He had finished the notes for the meeting the next day hours ago.
He'd managed all the translation he could stand for the day: the archives of Cybertron would have to wait.
All of the treaty drafts, all the speeches and letters, sat aging, drifting far enough away that he could journey to them, discovering them anew.
Then he checked the chronometer, disappointed that hours remained between him and his recharge. He thought about trying to look lively, but what good would that do? As a larger, slower bot, no one expected Optimus to find any use on real patrols. His quick wit kept him awake as nimbler bots like Bumblebee walked the grounds, ready to call him for a coordinated response should what remained of the Decepticons strike.
So there he sat, his work done but his duty remaining, his only task to meet any danger with the response of the rested though rest would elude him until the dawn. So there he sat, with a world of things to do but none to do just then.
He preferred the day shift; Optimus preferred sticking the lonely medic on night duty so that he might bask in the sunlight. The day shift would see him with time to spare that he could while away conferring with Sam on matters of great importance, strategizing and devising training strategies Lennox, friendly chats on the issues with diplomats of all extractions. Even on slow days that found his usual contacts busy, Optimus had means to keep occupied: he could always harass Seymour Simmons for old Sector Seven secrets, or get more up-to-date intelligence and indignant insults from Charlotte Mearing.
He wondered about all of them, sitting there as the moonlight filtered in on him. He thought about where they might lay down their heads, whether sleep eluded them. He wondered if Sam had buried his face in the lush hair of his blonde mate, if Annabelle had crawled in with her parents, if the tags on Mearing's nightclothes matched her colorful bags. He wondered about the idle thoughts passing through their heads, of the dreams they might have. What pictures played out in their minds' eyes? What secrets did their sleep guard so sternly as he kept his loneliness, his boredom?
He could message them, tentatively, like Annabelle sticking her toes in water that time he met Lennox at the beach, but how? To say anything would reveal his weakness, his vulnerability. So there he sat until he could bear no more. He went to send a message to Sam, an unobtrusive little ping in the boy's noisy world, and he found a message in his inbox.
"I can't stop thinking about this chatter one of the analysts found. Sounds like Decepticons to me. No one else thinks so. You know better than I would."
He smiled and played along.