explain - his voice lacked the familiar electronic hum behind it, fully originating from the avatar’s mouth instead of the radio system. It was strange, but...not that bad, if you had to be honest with yourself. “Jack, in the least. You mentioned that there would be a need for an adult representative for this trip to not elicit suspicion.”

You nodded, dumbfounded. Miko leaned between the front seats, peering at him with awed and critical eyes. Her nose wrinkled after a moment. “How are you powering this and driving at the same time? You’re moving around and stuff - ‘Cee’s doesn’t do that.”

You had to agree. You’d...never really given this concept any thought before, not having encountered it in conversation or a situation where he’d needed it. You’d only seen Arcee’s in passing, and it never seemed as though she used it to embody her awareness like Optimus was doing - just a frozen image to throw off suspicion if nothing else.

“In order to remain fully aware of her frame, Arcee uses a simplified avatar that doesn’t require her to split her consciousness or expend as much energon.” Optimus returned his eyes to the road, more for appearances than anything, you suspected. “But generally when a Cybertronian has his or her avatar activated, their frame is put into stasis to reduce disorientation and energon consumption and their processor shifts into the avatar.”

“So are you actually driving?” Jack asked, sounding a little wary.

“I will maintain enough mental function until we arrive at our destination,” the Prime rumbled, and even though he was reduced to a smaller being his voice still filled the cab and made your ribcage vibrate. You decided then that he could read from the phonebook and it wouldn’t bore you in the slightest. “What will happen after that remains to be seen.”

He eased to a stop behind a line of three other vehicles, his brakes hissing and engine grumbling as he idled. He gestured that Miko return to her seat and leaned over, burly arm reaching for the glove compartment. You admired his impossibly broad hand, large and long-fingered like someone who would play the piano or the cello, but you noticed a number of faint scars littering his knuckles, faint strips of lighter skin that puckered against the rest of his dark tan. The compartment popped open and revealed a zipped canvas bag, which he pulled into his lap. He fished out a worn leather wallet with numerous cards poking out of it, including a driver's license, and when he pried it open there were at least ten crisp twenties tucked inside.

“Optimus…?” you repeated.

He glanced over, quirking a thick, black brow, before following your line of sight. He dipped his head. “Agent Fowler requires that we carry a means of identification with us at all times, should we need it when encountering other humans. It is falsified, of course, seeing as we are not proper citizens of your country, but he constructed records for us if someone were to pry that deeply.”

“Ooh, cool!” Miko crooned with a wicked smile. “Like a secret agent!”

“I suppose,” Optimus agreed, a faint glimmer of a smile in his eyes. There were crow’s feet there, and if you looked hard enough you could see laugh lines around his mouth as he spoke. You wondered idly if he had dimples as he continued, “We are also given a biannual salary of sorts to compensate for our residence here in case we require anything. Most of it goes into Ratchet’s necessity for more machinery and raw materials, but we also carry some on our person; especially now that we have the four of you to consider - for emergencies, should you need anything.”

You shouldn’t have been surprised, because it made sense - but it still touched you at how considerate the underlying sentiment was.

The cars ahead of him began to ease up, and he followed suit.

Jack shifted uncomfortably, stuck in the narrow middle seat between both younger kids. “So, are you, uh… solid, or…?”

Optimus held up the wallet, an obviously tangible object, in lieu of an answer. Jack nodded.

Miko gasped in delight, leaning forward again and poking at his arm avidly. She met solid matter, the leather of his jacket giving and the simulated flesh underneath seeming to appease her inspection. She eyed him up and down again, appraising. She returned, once more, to her seat. “Please don’t tell me that’s a Nashville shirt, Bossbot.”

He cast you a glance, inquisitive. You shrugged. “You can wear what you want to. You seem more like a Nashville guy than LA or Hollywood, anyway.”

The cars shifted again, and Optimus was then next in line.

You chewed on your lip briefly, debating whether to bother him with more questions. He seemed to notice it, as he returned his gaze to you. You bit the bullet. “So, is this…” You gestured at the avatar as a whole. “...all, uh...preprogrammed?”

“The basic template that is generated is a human male at its core, at least for this planet,” he said smoothly, unbothered. You exhaled softly. “From there we incorporate our own preferences and ideas into how we should like to appear. We make modifications and adjustments as we go to suit our personal needs and tastes.” He scratched absently at the faint patches of stubble on his chin that matched the shape of the accent framing on his faceplate. “I will admit that Agent Fowler assisted us a great deal to make our avatars seem more realistic.”

‘Realistic’ wouldn’t be the only word you would associate with the form of a man sitting less than a foot away from you with the most muscular thighs you’d ever seen in your life trapped in taught, dark denim, but you weren’t about to go down that rabbit hole. Instead, you offered him a smile. “I think it suits you just fine.”

He met your eyes with his, warm with something like flattery. (At least you hoped that it was flattery.)

“Is that what they’re used for?” Raf asked. When the Prime turned his head to look at him, he elaborated, “To help blend in with other races?”

This almost pulled a smile from him, as you saw the laugh lines pull back into his cheeks. You looked out of the windshield pointedly, face warming. Dimples there certainly were.

