A/N: I found this on the old computer - a forgotten relic of one of my many suppressed outbursts of, "But dang it all, sometimes I just wanna blinkin' frolic with Megatron!" Ratchet was glee; Megs was adorable; Prime was more honest than I usually let him be; and Elita can do a pitch-perfect Beachcomber impression. It was too good to throw away. So I thought I would go ahead and finish it. Here you go.

Strange Algebra: Prime / Elita + Megatron = ?

They lay together, Optimus and Elita - he on his back, she cradled in his arm with her head resting on his shoulder. Whenever possible, the two recharged on the same slab; not because it made the charge-up itself any more pleasant (since they were insensible during the offline period), but because it was so comforting to come online in one another's arms. They were a unit, a single organism, a bonded pair almost from inception. Their love was something as integral to each one of them as their own transformation.

Elita booted up first; and she smiled. These were her favorite moments, alone with her Orion. She reached over to touch his chest, and grinned wider. The metal was hot.

"I see you were dreaming about me," she remarked, when he awoke a moment later with a groan.

She expected a teasing rejoinder, or at least a sated confirmation. But Optimus turned his head away.

Elita's grin faded. Slowly, her hand retreated from his chest. "Who was it?" she asked.

He turned to her a gaze brimming with shame.

"Oh," she said, subdued.

"I tried not to!" he whispered.

"You can't help what your processor does while you're offline," she said sharply. "Which makes it worse," she added in an undertone he wasn't meant to hear.

They lay there, separate now, though he still held her as before.

"Does he want it?" Elita asked at last. Her voice was leaden.

"I don't know..." Prime looked at her miserably. "He asked me once – as close as Megatron will ever come to asking for anything that makes him look weak." Prime fidgeted. "I laid out all my principles against it. Told him it could ruin our friendship. Told him it would be a betrayal of your trust, too much to ask of my bondmate. But I..." He sighed, and turned away. "I'm not sure if I really believe all that, or if I was only making up excuses." He slammed a fist down on the berth. "I shouldn't want this!" he shouted. "What is wrong with me?"

"At least you're being honest about it. Finally," she said.

He turned to face her. "Do you... Do you ever wonder...?"

"...What it would be like to interface with Megatron?"

He grimaced.

"Hoping that you're not the only one?" Elita's tone was biting, though she'd tried to hold it in.

Optimus put a hand over his face. "I am a large red piece of slag," he said from underneath it.

Elita thought about the first time she'd touched Megatron: how electric it had been, how strange. His energy was hot and violent, a challenge and a threat... but never a threat to her. He'd always made her feel that she was precious to him, and even in some way his redemption. Sometimes she sought out his companionship, mostly to share concerns about Orion. But the Decepticon had always been a foreign country to her, and sometimes – even now – hostile. So anything more intimate than that... She turned to face her bondmate. "Do you remember that one time I woke to find you in my berth, and panicked because I thought you were Megatron?"

He nodded.

"'Nuff said. It would be horrifying. Demeaning and dishonest for us both."

"Why don't I have that same horror?" he asked, a little plaintively. "Why do I find myself wishing-?" He broke off with a rough gesture.

Elita snorted. "Because you're not me?"

Optimus tried to organize his thoughts. He knew that he could simply open his spark to Elita, take her in, and they'd both understand everything. A few million years ago, when they were both newlings, it's what he would have done. But the more linked they had become, the more they'd tried to maintain their individuality. Their union was great strength. But to be so much united that they ceased to be unique would be to lessen not just their own selves, but Cybertron as well. There had never been many transformers. Each one was a cog in the machine that, if lost or altered, hindered its running and lessened its intrinsic beauty.

