NOTE: Forgive any typos! I wanted to get this out before I went to bed, and I'm too tired to notice typos. Boo. Anyways. I love this chapter! Enjoy!

Chapter 34

I have a job now which, I have to admit, is incredible. It's nice to be on my own two feet, taking care of myself, earning my own money. Ronnie and I have grown to accept each other and I've actually found that I enjoy her company. We spend our nights hanging out together on the couch, chatting, watching TV, eating.

Savannah calls a lot, mostly to talk to Ronnie and ask me if I approve. I hate to admit it, and I'll never tell Ronnie this, but I do approve. I see how happy they make each other. That's all I want for my brother—to be happy, to be loved, and it's painfully obvious just how in love with him Ronnie is.

It's been lonely, though, these last few weeks. Skids is with me now. He'd been telling me everything going on at base; apparently, the Autobots are very active lately, traveling all over the world to take care of human problems. Optimus is busiest of all. Mudflap and Skids generally stay behind, though they had left me a couple of times to go somewhere in the Middle East.

Everyone's back now, though. They'd returned two nights ago, and Mudflap and Skids had assured me that everyone is safe. To be honest, I'm a little annoyed that Optimus hasn't given me any word or tried to contact me yet but, to protect myself, I've decided to accept it. He's an alien leader; he has more important things going on in his life than one human girl. Logically, I know I'll probably never see him again, that the words he'd spoken had been uttered in the heat of the moment, had no real conviction.

Savannah is stopping by tonight—not to visit me, but to visit Ronnie, which is okay, I guess. He's taking Ronnie out. It'll give me time to hang out with the real Skids, in his bipedal form. He's been waiting for me all day in the parking lot, patiently playing the role of a normal, non-sentient Beat. It's six in the afternoon, and my shift at The Sock Hop Diner, aka the Hop, a little 50s-themes restraint is about to end. I actually like my job, bitchy customers aside. I'm just a waitress, and I'm forced to wear poodle-skirts, but still. It's cute, though sometimes the cheery atmosphere weighs on my nerves. So does having to fake constant, uppity smiles.

So, dressed in my 50s getup, I exit the Hop and climb into Skids, who revs happily.

"'Bout time," he says irritably, and I thump the seat with my fist. "I ever tell you how much I like you in dat outfit, Roadkill?"

"Shut up," I laugh, because he tells me this every day. For some reason, he adores the poodle skirts; today it's aqua blue with a black poodle, coupled with a matching scarf around my throat. I tug on the scarf as he drives me home. "So," I tell him, "Ronnie and Savannah are leaving me alone tonight. We gonna hang out or what?"

"Uh," he says uncomfortably. "Actually, Roadkill—I gots things ta do, ya know?"

"Oh…"

"Aw, now don't sound like dat!" he whines, "I'm sorry!"

"It's okay," I say quickly, "no worries. I'll hang out by myself. It might be fun to have some alone time."

"I'm sure you'll find somethin' to do."

The cheeky undertone to his voice leaves me confused, but I ignore it. I can't wait to get home and shower. Ronnie should be home by now, getting ready for her date. And maybe Skids is right; a night alone definitely doesn't sound too bad. A bubble bath is sounding better and better.

Sure enough, when we get home Ronnie is rushing around, frantic.

"He's going to be here soon," she cries shrilly.

"Calm down," I tell her, grinning. "Listen. You look hot, okay? Relax. Breathe, Ronnie."

She looks at me, her eyes wide. I take her in; she's wearing a pretty gray cocktail dress and a pair of black heels; her hair is pulled back from her face, tumbling over her shoulders in gorgeous golden ringlets. She looks stunning. I grip her shoulders in my hands, feeling beastly and unpretty again. I push the emotions back, trying to ignore the fact that I'm towering over her in a ridiculous poodle skirt.

She nods, taking a deep breath. "Sorry," she breathes. "I'm freaking out. Ugh. It's just—I miss him. And I want this night to be perfect."

"It will be," I laugh. Part of me wants to tell her to keep her perfect little hands off of my brother, but I can't bring myself to do so. Instead I give her a smile. "Do you need my help with anything?"

"No," she says, taking another deep breath. "No, I'm fine. I just need to find my purse and my phone… and make sure my makeup is okay…"

"You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Okay. I'm gonna go take a bath. Holler if you need anything, and if not… have fun."

She gives me a quick hug. "Thanks."