“That is precisely correct, Rafael,” Optimus praised. “They were first invented during Cybertron’s golden era, when we explored the vast cosmos with little abandon. They were utilized to observe cultures that were primitive or had yet to achieve space-flight capability and thus had no exposure to alien life. It became a prerequisite to include them in cold-constructed frames like Bumblebee, and for those of us who were forged, we had them implanted. That didn’t happen until the war began, however, seeing as none of us knew where we would end up should Cybertron fall.” The final car ahead of him pulled forward, and he began to creep up to the check-in station where a guard stood. His voice was quieter when he added, “I am glad that we had the foresight to do so.”

The window rolled down of its own volition when the guard listlessly gestured for him to do so. He glanced up, disinterested as he jotted something on his clipboard. Probably a vehicle description. “ID, please.”

Optimus handed him the wallet, and the man eyed it for a moment. “Date of birth.”

The Prime blinked, but the hesitation wasn’t abnormal. “September seventeenth, 1974.”

The guard raised an eyebrow. “‘Orion Paxton’?”

“My parents were rather fond of astronomy,” he replied smoothly. You smothered your smile with your hand.

“Ah.” The guard returned the ID back to him. “How many have you got occupying the vehicle?”

“Five, including myself.”

“Minors?”

“Three, and one independent.”

“School kids?”

“Yes.”

The guard, only able to spy you from his lowered position, raised a brow. “It’s a bit early for spring break, isn’t it?”

“They participate in an extracurricular program involving the outdoors,” Optimus told him smoothly. You figured he’d been thinking about it. “I am their chaperone.”

The man’s eyes narrowed just a touch. “Are you related to any of them?”

Optimus glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “This is my daughter.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from visibly startling, offering the man a small smile and a wave. You heard Miko snicker in the back seat, and your stomach flopped with embarrassment. You hoped your flush wasn’t too obvious.

The Prime nodded, satisfied with your seamlessness. “The others are her schoolmates. Family friends.”

The guard looked at you, eyes skimming your appearance. “May I see your ID, miss?”

You blinked, reached for your wallet, and pulled out your driver’s license. Optimus passed it over to the man. You noticed the name on his badge was Harrison.

He glanced between the two of you for a moment, seeming to contemplate his next words. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it and shook his head, then gestured at the woman manning the tiny station behind him. The gate opened. “That’ll be thirty dollars.”

Optimus handed him two twenties, and when Harrison made to give him his ten dollars of change the Prime merely waved him off. “Do not trouble yourself. Consider it a donation.”

The man dipped his head, seeming unsurprised by the notion, and Optimus pulled forward to cruise through the entryway. The forest was thicker, the trunks bigger, and the longer he drove the more they seemed to expand. It looked like something straight out of a fantasy novel, the canopy of sun-dappled leaves shading your eyes like a mantle - you could only imagine what it’d be like to climb one of them, to see the landscape stretching out in all directions. It’d be breathtaking, you knew that for sure.

Fortunately, the gradual change of scenery seemed to distract Miko from her evident boredom, and all three of them were leaning up around the front seats to peer out the windows. Optimus’ eyes were focused on the outside as well, but his hand on the lower arc of the steering wheel was steady. You tried not to look at him more than necessary, only stealing glances on the few occasions he’d shift in his seat and braced his forearm on the lip of the window.

You had to admit that he couldn’t have curated a more befitting holoform if he had tried, and the ensemble of his outside certainly lent to its credibility. He was dressed plainly in worn jeans, a simple leather belt and buckle, an old, charcoal gray and white Nashville t-shirt under a maroon and navy plaid flannel shirt, topped off with a caramel-toned leather jacket that looked as plush and comfortable as it did genuine. Proportionally, he was a mirrored image of his real frame - broad shoulders, a barrel-like chest, impossibly long legs that you were surprised he hadn’t adjusted his seat to accommodate, hands that would likely swallow your head if he held it between his palms. His tawny skin was littered with pale scars in places (what little you could see of it, anyway), a five o’clock shadow lining his jaw and throat, and his hair and thick eyebrows were an inky raven black that glimmered like onyx in the sunshine, cut similarly to marine veterans you’d seen in passing. That was likely the effect he’d gone for, perhaps to help explain his militaristic behaviors and mannerisms between the lines if anyone bothered to read into them that closely. Buzzed on the sides but longer and combed back on the top to form a quiff, you wondered at how the contrasting textures must feel. You wondered if it felt silky or downy or coarse. Soft, probably, since there wasn’t any illusion of product to hold it in place.

But his eyes, most of all, stuck out to you. Against his skin, the startling cornflower blue of his irises popped like daisies in the dark. They didn’t glow like his real optics did, but they looked like they could - focused and analytical and expressive and pretty…

“...think that this would be a suitable path to take?”

Your eyes fell to his lips, unbidden. There was an indication of a barely-there scar at the left corner of his mouth, his upper lip a little thin but the bottom pillowy and full despite appearing chapped. The level of detail was astounding to you.

Your face caught fire when you realized you’d been staring.