Now the two sparkmates rarely left their bodies for a full bond. Instead, they took more indirect approaches, wanting a union based on more than just shared knowledge. They expressed affection through word, touch, and time together. They'd learned each other's sweet spots – where to access the neural net that ran throughout their bodies. And on the rare occasion when they had time for real indulgence, they would open up their armor, and hold one another close until their spark-cores almost touched. The trust, the tantalizing proximity, the overflow of love was enough to leave them weak for hours afterward. But there was danger in allowing more spark contact than merest touch: a full download of another's spark while in-frame would fry even the most upgraded processor – leaving a smoking ruin of a bot for Ratchet to chastise and try to rebuild.

"Orion..." Elita tapped his chestplate. "My deep-thinking wordsmith, always looking for the very best way to say things..." She was still hurting, but she couldn't help but smile at him. She knew his love for her was bedrock-deep; more sure than even this could ever change or undermine.

"There's just no data," Optimus said, frustrated. "I mean, spark-bonds are rare enough. A double-bond..." He sighed. "The only other one I know about is Chromia, and it's not exactly something I can talk to her about."

Elita put her hand over her mouth to stifle an outburst of inappropriate laughter. "Can you imagine it?" she whispered. She put a finger to her audial, and mimicked his deep voice. "Optimus Prime to Chromia –kchhhk– Hey Chromie, you know Monsoon - your bond-sister who died? Did you ever lust after her? Did Ironhide?" Her back to Prime, Elita curled her knees into her chest and dissolved into a fit of helpless giggling. It wasn't that the subject was funny – far from it – it was simply a release of tension. And the pink femme had always hidden a wicked sense of humor.

"You," groused Prime, rolling on top of her, "Are an evil, heartless femme, and I'm glad you're not on the enemy's side."

"How do you know I'm not?" She shoved him off, back to his portion of the berth. "But seriously, beloved..." Elita grimaced and thump the back of her head against the berth. "I want data, too, Orion Pax. Now. What exactly do you want from Megatron?"

Optimus huffed, mouth tight. "Primus," he swore, a long exhale of frustration and shame. He turned away. "All right. I'll tell you. There's some sick part of me that wants the big lug to push past all of my righteous resistance, and then, I don't know, slagging, 'have his way with me,' or something. Oh, Primus," he added again in an undertone.

"Thus absolving you of all responsibility for the indiscretion?" she asked.

"Scrap, I don't know. I just want to enjoy losing, for once. To have it be a release, instead of the end of the world. Of course," he added dryly, "I'd want him to be able to read my mind as well, so he'd never push me to do anything I didn't actually want to do... How did we end up having this conversation?"

Elita gave a short laugh, and jabbed him with her elbow. "Because the pure and worthy Prime is secretly a letch." She thought for a moment, then asked, "What would you do if he came to you and begged you for release?"

"What, Megatron saying, 'I need you, Ops! Make me your love-slave or I'll die'? That would be..." Prime's optics dimmed, "...uncomfortable," he finished honestly.

"Could you ever say that to him?"

"'Help me, Megs; I'm gagging for it'?"

She laughed. "Something like that."

"But I don't even know exactly what it is I'm gagging for!" He turned to snuggle against Elita's warm, familiar frame that curved so perfectly into his. "This is crazy; you are a saint, and I am the scum between a Skuxxoid's toes."

"So true," agreed Elita lightly. She sighed. "But I'm tired of you hiding from all this. It's..." (she mimicked Beachcomber's laid-back delivery) "It's messin' up my groove, man. You just gotta, you know, be one with the moment. Give a little brotherly love."

Optimus laughed; he couldn't help it. He and Elita knew their soldiers well, and could imitate most of them down to the last bolt. So this was one of their secret games. Elita, whose vocal range was wider, especially excelled.

Optimus raised himself onto one elbow, and put on a willing, but slightly perplexed expression. In a clipped, rapid-fire cadence that was very like Perceptor's, he declared, "I suppose it's not too far out of the realms of probability for two mechs such as yourselves to want to repeat the bonding experience. But as for these..." (he gave an awkward shrug) "more unformatted cravings... I can only suggest - respectfully - that they are products of a compromised processor. I suggest you report to Ratchet for a complete defrag immediately."