We disentangle and I head into the upstairs bathroom, the one with the huge tub. I fill it with warm water and the same body wash I'd used my first night here, one that had quickly become my favorite. When the tub is full and sudsy I strip down and slip in, sinking into the warm water and closing my eyes, leaning my head back. After a while I duck under completely, blocking out the world. I surface for air and, eventually, I faintly hear the front door open and close. I figure I've been in for over half an hour, and as much as I'm enjoying my bath, there are a few other things I want to do tonight, now that I have the house to myself.

So I towel off and head into my room, opting for a sports bra, a sweatshirt, and a pair of cute panties. I hop downstairs, a smile forming on my face. Tonight will definitely be a good night. I grab Ronnie's iPod, figuring she won't mind, and put it on her Dance! playlist, plugging it into the stereo and turning it up loud; ridiculously loud, so loud that I feel the bass in my bones. But there aren't any close neighbors, so I don't care.

Skids will be sorry he missed this.

Putting the playlist on shuffle I move into the kitchen, sorting through the fridge. What's a girl to do when she's all alone, music blaring, with the night to herself? I decide to bake. I haven't baked anything on my own in over two years, so I'll to give it a shot. I used to be pretty good.

I can't decide whether I want to back cookies or a cake, so I figure I'll do both. Go big or go home, right? Besides, I'm sure Ronnie will eat some, because I know I can't eat it all myself. I sort through the pantry, gathering all the ingredients; cake mix, eggs, flower, milk, chocolate chips, peanut butter chips, frosting, sugar, and a million other things. I start mixing things together, making a huge mess; I screw up a couple of eggs, cracking them with too much force so that they splatter all over the counter. But I get it eventually; I decide to start with the cake, since the mix is pre-made, and it'll be easier.

Dancing to the music, swinging my hips and twisting around, I find myself licking more chocolate batter off of my fingers than is probably healthy. Then I remember I don't care. I'm having way too much fun. I stir the batter fiercely, beaming at my concoction. The oven beeps, letting me know it's reached the right heat as I pour the batter into two pans before sliding them into the oven and starting on the cookies—I'll be doing these from scratch. The recipe is for chocolate chip cookies but, because I rarely do things the simple way, I've decided to throw in a few of my own ingredients. They'll probably taste gross, but you never know unless you try, right?

The ground outside suddenly rumbles, which makes me freeze and my heart stop. I clutch the bowl tensely, the batter nothing more than flower and eggs at the moment. That wasn't an earthquake; this is Hampton, not SoCal. I don't know many things that can make the earth tremble like that, and the only things I can think of make my blood turn to ice.

But—it can't be, can it? He wouldn't come back for me, not so soon. I wait, frozen, for a few minutes, but nothing happens. Slowly I relax and turn the music up to drown out my fear; I resume dancing, telling myself I imagined it, that there's no need to freak out. I start thinking about how dancing is more fun when you have a partner when the ground rumbles again. I shove the bowl and wooden spoon away from me, pressing my back against the fridge, my heart hammering.

How did they know? How did they know I would be alone tonight, of all nights?

I square my shoulders and edge to the front door, trying to control my trembling body and the cold fear curling in my stomach. Boo comes running into the kitchen, snarling, fur standing on end. Despite his missing leg, he looks menacing, and for once I'm glad for the animal. He can't help me, but at least I don't have to face this alone. Because there's no running, not if they've found me, I reason. The best thing to do is slip into the role of Megatron's bird again; obedient, willing. I'm on their side. I can do this. I can do this.

I don't want to do this.

But I want to survive. If I want to survive, I have to play the game.

Shoving Boo back behind me, I crack open the front door and peer out; there's no sign of them, but I can't hear anything over the blaring music. Carefully, I step out.

"Back for me already? Missed me that much, huh?" I call, putting on my best tough-guy voice. I'm falling apart inside, though. There's a beat of silence. "Barricade?" I call into the night. "Starscream? I—Boo! Get back inside you stupid animal!"

As much as the dog annoys me sometimes with his constant barking and drooling (on me) I don't want him to be crushed by Decepticon feet. He deserves a better fate than that. The ground rumbles again as Boo tears around the side of the house, barking up a storm, sounding intimidating. I sprint after him, rounding the corner, smacking into a gigantic metal leg. I shriek as I bounce off, landing in the soft grass. The foot lifts as Boo snaps at it, bristling.