“Oh, um - yeah,” you said, hastily looking out from the windshield to a worn trail leading off the main road. The tire marks were obvious, blazed through the brush. “The further away from any prying eyes, the better.”

He nodded and turned onto the barely beaten path. You rubbed your face, hoping it hadn’t been too obvious. The kids were too enamored with watching the landscape go by to have noticed. (Hopefully.) You forced yourself not to look at him, trying not to think about the faint, fawn-like freckles you’d sworn you’d seen speckled over the bridge of his noble, Grecian nose.

Within ten minutes, he’d driven out to the limits of the trail to find a small gravel parking lot that likely would’ve held no more than six small vehicles, three large ones at best. It was lined with logs, and there were RV hookups on one side and metal fire pits and benches for tent campers on the other. Fortunately, it was empty. He turned to look at you inquisitively. “What do you think?”

You worried your lip for a moment. “You’re the boss. What do you think?”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward, tugging on that little scar. “This is your expedition,” he reminded you. “Whatever you think is best, I will do.”

“Okay,” you said, trying not to feel overwhelmed. This was such a simple, silly thing, yet having him put you in control made you feel...powerful, in a way. Humbled, definitely. He was a Prime, and he was deferring to you? “Um...I don’t want you to have to be cramped up in your altmode all day, so maybe we could go offroad and find somewhere more secluded? Then you could stretch your legs if you wanted to.”

Optimus nodded, and without warning his holoform fizzled from the cab. His voice returned to the radio. “If you would all gather your things; it would be easier to traverse the forest out of…”

You grabbed your backpack from the floorboard, slinging it over your shoulder and slipping out of the passenger seat when he opened the door for you. The kids clambered out soon after, and Optimus’ altmode shuddered and morphed before he transformed. You craned your neck back to peer up at him, smiling helplessly. Despite being so big, he hardly compared to the trees looming over all of you - he seemed just as mesmerized by that fact, peering up into the heavily leaved boughs forming a sort of ceiling over you. The sun was setting rapidly, the golden hour at its peak, and his armor glimmered like precious metal. You were so very glad that no one else was around.

Raf fumbled with his pack, almost as big as he was, and drew out a map he’d printed of the park. He studied it for a moment, then his eyes lit up and he pointed to a spot on the west side. “We’re here. If we go that way-” He pointed east. “We could see one of the mountains around here; maybe we could camp there. General Sherman’s nearby, too.”

Everyone nodded, and Optimus knelt down and offered his hand. “I would like to have the campsite set up before dark falls,” he admitted. “We can make more ground this way.”

Jack and Raf climbed up onto his palm obediently, and Miko cocked a brow at him with good humor. “Are you calling us short, Bossbot?”

Optimus returned the jest in equally good humor. “My legs are a little longer than yours, young Miko. I do not wish to leave any of you behind.”

You snorted, settled against the arch of his thumb, and held on once you were all settled. He raised you carefully to cradle you against his chest plating, his windshields reflecting the sights around you like a television screen - and, just like that, you were off. Optimus consulted Raf as he went, ensuring that he was headed in the right direction. He had ample room to maneuver most of the time, listening as the excited boy rattled off facts about the valley being discovered and the landmarks therein. You listened, quite content, watching the trees slide by. The bushes and shrubs seemed so far below you, and you were suddenly grateful that heights didn’t bother you as much as they used to - you’d grown used to being so far above solid ground, soothed by Optimus and the others’ ease of keeping you safe and promising never to allow you to fall.

Time passed, with little lapses of silence in between. The kids were chattering amongst themselves, pointing out deer frolicking away or birds startled by the gentle giant wandering through their home. There were little creeks here and there, boulders he had to be careful not to trip over, and you watched Optimus’ composed mask fade with every careful, measured step. You’d never seen him look so at ease, optics soft and expression serene as he witnessed your home’s beauty at its finest. You felt a silly surge of pride at the thought, happy that he was finding delight in the planet he and his comrades were otherwise trapped on.

Miko and Raf gasped at once, peering between the Prime’s carefully curled digits. You looked, and your breath caught.

“That,” Jack said, “is one big tree.”

And big it was.

Bigger than anything you’d seen in your life, bigger than the Autobots, there General Sherman stood, straight and strong and rigid amongst the rest of his kindred. Optimus’ pace slowed, and when you glanced up at him you were softened by the sincere wonder making his mouth drop open just so, his optics rounded and shuttering and glowing brilliantly.

“I...did not anticipate…” he began, voice startlingly quiet.

You couldn’t help but concur. “I wonder how old it is…?”

Raf was buzzing with anticipation, scooting to dangle his legs off the blade of Optimus’ servo. He pointed at the roots taller and wider than vehicles sloping up over the earth and disappearing back into it. “You could fit a car in them!”

Optimus approached the ancient sentinel slowly, reverently, placing his free servo flat over the bark. “There was never anything like this on Cybertron that I witnessed,” he murmured, half to himself. He looked up into the crown of branches far over his helm that just seemed to stretch on forever. “I never thought that earth would hold such treasures.”

“Wait ‘til we tell you about Mount Everest,” you muttered absently, watching his digits twitch, studying the texture beneath his touch.