Elita chuckled, but Prime's optics dimmed. "So fragged," he said.

"Maybe you should talk to Ratchet," suggested Elita.

"Slag, no!"

She pressed him. "I bet he's got some good ideas. Did you know he studied Circuit-Sutra at the Academy?"

Optimus gaped. "No! Surely he had, I don't know, more vital subjects to study?"

"He said it was so that he'd be able to recognize some of the more... internal injuries, and put bots back together when they tried some of that stuff."

"Wow." Prime's blue optics glazed as his mind went very far astray. "Heh. Ratchet, eh? I'll have to ask him for a few ideas to surprise you with sometime."

Elita shrugged. "I've always wanted to try the Thermal Flush with Clamps and Neural Strippers."

Prime gasped. "What is that? It sounds horrible!"

Elita patted his arm. "That's because I made it up, dear."

Prime flopped back onto the berth. "Made up," he grumbled. "Come'ere, you." He pulled an unresisting Elita up onto his chest. "I'll show you a few things I 'made up'! Evil she-demon," he complained.

"But remember, you like evil," she teased back. "At least when it comes in tall, gray, and caustic." She leaned down to whisper into his audial, "And I know that you like this..." Elita pressed a certain hidden node, and Prime's vision went white.

"So." Megatron looked at Prime over the top of the datapad which Shockwave had just handed him. "Elita tells me you want me to take you hard."

Optimus glanced quickly around the large, open Command Center in panic. At desks around the tower's wide circumference, Autobots and Decepticons went about their jobs, making sure Cybertron ran smoothly. There were thirty-two bots present. But so far, no one seemed to have heard Megatron's comment. At least, no one was letting on...

Megatron gave Prime a huge, lecherous wink.

Like a thundercloud trying desperately to seem like an innocuous cotton ball, the Autobot Commander rose up from his station. "You!" he hissed, grabbing the gray mech by the scruff of the neck. "Come with me now."

"Ooh!" Megatron gasped in mock fright. "So soon? I never knew you could be so forceful!"

Optimus clamped his jaws tight. He half-dragged the gray mech into a nearby storeroom, and slammed the door shut behind him. "Sit," he ordered, throwing Megatron down onto a square metal container labeled Medical Supplies.

"As you wish, my Lord," said Megatron facetiously.

"What did she tell you?" asked Prime, pacing back and forth in the tiny closet. "What, exactly?"

"Feeling betrayed?" Megatron asked, smirking.

"Yes!" Prime bit back the shout.

"No fun, is it?" commented Megatron, local authority on traitorous lieutenants.

"You slagging glitch. Don't change the subject. What did Elita tell you?" And why did she go behind my back? he thought, but didn't say.

Softly, the gray Decepticon began to laugh. "You know," he said, "This just gets more and more amusing. All Elita suggested was that you and I should reexamine the parameters of our bond." He gave Optimus his most feral grin. "Your own reaction gave the rest away." He crossed an ankle over one knee, and folded his hands behind his head. "So," he said expansively. "You do want me to take you hard."

"I never said-" Prime stopped. He was determined not to be drawn into one of Megatron's mind-games. "Cut the slag, Megs; we're on duty. We don't have time to fool around!" (He avoided his bond-brother's sneer at that ill-chosen phrase.)

With a sharp exhalation of defeat, Optimus Prime yanked out a second metal box out from the shelves lining the wall, and sat down heavily upon it. "All right," he said. "Sometimes I do want – something. Else. More than we've got."

"What about all your high and mighty principles against some undefined trespass?" asked Megatron, crooking air quotes with his fingers.

Prime waved an impatient hand. "I know what I said! I know I've got problems! I'm aware, all right! What about you? What do you want, while we're here hiding in the closet?"

