Disclaimer: This story is based off of Sophie Kinsella's book. I don't own any of the Transformers mentioned in this story.

Thank you everyone for your reviews, they are greatly appreciated.

Sparkling - Newborn

Youngling - Child

Breem - 8.3 Earth minutes

Joor - About 6.5 Earth hours

Orn - about 13 Earth days

Cycle – About 3 Earth weeks

Stellar Cycle – About 73 Earth months

Vorn - About 83 Earth years

Enjoy!

Can you keep a secret?

Chapter 10

I arrive at work the next morning with exactly one aim: Avoid Optimus Prime.

It should be easy enough. The Praxus Corporation is a huge company in a huge building. He'll be busy in other departments today. He'll probably be tied up in loads of meetings. He'll probably spend all orn on the eleventh floor or something.

Even so, as I approach the big glass doors, my pace slows down, and I find myself peering inside to see if he's around.

"All right, Hot Rod?" says Ironhide the security guard, coming to open the door for me. "You look lost."

"No! I'm great! Thanks!" I give a relaxed little laugh, my optics darting about the foyer.

I can't see him anywhere. This is going to be fine. He probably isn't in yet. He probably isn't even coming in today! I throw my helm back, walk briskly across the marble floor, and start to head up the stairs.

"Optimus!" I suddenly hear as I'm nearing the first floor. "Have you got a minute?"

"Sure."

It's his voice. Where on cybertron—

Bewildered, I look around and suddenly spot him on the landing above, talking to Zeta.

Frag. If he looked down now, he'd see me.

Why does he have to stand right there? Doesn't he have some big, important office he can go to? Doesn't he realize I'm trying to avoid him?

Anyway. I'll just…take a different route. Very slowly I tiptoe back down the stairs, trying not to click my feet on the marble.

As soon as I'm out of his view, I feel myself relax, and walk more quickly back down to the foyer. I'll go in the lift instead. No problem. I step confidently across the floor, and I'm right in the middle of the huge expanse of marble when I freeze.

"That's right." It's his voice again. And it seems to be coming nearer. Or am I just paranoid?

"…think I'll take a good look at…"

My helm is swiveling around bewilderedly. Where is he now? Which direction is he going in?

"…really think that…"

Frag. He's coming down the stairs. There's nowhere to hide!

Without thinking twice, I fly to the glass doors, push them open, and hurry out of the building. I scuttle down the steps, run about a hundred yards down the street, and stop, panting.

This is not going well.

Ok. I can't stay out here on the street all orn. Come on, think. There must be a way around this. There must be—

Yes! I have a totally brilliant idea. This will definitely work.

Three breems and a trip to the newsstand later, I once more approach the doors of the Praxus building, totally engrossed in an article. I can't see anything around me. And no one can see my face. This is the perfect disguise!

I push the door open with my shoulder and walk across the foyer and up the stairs, all without looking up. As I stride along the corridor toward the marketing department, I feel all cocooned and safe, buried in my article. I should do this more often. No one can get me in here. It's a really reassuring feeling, almost as though I'm invisible, or—

"Ow! Sorry!"

I've crashed into someone. Frag. I lower my pad, to see Sentinel staring at me, rubbing his helm.

"Hot Rod, what the frag are you doing?"

"I was just…reading an article. I'm really sorry…"

"All right. Anyway, where the frag have you been? I want you to do energon at the departmental meeting. Ten o'clock."

"What energon?" I say, puzzled. They don't usually have any refreshments at the departmental meeting. In fact, usually about six bots turn up, if that.

"We're having energon today. And treats. All right?"

I automatically start to reply. "Yes, of course."

Then I stop. Now that I think about it, this isn't all right.

"Sentinel, when are you going to replace Blast Off? I mean, this is the kind of things he used to do."

There's silence.

"We're in the process of recruitment," Sentinel says at last.

He's not quite meeting my optics.

All of a sudden I remember a conversation I overheard in the lifts a few cycles ago. Two femmes from Personnel were talking about staff budgets and the word "trimming" came up.

Like trimming a crystal? Or like trimming split ends?

"You are going to get a new departmental secretary, aren't you?" I try to sound lighthearted—but inside I can feel twinges of alarm. If they don't replace Blast Off, guess who'll end up as the general slave.