Optimus seemed adamant to walk the circumference of the old redwood, stepping over roots and studying the knots and scores and old wounds the tree had endured. He was utterly enthralled, and it was the most endearing thing you’d ever seen.

Within seconds, it seemed, the sun had fallen below the horizon somewhere hidden by the forest. Optimus seemed reluctant to leave the old titan but knew it would be for the best, lest a random park ranger stumble upon the lot of you.

He headed further into the park, gradually ascending, weaving and picking his way along with care, and soon the trees began to thin out a bit to reveal a valley lined with cliffs and hills and smaller trees. A mountain loomed in the distance, still pinkened by the retreating sunset, and he set to work crossing the river that flowed through the middle of it to find a place to settle for the night. By a pure stroke of luck, he found a hollowed alcove that he could sit comfortably under, shaded from view from most angles, with boulders fallen from the cliffside to provide even more shelter. He managed to scoop away some rocks to make the ground more even, and while he sat and settled against the rockface, the four of you set to work.

Jack shared his limited, fuzzy experience of being a boy scout for a couple of years, and delegated a task to each of you. He would handle the firepit, Miko would get a bucket of water from the stream, Raf would get the food they’d packed, and you’d get firewood. Optimus kept a watchful eye over the lot of you, scanning the edge of the valley for any signs of unwanted observers, and you felt comfortable leaving the kids with him while you looked for more fuel.

You didn’t have to go very far, thankfully. There were clusters of trees scattered around, not huge, but big enough that they’d shed some branches and bark over time. You gathered an armful of both, grabbed a handful of dried leaves for kindling, and shuffled your way back up the hillside. You heard laughter before you crested the crumbling shale, and saw that Miko had flicked water at Jack. He was doing his best to be the bigger person, schooling his scowl and ignoring how his hair dripped into his eyes as he set up the border stones and dug out the pit with a small trowel. He seemed grateful for your return, and you flashed him a smile as you set down your supply and went about arranging it for optimal burning. You opted for a log house style, dropping the leaves and needles into the middle before delicately covering them with smaller twigs and sticks while still giving them room to breathe. Jack slipped his hand through the gap with his lighter, flicking it on and coaxing the fire to life. All of the wood was dry so it took to flame easily, crackling and smoldering before beginning to glow and snap in earnest.

Optimus, hands settled comfortably over his lap, watched with dimmed optics, a gentle expression on his faceplate. When Miko began to needle Jack about supper, he diverted her attention by asking her about school. She took the bait unwittingly, griping about her teachers, drawing Raf and Jack into a debate about how terrible their last history test had been, and you shook your head fondly as you set about opening up the package of orzo you’d snuck in. You set up the simple wire grill as they talked, setting out a small pot and filling it with a bottle of drinking water to boil before beginning to cook the pasta.

The night grew darker, and Optimus’ pale blue biolights shimmered against the orange glow and dark shadows cast by the campfire. He looked quite at home, settled against the stone, fans humming quietly as a breeze flooded the valley with a gentle chill. You shivered, tugging your sleeves down your arms as you stirred, glancing at the sky. You frowned when you noticed a swell of clouds to the right of the valley, but opted to dismiss it. You’d checked the weather report for the area while packing, and it had said there was only a twenty percent chance of rain.

It’d be fine.

“Why didn’t you just cook rice if you wanted rice?”

“It’s not rice, Miko, it’s orzo.”

“But it’s obviously supposed to look like rice!”

“I doubt the ancient Italians had ready access to rice. Maybe they just liked the shape, since it’s simple.”

“Copycats,” the girl grumbled, shoving another spoonful into her mouth and chewing sullenly.

You’d opted for a rather simple dish, stewing the orzo in a bit of canned cream once you’d strained it and adding cheese and a can of stewed tomatoes to make it pop. Salt, black pepper, and cayenne had made it quite good, in your humble opinion.

The kids seemed to agree if how they were already finished with their second bowls was any indication.

They’d already sent brief texts to their parents and guardians, and Optimus had informed you that Ratchet had checked in to ensure nothing disastrous had happened. June had insisted that Jack talk to her over a call, so he’d paced the edge of the firelight for a good ten minutes before managing to reassure her that you were all fine. You’d settled back against Optimus’ pede, sitting on your sleeping bag, curled up in the light jacket you’d brought just in case. Your bowl was warming your lap, half empty, and you sipped idly from your bottle of water.

The clouds had drawn closer over time, covering up most of the stars, though you could still pick out a couple in the gaps of hazy black. Moonbeams poured into the valley through those patches, and the sound of crickets and the distant cacophony of nocturnal animals gave the place a sense of enchantment you hoped you wouldn’t disturb.

You wouldn’t. But nature herself would.

“Hey!”

You looked at Miko, who was scrubbing her cheek with a curled lip. “What? Mosquitoes?”

“Rain!” she exclaimed, just as a fat, cold droplet smacked the side of your neck and made you shudder on impact.

Gooseflesh rose under your clothes, and then you heard it - the hiss of rain beginning to fall on the grass not far from you.