"Want?" Megatron gave a harsh laugh, then looked Optimus directly in the face. "I need you, Prime."

Prime blinked. "Why the slag didn't you say so before?"

"I did say so before."

"I mean later, after we had that first 'discussion'..." (This time it was Prime's turn with the air-quotes.) "You seemed just fine after that. I thought I was the only one who kept on wondering-"

Megatron rolled his optics upward in exasperation. "Prime, unlike you, I've had eons of practice at hiding my, shall we say, less warmonger-like desires."

Prime took in what his bond-brother had said, and readjusted his thinking. "What do you need from me?" he asked, more quietly.

Megatron shrugged, uncomfortable in his turn. "I don't know. But you used to spend a lot of time with me, make me feel like I had a real place in your life, your spark. You used to come to me for help. But lately..."

A far-off klaxon sounded, signaling the return of an away team of explorers. Prime and Megatron had promised to debrief them personally.

"You're right," admitted Optimus, speaking hurriedly now. "Lately I've spent most my free time with Elita. I wanted to restore our bond, and then..." He shrugged. "I guess I just fell back into longstanding habits."

"Like the selfish glitch you are."

"Probably." Optimus was adept at ignoring the caustic surface of Megatron's comments. "I didn't even realize you weren't happy."

Megatron made a face. "I was worried that you'd forgotten me. That you'd gotten what you wanted, and were done with me."

Optimus mirrored his Brother's expression. "I've had nightmares in which you held a gun to my head and told me that you hated being bonded to me, that I'd stolen your soul, that you despised me as a feeble, worthless thing..."

"Heh."

"Yeah."

They looked at one another.

Megatron scrubbed a thumb-knuckle against his chest. "It aches," he admitted abruptly.

Prime's optics softened. "Same here."

They looked at each other again.

"Your shift ends in three joors?" inquired Optimus.

Megatron grimaced. "Yes. But so what? You're still on for the next three whole orns. We never schedule both faction leaders off-duty at the same time. Which was your idea, I remind you."

"I'll get Prowl and Jazz to cover part of my shift," said Prime. "That should be more than enough authority for anyone."

Megatron smirked. The last time Prime had handed the reins over to those two, Jazz had thrown a state-wide party, and Prowl had used the opportunity of lowered inhibitions to get some solid information on the darker corners of the black market. "Your subordinates are evil," Megatron remarked dryly.

Optimus grinned. "Competent, though. That was a great party."

Megatron wasn't sidetracked. "If we're not careful, it's not just your relationship with Elita that'll get slagged-up," he warned, returning to the point. "We could really mess up this 'Brothers' vibe we've got going on lately. I'm not sure I want that."

"I know..." Prime huffed. "I don't want to lose what we have got. Or Elita's security with me. Or, slag, my self-respect. Or yours."

Megatron pinched the bridge of his nose, then caught himself mimicking Prime. He snorted. "We are soooooo fragged."

The klaxon sounded again, and there was a clatter of footfalls outside in the hallway as the Seeker team came to report in.

"Scrap. Well, we'll have to do our best to walk the line. Till then..." The two mechs rose. By unspoken consent, they moved in for a tight hug for a few precious nanoseconds. Then they broke apart, and headed for the door.

"Three joors," said Megatron. "I'll hold you to it."

"You'll hold me, eh?" Prime teased.

"You have no idea," smirked Megatron.

"Oh, I've got a few," retorted Optimus, the blue fires of challenge flaring in his optics.

The two mechs grinned toothily at one another. Then, game faced, they re-entered the Command Center.

Ratchet... Prime paused, then bit the bullet. I've got less than three joors to come up with something that will satisfy the needs of two spark-bonded mechs, without undermining the previous bond of one of them.

Ha! Ratchet's grin was audible, even over the comm-line. Ironhide, he called, not bothering to switch to a second channel, You owe me 50 Shanix!