"Of course!" Sentinel pauses. "Probably."

"Probably?"

"Hot Rod, I really don't have time for this!" says Sentinel impatiently. "Optimus Prime's coming to the meeting. I've got a lot to do—"

"What?" I feel a new consternation, sweeping all thoughts of trimming from my helm.

"Optimus Prime's coming to the meeting. So hurry up."

"Do I have to go?" I say before I can stop myself.

"What?"

"I was just wondering if I…have to go or whether…" I trail off.

"Hot Rod, if you can serve energon by telepathy," says Sentinel sarcastically, "then you're more than welcome to stay at your desk. If not, would you most kindly get your ass in gear and up to the conference room? You know, for someone who wants to advance their career…"He shakes his helm and stalks off.

How can this orn have gone so wrong already and I haven't even sat down yet?

I dump my pads at my desk, hurry back down the corridors to the lifts, and press the Up button. A moment later the door opens.

No. No.

This is a bad dream.

Optimus Prime is standing alone in the lift, reading a pad.

Before I can stop myself, I take a startled step backward. Optimus Prime puts his pad away in his subspace, tilts his helm to one side, and gives me a quizzical look. He looks disheveled and there are shadows under his optics.

"Are you getting into the elevator?"

"Um…"

I'm stuffed. I can't say, 'No, I just pressed the button for fun, ha-ha!'

"Yes," I say at last, and walk into the lift with stiff legs. "Yes, I am."

The doors close, and we begin to travel upward in silence. I've got a knot of tension in my tanks.

"Erm, Mr. Prime," I begin, and he looks up. "I just wanted to apologize for my…for the, um, shirking episode the other orn. It won't happen again."

"You have drinkable energon now," says Optimus Prime. "So you shouldn't need to go to Starbrights, at any rate…"

"I know. I'm really sorry." My face is hot. "And may I assure you, that was the very last time I ever do such a thing." I clear my intakes. "I am fully committed to the Praxus Corporation, and I look forward to serving this company as best I can, giving one hundred percent, every orn, now and in the future."

I almost want to add 'Amen.'

"Really." Optimus nods, looking serious. "That's great." He thinks for a moment. "Hot Rod, can you keep a secret?"

"Er, yes!" I say apprehensively. "What is it?"

Optimus leans close and whispers, "I used to play hooky, too."

"What?" I say in astonishment.

"In my first job. I had a friend I used to hang out with. We had a code, too. One of us would ask the other to bring him the Leopold file."

"What was the Leopold file?"

"It doesn't exist." He grins. "It was just an excuse to get away from our desks."

"Oh. Oh, right!"

Suddenly I feel a bit better. Optimus Prime used to skive? I would have thought he was too busy being brilliant.

The lift stops at floor three and the doors open, but no one gets in.

"So, your colleagues seem like a very agreeable lot," says Optimus as we start traveling up again. "A very friendly, industrious team. Are they like that all the time?"

"Absolutely!" I say at once. "We enjoy cooperating with one another, in an integrated, team-based, um, operational…" I'm trying to think of another long work when I make the mistake of catching his optics.

He knows this is bullshit, doesn't he?

Oh, Primus. What's the point?

"Ok." I lean against the lift wall. "In real life, we don't behave anything like that, Sentinel usually shouts at me six times an orn, and Springer and Cliffjumper hate each other, and we don't usually sit around discussing literature. We were all faking it."

"You amaze me." His mouth twitches. "The atmosphere in the admin. department also seemed very false. My suspicions were aroused when two employees spontaneously started singing the Praxus Corporation song. I didn't even know there was a Praxus Corporation song."

"Neither did I," I say in surprise. "Is it any good?"

"What do you think?" He grimaces in mock horror and I give a little giggle.

It's bizarre, but the atmosphere between us isn't remotely awkward anymore. In fact, it almost feels like we're old friends or something.

"How about this corporate family orn?" he says. "Looking forward to it?"

"Like having my optics pulled out."

"I got that vibe." He nods, looking amused. "And what…" He hesitates. "What do bots think about me?" He casually rubs the side of his helm. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to—"

"No, everyone likes you!" I think for a few moments. "Although…some bots think your friend is creepy."