You cursed under your breath.

The four of you had seconds to scramble for your things, dragging your bedrolls under the canopy of rock and hastily putting away the trash, dishes, and food accumulated on the ground. Optimus looked like he wanted to help, but because he didn’t want to risk hurting any of you with sudden movements, all he could do was shield you as best as he could with his extended servos.

The skies opened up, and rain began to flood the valley in earnest.

You hissed at the others to get close to the Prime where it was sheltered, fumbling and grabbing their packs. They scrambled to get close, clustered near his knees, and you stumbled over a rock before managing to get into safety.

You all stared at each other, soaked to the bone, and began to giggle madly.

“Our luck, huh?” you wheezed, doing your best to wring out your hair and tie it into a damp bun. Poor Raf was doing his best to dry his glasses, and Jack watched, crestfallen, as the rain smothered his campfire.

“I thought you said it wasn’t going to rain!” Miko claimed, shivering and pulling her jacket from her backpack with a scowl.

“It was unlikely,” you said, shrugging, just glad you’d been able to cook a hot meal before the weather had struck. You glanced out, watching as water began to soak every inch of the earth stretched out before you. You scratched your head. “Don’t know how we’re gonna manage to all spread out without getting wet, though.”

“Allow me.”

Optimus shifted, pulled his legs up, and the four of you tried to make room for him. He transformed, leaving much more room in the alcove, but he surprised you by opening his doors. “The wind might blow in the rain.”

“But...all night?” you questioned.

“I have spent longer in my altmode,” he soothed. You heard the telltale click of his heater kicking on. “I do not wish for any of you to catch ill.”

You’d brought a hand towel, luckily, and you had them pat themselves mostly dry before grabbing their sleeping supplies and climbing up into Optimus’ cab. The last thing you wanted was to get all his interior wet - you hated to think about it getting moldy or smelling bad.

You settled into the driver’s seat, sliding it back to give yourself a little more room to curl up with your back against the door. The kids were already quite content in their blankets and leaning close to the vents scattered throughout the cab. You wondered briefly about smothering without fresh air, but you noticed that Optimus had rolled his windows down just a fraction. You hid a smile as you pulled the hood of your jacket over your head, resting your temple against the shoulder of the seat.

“What now?” Miko questioned, drawing all of your attention. She snapped her phone shut with a dramatic sigh. “I don’t have any service out here, and it’s too early to go to bed.”

“We could play a game,” Raf suggested.

“Not truth or dare,” Jack reiterated firmly.

“We know.” Miko retorted.

“Why don’t we tell campfire stories?” you proposed, trying to redirect around the inevitable argument that would crop up from shortened tempers if you didn’t intervene.

“In case you didn’t notice, the rain ruined the main thing required for that,” Miko said flatly.

“We don’t have to have the ambient lighting,” you replied, brows furrowing, but the radio screen flared to life once more.

“I believe I may be of some assistance,” Optimus said smoothly. You watched, dumbfounded, as the biolights littering the interior of his cab shifted hues into a warm, flickering range of amber to gold - just like the flames left to smolder in the onslaught outside. To add to the effect, the sound of crackling wood and chirping crickets piped through the speakers. “Is this acceptable?”

“More than!” Miko crowed, grinning wickedly in the dim lighting. “Thanks, Bossbot!”

“Is there anything you can’t do?” Raf wondered out loud, thoroughly mesmerized.

Optimus rumbled that same almost chuckle, though it could easily have been passed for his engine under the hum of the heaters clicking down into a lower setting. “I am afraid that there are quite a few things, Rafael, that I am unable to do.”

“Who wants to go first?” asked Jack, tugging his blanket over his torso and settling into the passenger seat. His eyes were already half-lidded.

“Me, me!” Miko exclaimed. “Maybe it’s not a campfire story like you’re used to, but I know a few old legends about Japanese demons that’ll make your skin crawl right off your body!”

Poor Raf already looked spooked. “Please just don’t make them too scary. I’d really like to be able to sleep, you know.”

“Why don’t I start?” you tried. “It’s just a story I heard from someone at school, and it’s not too bad - just a little spooky.”

Miko folded her arms over her chest but didn’t argue, and you smiled as the kids settled their eyes on you. “Okay, so there once was an old lumberyard a few miles from any nearby town that could only be accessed by train and trolley. They had those massive log-splitting saws that would never fly with today’s safety laws - and for good reason. There was one man that worked there who was huge - seven feet tall, just as big as a grizzly bear - who always kept a bag of sunflower seeds in the front pocket of his overalls and chewed them throughout the day.”

Miko faked a rather obvious yawn, but the boys shushed her immediately. Just as Optimus had forewarned, the wind began to blow the rain into the alcove, drumming against his windshield in a fierce spray that only enhanced the background noise.

“One day,” you continued patiently, “this man’s ankle got caught up in one of the logging chains they would attach to draft horses’ harnesses to drag the logs to the saw. In a freak accident, the man was pulled through the saw, and both of his legs were sheered right off his body like butter. The other workers couldn’t do anything to save him, so he bled out in seconds.”