Prime dropped the datapad he was pretending to work on. He hunched in behind the upper shelving of his desk, and put a finger to his audial to dial up the reception. You two had bets on? he radioed in a whisper.

Not just us, cut in Ironhide, his best friend. I'd say most o' higher Command's got somethin' in the pot. We' ain't all blind, Optimus.

"Scrap." Prime swore out loud, and Bluestreak, who'd been walking by, paused in concern.

"Something wrong, Chief?" the friendly gray-and-red Autobot asked.

Prime shook his head. "Nothing to worry about, Bluestreak," he assured the shorter mech.

Ratchet's peremptory voice came down the private comm-line: I want all three of you in my office. Your appointment is three joors from now. Prime flinched.

"Are you sure you're all right, Sir? Should I-"

Prime silenced the well-meaning gunner with a peremptory gesture. But I just-! he fumbled into the comm, suddenly embarrassed.

...Just made an appointment with a certain gray Decepticon? (Prime scrubbed a hand across his face, imagining the Medic's expression) Optimus, get someone to cover Elita's shift too. Learn to delegate! Ratchet out.

Prime sighed. When Ratchet called him by name, there was no way to back out. He turned to Bluestreak. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," he said. "I do need your help. Can you cover Elita's next shift?"

Like newlings caught in disobedience, they shuffled in to face Ratchet's all-seeing gaze. Prime held Elita's hand tightly. Then, remembering some of what the big Decepticon had said, he hooked his fingers into Megatron's armor as well.

"Excellent," Ratchet approved, leaning in state against a state-of-the-art medical berth. "Please, have a seat." The Medic flashed a terrifying smile. "At least when you're afraid, you act like a real family."

They each fell into the places prepped for them. The Medbay had never been long on chairs, so Megatron slumped onto an upended metal bucket; Prime made a precarious landing on a rolling stool that was missing one wheel; and Elita sank into a neatly-folded stack of clean dust-cloths.

"Now, young ones." Ratchet gave them a proprietary smile. "Let's see if my deductions are correct."

Ratchet's laser-scalpel gaze focused on the Autobot Commander. "Prime. You're obviously confused about the nature of your relationship with Megatron. The only thing you know is a romantic partnership, but you worry that pursuing such a thing with Megatron will wreck the friendship that you have with him right now, and hurt Elita as well. Yet you still find yourself, as you'd probably put it, lusting after your bond-brother. Have I left anything out?"

Prime grimaced. "No."

Ratchet took up a stylus, and scrawled something on a datapad. "35 Shanix... from... Sideswipe" he muttered to himself.

Prime looked up quickly, about to protest. But Ratchet silenced him with a single raised finger.

"Elita-One." The Medic turned to his next 'patient.' "You know that something's wrong between these two, but you're not quite unbiased enough to help them. After all, though you seldom admit it, you still resent the way Megatron has shouldered his way into the bond you share with your mate. You like having Orion's attention, and miss Optimus when he's with Megatron. And you're still not comfortable with the big gray lugnut-"

Elita shook her head. "You know, that's mostly right, I admit it. But the thing about not being comfortable with Megatron..." she paused, considered, then went on with more assurance. "I think that's just a holdover from the first few quartex. I've felt safe with Megatron for... quite a while now. It was just habit for us all to believe I didn't."

Optimus broke in, "But you said-"

Elita shushed him. "What I meant was, I'm not ready to, you know, bare my spark to him, or anything like that. But I'm certainly not afraid of him." She glanced at Megatron. "Much," she amended.

"Huh." Ratchet glanced down at his datapad. "You sure about all that?"

Elita leaned forward to look past Prime at Megatron, and gave the big Decepticon a crooked smile. "Yes," she said. "Sure."

"Good," Ratchet said. He grumbled under his breath, "Even though you've cost me 11 Shanix." He crossed off something, almost hard enough to break the stylus. "I'm glad you have come to trust your adopted brother so quickly."