"Who, Mirage?" Optimus stares at me for a breem, then throws back his helm and laughs. "I can assure you, Mirage is one of my oldest, closest friends, and he's not in the least bit creepy. In fact—"

He breaks off as the lift doors ping. We both snap back into impassive expressions and move slightly away from each other. The doors open, and I freeze.

Prowl is standing on the other side.

When he sees Optimus Prime, his face lights up as though he can't believe his luck.

"Hi there!" I say, trying to sound natural.

"Hi," he says, his optics shining with excitement.

"Plenty of room," says Optimus easily.

There's an infinitesimal pause—then he moves a couple of steps closer to me.

Somewhere in my body a tiny pulse starts beating. Which must be because of the weirdness of the situation.

"Which floor would you like?" says Optimus.

"Nine, please."

Optimus reaches past to press the button. I catch the faint smell of his musky aroma, familiar from the shuttle. I don't move. I don't dare look up.

"Mr. Prime, may I quickly introduce myself?" Prowl eagerly holds out his hand. "Prowl from Research. You're coming to visit our department later on today."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Prowl," says Optimus. "Research is vital for a company like ours."

"You're so right!" says Prowl, thrilled. "In fact, I'm looking forward to discussing with you the latest research findings on Praxus Sportswear. We've come up with some very fascinating results involving customer preferences on armor thickness. You'll be amazed!"

"I'm…sure I will," says Optimus. "I look forward to it."

Prowl gives me an excited grin. "You've already met Hot Rod from our marketing department?" he says.

"Yes, we've met." Optimus's tone gives nothing away.

We travel for a few breems in an awkward silence.

"How are we doing for time?" says Prowl. He glances at me, then down at his red chrono in thought, and in horror I see Optimus glance at it, too.

Oh, Primus.

…I gave him a really nice chrono, but he insists on wearing this cheap red chrono thing…

"Wait a breem!" says Optimus, dawn breaking over his face. He peers at Prowl as though seeing him for the first time. "Wait a breem. You're..."

Oh, no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh—

"It's Prowl." Prowl looks puzzled. "Prowl from—"

"I'm sorry!" Optimus hits his helm with his fist. "Prowl. Of course. And you two"-he gestures to me—"are an item?"

Prowl looks uncomfortable. "I can assure you, sir, that at work, our relationship is strictly professional. However. In a private context, Hot Rod and I are…yes, having a personal relationship."

"That's wonderful!" says Optimus encouragingly.

Prowl looks as thrilled as a though he was just given an award. "In fact," he adds proudly, "Hot Rod and I have just decided to move in together."

"That's…great news. When did you make that decision?"

"Just a couple of orns ago," says Prowl. "At the shuttle port."

"At the shuttle port," echoes Optimus Prime after a short silence. "Very interesting."

I can't look at him. I'm staring desperately at the floor. Why can't this fragging lift go quicker?

"Well…I'm sure you'll be very happy together," Optimus Prime says to Prowl. "You seem very compatible."

"Oh, we are!" says Prowl at once. "We both love jazz, for a start."

"Is that so?" says Optimus. "You know, I can't think of anything nicer in the world than a shared love of jazz."

He's teasing me. This is unbearable.

"Really?" says Prowl eagerly.

"Absolutely." Optimus nods. "I'd say jazz, and…Flamewar films."

"We love Flamewar films!" says Prowl in amazed delight. "Don't we, Hot Rod!"

"Yes," I say, my voice hoarse. "Yes, we do."

"Now, Prowl, tell me," says Optimus in confidential tones. "Did you ever find Hot Rod's…"

If he says 'sensory nodes', I will die. I will die. I will die.

"…presence here distracting? Because I can imagine I would!" Optimus gives Prowl a friendly smile, but Prowl doesn't smile back.

"As I said, sir," he begins a little stiffly, "Hot Rod and I operate on a strictly professional basis while at work. We would never dream of abusing the company's time for our own…ends." He flushes. "I mean…by ends, I don't mean…I meant…"

"I'm glad to hear it," says Optimus.

Primus, why does Prowl have to be such a…goody-good?

The lift pings, and I feel relief drain over me. Thank Primus, at last I can escape—

"Looks like we're all going to the same place," says Optimus Prime. "Prowl, why don't you lead the way?"