Raf sucked in a breath, and Jack’s eyes rounded. Even Miko was staring more attentively.

“Some have said,” you concluded, “that they have found sunflower seed shells chewed up on the ground around their campsites, as well as furrows in the ground from this man dragging himself through the dirt with his bare hands. A few have sworn that they could hear him groaning in the middle of the night, begging for the other lumberyard workers to help him find his legs, and that you can still hear the saws roaring deep in the woods-”

All three kids squealed when a deep, juddering groan filled the cabin. You jumped, glancing around, heart pounding at the unexpected sound.

“My apologies,” Optimus rumbled, and were you imagining things, or…did he sound smug? “The wiper blades must be dry. We do not often see rain in Jasper.”

Did he…? There’s no way. You covered your mouth, trying your best to withhold your laughter. Maybe the Prime had a sense of humor after all. “That’s the end of the story anyway,” you concluded, clearing your throat. “Go ahead, Miko.”

“Great!” She leaned forward, waggling her fingers with anticipation. “Now, it all started with…”

The worst of the storm had passed by the time the kids finally grew too drowsy to exchange stories anymore (which had quickly devolved from spooky ones to personal experiences, particularly gossip, which you had noted with some amusement), leaving a lazy drizzle just outside the alcove. The clouds had thinned just enough to allow enough ambient lighting from the moon above them to cast the valley in a gloomy hue, but the sound was soothing (living in a desert certainly had its detriments, as you loved the rain dearly, but that’s what you had modern technology for anyway) - enough so that the kids were fast asleep and snoring in their respective seats, curled up in their blankets like chrysalises. Optimus’ biolights had long since dimmed, and his silence suggested that he likely had drifted into stasis likewise - but you couldn’t convince yourself to do the same.

You smothered a yawn and reached down into your open backpack on the floorboard, drawing out a book you’d borrowed from the library. You squinted, even tried holding the bookmarked page up to one of Optimus’ biolights, but even that couldn’t illuminate the words enough for you to read. Flashlight it was, then.

You fished the pocket light out of the side pocket and, as quietly and gingerly as you could manage, cracked open the door to slip down the step onto the wet gravel below before pressing it shut again. The last thing you wanted was to disturb any of them - especially Optimus - so you hoped he was deep enough in stasis that he wouldn’t notice the movement.

One of the folding stools Jack had brought was damp but didn’t soak your pants through when you sat against the rock wall, clicking on the miniature flashlight and highlighting the page.

Much better. You glanced up at the cab and its windows but saw no movement to suggest that it was rousing the kids. You smiled softly to yourself and returned your attention to the words, whispering them quietly to yourself. “‘Sleep, love sleep, the night winds sigh, in soft lullaby. The Lark is at rest with the dew on her breast. So close those dear eyes, that borrowed their hue from the heavens so blue, sleep, love sleep.’”

“You are not resting?”

Your head snapped up, eyes rounding as Optimus’ holoform fizzled into being from nothing before you, reminding you of old myths about Grecian gods (and the forms they took to woo mortals). You smothered the thought immediately. “I didn’t realize you were still awake.”

“I was not, but you left. I wanted to ensure you were all right,” Optimus rumbled, stepping over and settling himself onto the stool next to you, closer to the whispering rain - close enough that your elbows would touch if you were so inclined to lean towards him.

“I’m fine,” you told him softly, clicking off the light on reflex. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

He studied you for a moment, and you could swear that perhaps his eyes did almost glow in the dark. “You struggle with insomnia?”

It was honestly less of a question and more of an observation, but he was polite enough not to let it be known that your behavior was that obvious. You shrugged. “I have for a few years now, but I’ve gotten used to it. I just left my supplements at home.”

His brows furrowed just so. “You require aid to assist?”

“It’s not like I can just turn my brain off,” you joked, pointing towards your head. “I don’t know if it’s different for you guys, but humans’ brains stay active even while we’re sleeping. That’s why we dream.”

“I…see. Our autonomous functions continue similarly, but we do not dream.”

“Oh.” You frowned lightly. “Not at all?”

Optimus tilted his head slightly, staring resolutely down at the gravel beneath his boots with a contemplative hum. “It is difficult to explain. We do not…‘dream’, by your common definition, so much as we relive our memories. Our processors cannot reinvent nor repurpose information already recorded as humans do. Our memories can become corrupted and data will bleed together as a result, but that is as close to dreaming as we come. And, if that happens, the memories themselves are of a more…volatile nature, to produce such a result.”

Your frown deepened. “Are you saying you can only have nightmares?”

“In a worst-case scenario. It is simply more common due to the health concerns involved in their development related to stressful or traumatic events.” He released a long exhale. “Though it is much rarer, memories with other strong emotional attachments can produce a similar result. Exultation, for example - however, such cases are simply not as frequent.”

“I see. Like flashbulb memories, but on a much more extreme scale,” you related. “I enjoyed learning psychology a couple of years ago, though I know it doesn’t really come close to this biologically since you’re…well, mechanical, and we’re organic. It just fascinates me that our wiring produces similar results, so to speak.”