"It wasn't that quick," the gray mech protested.

"Megatron." Ratchet turned to the big Decepticon, ignoring his complaint. "I've left you till last, and that seems to be happening a lot lately. You feel forgotten, cast out to fend for yourself. Whining's for losers and for Starscream, so you tell yourself you should be able to handle it. But you're lonely. Am I right?"

"Get smelted," was Megatron's answer.

The Doctor smiled grimly, and tapped something on the dataslate. Smokescreen: 34 Shanix. He waited as Prime put an arm around Megatron's shoulders, and drew him in protectively. The Autobot mouthed something below hearing, and the fidgeting gray mech grimaced back at his bond-brother.

Ratchet tossed the flat datascreen onto the platform beside him, crossed his arms, and immobilized his patients with a stare. "Now that we've gotten all that out in the open," he said, "There are a few things you should know." He held up an index finger. "Number one, most important item: No two bonds are alike."

"Well, yeah," said Megatron in his most put-upon, Starscream-you-idiot voice.

"Of course," agreed Optimus Prime.

"It's not 'of course.' I don't think any of you get it." Ratchet looked at Elita and Optimus Prime. He'd known them for so long, seen them through so many other rough spots. But although his spark was kind, his stern expression never altered. "Did you think Chromia and Ironhide's bond was exactly like yours?" he asked.

Elita spoke up hesitantly, "I assumed..."

"Actually, old 'Hide and Chromie are a lot more like Megs and our favorite Prime here, than like the two of you lovebirds," Ratchet said. "They mostly like to argue. Argue, and then make up. Don't tell 'em I said that."

The three pupils nodded obediently.

"Then there's Rumble and Frenzy," continued the Medic. "What?" he asked, as Megatron's head came up. "You thought I didn't know?" He began pacing back and forth, enjoying this. "Those two are spark-bonded, but it's more like just a state of being. They don't analyze or have to reaffirm it; it is simply who they are: Brothers from inception. They take one another's presence for granted, and only freak out when one or the other is in danger. Same with our two resident rapscallions, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker."

Ratchet stopped pacing, and grew somber. "Red Alert and Inferno we all know about now, sadly." He held up a hand to forestall Prime's question. "Red's slowly recovering. That's all we can ask of him. Inferno was the mech he trusted to understand all his quirks and mediate whenever he got too... intense." Ratchet's frown deepened. "Let's hope I do not have to help another bereft sparkmate to go on alone for many vorns to come." He glared at Prime, but wasn't seeing him; the red mech was just in his eyeline.

The Medic shook himself. "Enough of that. You get the concept: no two bonds the same. My point is-" he waved a threatening finger in Prime's face. "Quit worrying about what you believe this bond shouldn't be, and start trying to find out what it is. Do you ever worry if your behavior with Elita is appropriate?"

"Only if she says so..." Prime shot a sheepish grin aside to his bondmate. "Otherwise, it never occurs to me to analyze it much."

"Exactly" Ratchet cut in. "Now." He pulled up a wobbly stem-stool, and sat down with a grunt of emphasis. He pointed the Finger of Doom back and forth between the two mechs, even though both of them were much taller than he was, and even Elita had an inch or two on him. "What comes naturally to you two glitches?"

The Commanders warily met one another's gaze. Fighting was a given, so it remained unspoken. "Contact?" suggested Megatron uncertainly.

"Full contact," Optimus said firmly. Elita stifled a snicker, and hid her face in her hand. But Prime was thinking of the times they'd sneaked away to beat the ever-living slag out of each other, just to let off some steam.

"Shoving each other when we pass," Megatron growled, warming to his subject now. "Dinging each other's paint. You know - all the things that fuel your rage, oh mighty Doctor," he said, sneering.

Ratchet refused to be drawn in. "Anything else?" he demanded.

Prime looked away, embarrassed.

"Spit it out, Optimus," Ratchet ordered.