I can't cope with this. I just can't cope. As I put out cubes of energon for members of the marketing department, I'm outwardly calm, smiling at everyone and even chatting. But inside I'm all unsettled and confused. I don't want to admit it to myself, but seeing Prowl through Optimus Prime's optics has thrown me.

I love Prowl. I didn't mean any of what I said on the shuttle. I love him. I run my optics over his face, trying to reassure myself. There's no doubt about it. Prowl is good-looking by any standards. He glows with good health. His armor is shiny and his eyes are blue, and he's got a gorgeous dimple when he smiles.

Optimus Prime never seems to wax. His armor is somewhat faded. And there's scratches and dents in his armor. But even so. It's like he's some kind of magnet. I'm sitting here, my attention firmly on the energon stand—and yet, somehow I can't keep my optics off him.

It's because of the shuttle, I keep telling myself. It's just because we were in a traumatic situation together, and…and that's why. No other reason.

"We need more lateral thinking, people," Sentinel is saying. "The Praxus Bar is simply not preforming as it should. Prowl, you have the latest research statistics?"

Prowl stands up, and I feel a little flip of apprehension on his behalf. I can tell he's really nervous from the way he keeps fiddling with his hands.

"That's right, Sentinel." He picks up a pad and clears his intakes. "In our latest survey, one thousand younglings were questioned on aspects of the Praxus Bar. Unfortunately, the results were inconclusive."

He presses his remote control. A graph appears on the screen behind him, and we all regard it obediently.

"Seventy-four percent of ten-to-fourteen-vorn-olds felt the texture could be more chewy," says Prowl earnestly. "However, sixty-seven percent of fifteen-to-eighteen-vorn-olds felt the texture could be more crunchy, while twenty-two percent felt it could be less crunchy."

I glance over Cliffjumper's shoulder and see he's written 'Chewy/crunchy?' on his notepad.

Prowl presses the remote control again, and another graph appears.

"Forty-six percent of ten-to-fourteen-vorn-olds felt the flavor was too tangy. However, thirty-three percent of fifteen-to-eighteen-vorn-olds felt it was not tangy enough, while…"

Oh, Primus. I know it's Prowl. And I love him and everything. But can't he make this sound a bit more…interesting? And anyway, what's the point of all these stupid percentages that don't really mean anything? Those younglings couldn't give a frag. They probably all lied on their forms.

I glance over to see how Optimus Prime is taking it, and he raises his optics and flashes a little grin at me. Immediately I flush, feeling disloyal.

"Ninety percent of femme younglings would prefer the calorie content to be reduced," Prowl concludes. "But the same proportion would also like to see a thicker crusted coating." He gives a helpless shrug.

"They don't know what the frag they want," says someone.

"We polled a broad cross-section of younglings," says Prowl, "including Seekers, Grounders, Aerials, Mariners, and, er"—he peers at the pad—"Ferocious Gladiators. At least, that's what they put."

"Younglings!" says Cliffjumper, rolling his optics.

"Briefly remind us or our target market, Prowl," says Sentinel with a frown.

"Our target market"—Prowl consults another pad—"is aged ten to eighteen vorns, in full-or part-time education. He/she drinks Praxus Energon four times a cycle, eats energon treats three times a cycle, visits the theater twice a cycle, reads articles and comics but not books, is most likely to agree with the lifestyle statement 'It's more important to be cool than rich.'…" He looks up. "Shall I go on?"

"Does he/she eat crusted energon for breakfast?" says somebody thoughtfully "Or oiled?"

"I…I'm not sure," says Prowl, riffling through his pages. "We could do some more research…"

"I think we get the picture," says Sentinel. "Does anyone have any thoughts on this?"

All this time, I've been plucking up the courage to speak, and now I take a deep breath. "You know, my grandpa really likes Praxus Bars!" I say. Everyone swivels in their chairs to look at me, and I feel my face grow hot.

"What relevance does that have?" says Sentinel with a frown.

"It's just that…" I swallow. "He really doesn't like the new papaya oil and pine knots flavor…"

"With all due respect, Hot Rod," says Prowl in an almost patronizing tone, "your grandfather is hardly in our target demographic!"