Optimus gave you an appraising look, seemingly pleased. “Our peoples are more similar than I would ever have initially thought upon making contact with humanity. Anatomically we could be considered cousins - distant, perhaps, but still related.”

You realized, then, that the limited familiarity you had with reading him normally was amplified tenfold seeing his microexpressions and body language translated into human form. He had never before looked so obviously open with his emotions - the inquisitive sparkle in his eyes, the unwavering attentiveness of his gaze fixated wholly on you, the softness of his features. He was so innately curious about anything and everything, despite having every reason to have become callused throughout his lifetime, and you found it endlessly endearing.

“I’d like to study that further,” you smiled, “though I’m sure Ratchet would get tired of my questions.”

“He, too, is as studious as I,” Optimus mused. “That is partly how we met. If a topic is ever struck about that which he is passionate, it is difficult to curb his enthusiasm.” That same barely-there smile, so much more prominent than usual. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to moderating his expressions in his holomatter avatar since it was so rarely used. “But if ever you have questions, I would be more than happy to indulge you, s’mol’lis.”

“What does that mean?” you blurted, unable to help yourself. His brows rose slightly, expression carefully receding back into neutrality. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to. I’ve just never heard you say that before, what little you’ve spoken Cybertronian.”

“You hear it as Cybertronian?” he questioned quietly, sounding taken aback.

“Um…yes?” You frowned. “Am I not supposed to?”

“I am saying your name in English,” he explained, and…was he genuinely surprised? “That you are able to understand the harmonics attached to it is…unexpected.” You blinked at him, and he elaborated, “In Cybertronian dialects, we speak on multiple frequencies at once. It takes the internal complexity of our audial structure to understand each layer individually, as well as combined. It is how we assign titles, ranks, or…feelings to certain objects, or people.”

“It’s not like I can tell what exactly you’re saying, it’s just…quiet, in a way.” Your face felt unbearably hot. Were you not supposed to notice or comment on this? “I’m…sorry if I’ve overstepped or anything, I was just curious. I’d noticed my name started to sound a little different, but today it really stood out to me.”

“Yes. To address someone by their name is an inherently transparent statement of one’s regard for that person. A Cybertronian cannot lie in how they feel for another. It is impossible.” He watched you carefully for a long moment, eyes studying your face. It took him even longer to continue. “I have much respect for you, s’mol’lis, and hold you in high esteem. You are a primary example to me of the ideals that humanity represents. Your outlook on life is highly advanced for someone of your age, and I find that you have caused me to reconsider things from different perspectives I never would have imagined on my own. It is…refreshing, to hear your opinions on things. You are highly intelligent, as well as open-minded, and your capacity for compassion is one to be admired. I am exceedingly grateful that I have had the opportunity to meet you. You have afforded me room to stop and observe the little things that I had forgotten were just as important as the grand scheme of them. Your world is truly beautiful, and you’ve reminded me not to take that for granted. I wish to protect it, unlike how I failed to do so for Cybertron.” His gaze turned to the rain still pouring from the sky, and he reached out with an upturned palm to watch the droplets dribble over his artificial skin. His expression tightened slightly. “…Although I do wish it might have been under different circumstances. Knowing that I pose an eternal danger to you merely by proxy…”

“I’d risk it a million times over,” you interrupted instantly, causing his brows to rise again as he withdrew his hand and smeared the moisture onto his jeans. “You - all of you - have changed my life in ways I would never have expected. I am so very grateful for that. You don’t know how much you - all mean to me.” Your eyes stung, but you took a steadying inhale through your nose. “You’ve changed my life for the better.”

“As have you. I shall have to inquire Ratchet about the potential implications of you being able to understand even a small fraction of our native tongue, though it can wait for later.” Optimus’ lips upturned, and your heart squeezed. He glanced down at the book in your hand. “You were reading poetry?”

“I, ah…yes.” You handed him the book and tried to give him the pocket light, as well, but he shook his head. “I’ve really enjoyed reading it lately. It’s calming, and gets my mind off things.”

“I am able to see more in the dark than a human can, even while utilizing my holomatter avatar,” Optimus rumbled, flipping it open to the page you’d had marked. “I find that it has a similar effect for me.” He glanced down at you, earnesty in his stratospheric baby blues. “Would you like to continue reading it by me narrating it aloud?”

“Oh,” you murmured, face growing hot again. (God, would he ever stop flustering you?) “You don’t have to, really - I didn’t even mean to wake you up-”

He leaned in closer, peering directly into your eyes. “I do not mind,” he told you plaintively. “I enjoy reading it as well. It would be no trouble to help you sleep.”

Oh. You really were that transparent, huh?

“I…guess I can’t argue with that.” You leaned back against the stone wall behind you, trying to ignore the fact that while he may have been composed of solid light in this form, he undeniably radiated warmth. “Thank you.”

“There is no need.” He, too, reclined against the worn rock, folded his legs at the ankles, and propped the book against his knees. “You were half-way through this one?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, eyes drifting up to study the faint illumination of his profile against the midnight backdrop. Maybe your initial associations with Greek mythology weren’t too far off the mark, after all.