"Curling up together during recharge," he said faintly.

"Then why isn't Megatron admitted to your quarters more often?" asked Ratchet, completely unfazed. "Elita?"

Elita's countenance fell. "Orion's berth is... my place," she whispered.

"Sweetheart..." Prime drew her close. (Megatron looked like a baby turbofox left out in acid rain.)

"What if he came to your berth, instead?" Ratchet suggested gently. Like all mechs in this post-war age, he had a soft spot for the few femmes who had made it through the bad old times.

"Maybe..." Elita was uncertain. After all, her room was her sanctum, and usually kept as a mech-free zone of quiet. "Sometimes. Not always. But it is an option." She gave Prime a private, slightly sad smile. "I suppose a girl likes to be chased once in a while..."

Optimus nuzzled Elita, and said something to her that made her stifle a giggle and slap him. But then he raised his head, grown newly purposeful. "I won't need to go to Elita's room. Not unless she asks me to." Prime spoke in that voice which drew in all hearers. "And Elita doesn't need to lose her spot on my slab, either. We have a lot of rooms in this new city. Why not have one set apart for me and Megatron? It's not like our bond is a secret..." He winced.

"It would need to be a large room," Megatron insisted. "Not like your cramped quarters, Ops. I need room to wrestle your aft into submission." He broke off abruptly as three sets of optics turned to blink at him. "Not like that!" he protested "Just - you know-"

Ratchet defused the moment with unwonted mercy. "We get it, Megatron. You and your Brother like to test each other's strength. It gives you some strange sense of security." He sighed. "I'll get Grapple and Hoist to install some double-layered walls into one of the - yes Megatron - larger chambers. But any injuries that require more than small-dent bodywork and repainting will result in lengthy stints of community service for the both of you. Do I make myself clear?" He glared back and forth at the two big mechs.

"Yes, Ratchet," they replied in humble unison.

"Good. Now." He pierced the Command-mechs with an uncompromising stare. "What are you two going to do in the meantime, while we get your personal Pit built? Because we all know you've reached the breaking point."

No one was willing to meet the white Medic's gaze.

He waved a hand. "You know what? I don't care. Just don't kill each other. Now get out. I've got important work to do."

Released, the trio moved toward the Medbay door, their measured steps attempting to belie their all-consuming desire for escape. Ratchet stared after them, a rare smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Prime? If I find out you're still hiding from all this tomorrow, I will splice the two of you together myself, in the middle of the Medbay," he called after them. "And I will sell tickets!"

They convened in Prime's quarters, not because of any spoken decision, but more from its unacknowledged magnetism. Besides, he was the only one who had a couch big enough for the three of them.

"Whew!" Megatron declared, collapsing onto it, as Optimus slid shut the door behind them and locked it. "That Doctor of yours scares me more than Unicron Himself!"

"I wish it was Ratchet I was most afraid of," Elita said darkly.

Optimus guessed her thoughts. "Come here, sweetheart," he said gently. He sat beside Megatron on the couch, and drew Elita onto his lap. "Here," he said. "Just so you know." He unspooled a universal transfer line from his wrist, and plugged it into her adjacent port. Quickly, he streamed all that had passed between himself and Megatron that day. "We don't mean to betray you," he said firmly.

"Neither of us wants that," Megatron agreed. He was surprised (and honored) when Elita stretched her feet out across his knees, instead of keeping herself balled up on Prime's lap. He looked at the two Autobots, both of whom he loved more than he ever would admit, and put an arm around Optimus's shoulders. (Prime's arms were both around Elita; but he'd made sure to sit next to his Brother so that his whole right side was flush with the Decepticon's left, and Megatron appreciated it.) When a quick exchange of glances asked for and granted her permission, Megatron laid a cautious hand on the femme's ankle. For a long while, no one spoke.