"Unless he started very young," quips Cliffjumper.

I flush, feeling stupid, and pretend to be reorganizing the energon cubes.

To be honest, I feel a bit hurt. Why did Prowl have to say that? I know he wants to be all professional and proper when we're at work. But that's not the same as being mean, is it? I'd always stick up for him.

"My own view," Cliffjumper is saying, "is that if the Praxus Bar isn't performing, we should axe it. It's quite obviously a problem—"

I look up in dismay. They can't axe the Praxus Bar! What will Grandpa take to his bowling tournaments?

"Surely a fully cost-based, customer-oriented rebranding—" begins somebody.

"I disagree." Cliffjumper leans forward. "If we're going to maximize our concept innovation in a functional and logistical way, then surely we need to focus on our strategic competencies—"

"Excuse me," says Optimus Prime, lifting a hand. There's a sudden prickle of anticipation in the air, and Cliffjumper glows smugly.

"Yes, Mr. Prime?" he says.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he says.

The whole room reverberates in shock, and I cough with laughter without quite meaning to.

"As you know, I've been out of the business arena for a while," Optimus adds. "Could you please translate what you just said into standard Cybertronian?"

"Oh," says Cliffjumper, looking discomfited. "Well, I was simply saying that from a strategic point of view, notwithstanding our corporate vision…" He trails off at his expression.

"Try again. Without using the word 'strategic.' "

"Oh," says Cliffjumper again, and rubs his nose. "Well, I was just saying that…we should…concentrate on…on what we do well."

"Ah! Now I understand. Please, carry on."

As Cliffjumper starts talking again, Optimus shoots me the briefest of glances. And I can't help giving a tiny grin back.

After the meeting, bots trickle out of the room, still talking, and I go around the table, picking up empty energon cubes.

"It was very good to meet you, Mr. Prime," I can hear Prowl saying eagerly. "If you'd like a transcript of my presentation…"

"You know, I don't think that will be necessary," Optimus says in that dry voice. "I think I more or less got the gist."

Oh, Primus. Doesn't Prowl realize he's trying too hard? I balance all the cubes in precarious piles on the trolley, then start collection the energon treat wrappers.

"Now, I'm due in the design studio right about now," Optimus's saying, "but I don't quite remember where it is…"

"Hot Rod!" says Sentinel sharply. "Can you please show Optimus to the design studio? You can clear up the rest of the energon later."

I freeze, clutching a wrapper.

Please, no more.

"Of course," I manage at last. "It would be a…pleasure. This way."

Awkwardly, I usher Optimus Prime out of the meeting room and we begin to walk down the corridor, side by side. My face is tingling slightly as bots try not to gawk at us. I'm aware of everyone else turning into self-conscious drones as soon as they see him. Bots in adjacent offices are nudging one another excitedly, and I hear at least one bot hissing "He's coming!"

Is it like this everywhere he goes? Mind you, he doesn't even seem to notice.

"So," says Optimus Prime. "You're moving in with Mr. Perfect."

"It's Prowl," I say. "And yes. Yes, we are."

"Looking forward to it?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

We've reached the lifts and I press the button. I can feel his optics on me. I can feel them. "What?" I say defensively, turning to look at him.

"Did I say anything?" As I see the amusement in his optics I feel stung. What does he know about it?

"I know what you're thinking," I say, lifting my chin defiantly. "But you're quite wrong."

"I'm wrong?"

"Look. I know I might have made certain…comments to you on the shuttle," I begin, clenching my fists tightly at my sides. "But what you have to know is that that conversation took place under duress, in extreme circumstances…and I said a lot of things that I didn't really mean!"

"I see," says Optimus thoughtfully. "So…you don't like double oil crusted energon treats."

For an instant, I'm thrown.

"Some things, obviously, I did mean—"

The lift doors ping, and both our heads jerk up.

"Optimus!" says Red Alert, standing on the other side of the lift doors. "I wondered where you were!"

"I've been having a nice chat with Hot Rod here," says Optimus. "He offered to show me the way."

"Ah." Red Alert's dismissive optics run over me. "Well, they're waiting for you in the studio."

"So, um, I'll just go, then."

"See you later," says Optimus. "Good talking to you, Hot Rod."