“Very well.” He cleared his throat quietly, then settled into a low, rhythmic cadence that immediately set you at ease. “‘Sleep, love sleep, the pale moon looks down on the valleys around, the Glow Moth is flying’…”

You exhaled slowly, eyelids slipping shut as you turned to face him - and, in so doing, brushed against his arm. Wordlessly, he lifted it - and though you hesitated, he waited for you to tuck yourself into his side proper before enclosing his grasp around your back. His broad and impossibly warm hand settled on your shoulder, and you firmly told yourself that he was being considerate of the chill blowing into the alcove on a gentle breeze causing you to shiver. He was the epitome of a gentleman, after all, and even as his voice vibrated through his apparition’s side against your ear, you could summon no proper argument against allowing him to be so courteous.

And he was warm - so very warm, and safe, and maybe it wouldn’t hurt if you just rested your eyes for a minute. You didn’t want to fall asleep against him, because that would be awkward and would make him uncomfortable and he’d have to move you back into the cab eventually, but…

“…‘the South wind is sighing, and I am low lying, with lute deftly strung, to pour out my song’…” And were you really imagining things again, or did he turn his head to whisper the last line directly into your ear? “…‘sleep, love. Sleep.’”

…No, that didn’t sound like a bad idea at all, actually. Maybe five minutes wouldn’t hurt.

“We’re baaack!”

You heard Ratchet’s scoff all the way across the hangar, even as the churning vortex of the groundbridge drowned out most other sounds. You shook your head with a thin smile, watching as the kids eagerly ran into the interior of the silo. You took your time, sore all over from sleeping upright all night.

You had fallen asleep, much to your chagrin, and deeply, too. The chipper twitter of birdsong in the bleak dawn had roused you, and you’d realized with a start that you’d just about fallen into Optimus’ lap - which he hadn’t disengaged all throughout the night. Startled awake when you’d sat up abruptly, mortified beyond measure, he’d gently explained that he hadn’t wanted to disturb you and thus had merely allowed himself to fall into stasis likewise. While it was not your preferred method of getting him to rest, you’d take it - even if Miko had been giving you her signature side-eye all morning after they woke to the scent your haphazard breakfast consisting of black instant coffee and PB&Js.

Ratchet stepped out of his alcove to greet the lot of you (though primarily Optimus, you knew). “You missed your midnight check-in,” the medic groused, pointing an accusatory finger at the Prime.

“We were preoccupied,” responded Optimus smoothly, “with telling campfire stories.”

Ratchet’s optical ridge rose incredulously. “A thunderstorm passed over your location.”

“We improvised!” Raf piped up with a grin, already halfway up the mezzanine with the other two. “It was really fun!”

“Yeah, it was,” Jack agreed. He turned to address the crimson and cobalt mech. “Thanks for taking us, Optimus.”

“Yeah, thank you!” Raf parroted.

They both pointedly looked at Miko. “Oh, yeah. Thanks!” She shrugged. “Sorry you got cramped up in your altmode, though.”

“It was no trouble,” he responded. “And you are welcome.”

Ratchet gestured him over impatiently, already activating his scanner and opening the screen embedded into the kibble encasing his forearm. “Yes, yes, that’s all well and good - but I need to make sure that the static didn’t accumulate in your wiring, and…” His optics narrowed suddenly, and he squinted up at the Prime. “Your energon levels should not be that low. Did you even properly recharge?”

You looked up at him, too, doubtful, but he merely shook his helm at the medic once before glancing around the rest of the hangar. “Where are the others?”

Evidently, his dismissal and redirection worked because Ratchet let out an aggravated ex-vent. “You’ll have to call them out of the field,” he glowered. “I managed to wrangle them long enough to examine them, but as soon as I brought up updating their firewalls they may as well have vanished into thin air. Which reminds me!” He reached to one of his shelves and withdrew a syringe that made you feel faint just looking at the length of its needle. “I forgot to inject yours, as well.”

Optimus shifted slightly, optics shuttering. “I will go find them first,” he said, and you watched in dumbfounded silence as he power-walked with as much poise and grace a mech of his size could manage right out of the hangar into the corridor.

You expected Ratchet to grow even more livid, but despite how it flabbergasted you, a knowing smirk curled at the edges of Ratchet’s intake.

“You like having them scared of you, don’t you?” you asked with some amusement.

That hint of a smile disappeared instantly, and Ratchet scoffed again while turning to face his monitor. “It’s not my fault that they avoid standard maintenance!” he retorted. “But they’ll eventually have to come back to refuel, and they’ll get their immunizations one way or another - even if I have to chase them down myself.”

You smothered a laugh into your hand, shaking your head all the while, and made a beeline for the corridor. “I’m going to shower. Just don’t tear down the base while I’m gone.”

“There’s no telling with how Bulkhead squirms,” Ratchet responded.

It wasn’t until you had your head down, fair flipped over and scrubbing the grime away in the warm stream, that you realized that Optimus hadn’t exactly answered your question.

#fisara's codices #fanfiction #transformers #transformers: prime #tfp #maccadam #macaddam #optimus prime #reader insert #optimus prime/reader #optimus prime x reader #mine #optimus prime x you

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