"I never thought you two would be able to live long without some form of communion," Elita said finally, breaking the ice. "Why do you think I was so mad at first?"

"But not-" said Prime.

"Are you kidding? Of course you'll have to find your own methods. Try the Thermal Flush with Clamps and Neural Strippers," she suggested with an evil grin.

"The what?" gasped Megatron in horror.

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Elita said innocently.

Optimus just shook his head, and muted his vocalizer before a chuckle slipped out.

Elita straightened her spine and leaned in to hug both big mechs around the neck. "Be good," she told them. And she rose to go.

But the two mechs rose with her. They held her between them, their low voices tangling up in one another as they sought to reassure her.

"Enough!" she told them with a gentle push to break free. (Nevertheless, she'd sucked in their affection like a cube of highgrade energon after a month of starvation.) "I know you love me. Now-" she flapped her hands, "Get whatever-it-is out of your system. Like Ratchet, I've got things to do." Head high, and never looking back, she strode out of Prime's quarters.

Optimus looked at Megatron. "First off," he said, "I guess it's time for a dose of some good old-fashioned truth." He unspooled a communi-cable from his wrist and offered it to the Decepticon.

Megatron plugged it in. His optics widened. "Really?" he asked, as his face fought to express triumph, surprise, and embarrassment at the same time.

Optimus put a hand up to cover his own too-naked visage. "My processor can come up with some kinky slag, sometimes."

Megatron chuffed. He looked away. Then with a sigh, he switched the direction of data through the cord between them. Now it played the Decepticon's night-fantasies into Optimus Prime's processor. Optimus coughed, and fell back a step. He was trying desperately not to laugh - Megatron's wishes were both charmingly clueless and deeply disturbing. He had no idea how a spark bond could function in a pairing without any hint of subjugation.

Prime sighed. He had kept this too long, and it had definitely festered. "Come here, Megs," he said. "Come get some love."

"It's what you do?" the gray mech snarked bitterly.

Prime's reply was warm and comforting. "It's what we both do, silly."

Optimus slipped the locks on his chestplates, opening them just enough to access his thoracic relay. "Try this, my old nemesis," he suggested.

Megatron hung back. "This isn't that Neural Flush thing, is it?" he asked nervously.

Optimus laughed. "Elita just made that up."

Megatron sniffed, and grumbled something beneath hearing. But he shuffled closer, and opened his own corresponding relay. Being the most direct access to the spark, it was normally used for downloading vital stats in a medical emergency, for energon supplement lines, and for dark energon purge. He still wasn't certain what Prime had in mind... but he allowed the Autobot to pull him into a chestplate-to-chestplate hug.

Connectors coupled; uplinks met downlinks; and hair-thin fiber-optic lines began to glow. Megatron's arms tightened with sudden fierceness around Optimus, and Optimus answered him in kind. "This, my Brother," said the Prime, "is how I really feel about you."

Megatron's intakes hitched. But ever the fighter, he pressed in and responded with an infodump of his own: all the things he'd kept in for so long, and probably would never say out loud to anyone.

For a very long time, they just stood there. Megatron was perhaps a little heavier, a little wider in the shoulders; and maybe Prime had the quicker reflexes, the faster processing speed. But for height, for strength, for stamina, they were evenly matched. And so it was not until several breems had passed that Megatron let slip one single word from between tight-clenched teeth: "Please."

"All right," said Prime, pleased that he'd won this round, and gratefully allowed his trembling knees to buckle. With a contentment he'd not known in all their years of warfare, Optimus Prime let Megatron's collapsing weight to bear him to the ground. "You win," he said. And smiled.

o0o0o

Author Afterword:

It occurs to me that this reads as a whole lot pronier than I'd intended... (embarrassed)

All I meant was that, just like Prime and Elita get all tired out if they let their sparks almost touch, Megs and Prime would get pretty drained by a complete core hook-up like this, and of course they'd use it as an excuse to see who could remain standing the longest...