"Stupid dog," I snarl, grabbing his left hind leg and effectively knocking him over; he's missing the left front. He yelps, rolling over, glaring at me.

"Parker?"

My heart stops; for the first time I stare up into the face of the robot on my lawn. The familiar blue eyes burn into me.

"Optimus?" I'm stunned. I don't get up. I rub my forehead, sore from where I'd smacked it on his leg. "What—what are you doing here?" I demand.

"I missed you," he says simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like there would be no other logical answer to that question. His eyes are worried, full of concern. In the darkness, I hadn't realized that the leg had been red and blue patterned, rather than the usual dull Decepticon colors.

"I—you—you scared the hell out of me!" I cry, staggering to my feet, slightly lightheaded. I rub my forehead again, resentfully. Boo won't stop barking; Optimus lifts his foot again, nudging the dog tentatively with a toe. Boo snarls at it and snaps at the metal, clipping it with his teeth.

I take a moment to really take in the scene and nearly laugh at the absurdity of it all. Boo, a small earth dog with three legs, has Optimus cornered—Optimus, a 32 foot alien robot, equipped with Energon weapons and formidable fighting skills. Were Optimus anyone else, anyone with a heart less kind, Boo would be nothing more than an irritating black smear on the bottom of his foot. But, as it is, Optimus is too kind-hearted for that. Afraid of hurting the dog, he's backed into a corner, pressed into the house.

"I did not mean to scare you," Optimus says, leaning back against the house, arms splayed on the roof for support as Boo snaps at his feet. I resist the urge to laugh at the scene; God I wish I had a camera. Optimus glances at me. "Why did you call for Starscream? And Barricade?"

"Jesus," I sigh, running a hand through my damp, curly fro. "I thought they came back for me."

"You seemed rather calm about it."

"I'm a fantastic actress."

"I see."

"How long have you been outside?"

"Since Savannah picked up Ronnie," he says. "I was his ride here, and Skids went with them to dinner. He was not happy about relinquishing control to Savannah, but it was necessary."

"Oh," I say. It's all clear now. This was what Skids had meant when he'd said he'd had plans, that he was sure I'd find something to do. Optimus gives me a helpless look, nudging Boo with his foot.

"Boo," I say. "Down. Stop."

Boo ignores me, so I grab his collar. "Wait here," I tell Optimus, and he nods as I drag the dog back inside and lock the dog door. I start laughing when I return to him; he's leaned away from the house now, looking more relaxed. "I wish you could've seen yourself," I laugh. He narrows his eyes.

"I didn't want to hurt your pet," he reasons, and I shrug.

"Go ahead," I tell him, "I hate that stupid dog. He hates me, too."

Optimus laughs, and the sound warms me. "Are you alright?" He crouches in front of me. "You ran into my leg."

"I know," I rub my head again, "I'm fine though."

"You look surprised to see me."

"I am," I confess. "I hadn't heard from you. I guess I just assumed—"

"You assumed I wouldn't come for you," he says gently, and I scuff my bare foot on the grass, shrugging. He tips my chin up with a finger. "I promised you," he reminds me. "I try very hard not to break my promises—especially not to those who are important to me."

I smile. "Sorry," I say.

"No need to apologize," he says, smiling softly in the darkness.

"I missed you," I say, hugging his hand tight to my body. He curls his fingers around me, giving me a gentle squeeze.

"And I, you," he says again, his voice so full of warmth that I curl into his hand again. I notice that there are scratches and dents in his metal. I rub one of the ones on his arm gently, ecstatic to see him, but concerned over the scratches.

"You okay?"

"I'm well," he says gently. "Battle scars. They'll heal soon enough."

I kiss one of the ones closest to me, and his eyes close gently. "Optimus," I tell him, "I'm really happy to see you."

"I'm glad," he murmurs. "I'd imagined this going differently, however. I hadn't planned on scaring you, or being attacked by your dog, or giving you a concussion."

I laugh. "Nah, that's romantic." He laughs, too. "Why didn't you let me know you were out here?"

"I was waiting for the right time," he says awkwardly. "I was going to alert you to my presence when you came downstairs, but then you started dancing, and you didn't seem like you wanted to be bothered—"

"Were you watching me?" I demand suddenly. He jerks slightly.

"Of course not," he says. "I would never invade your privacy in such a way."

"How did you know I was dancing then?" I raise an eyebrow.

"I looked in your window once," he says firmly, and I believe him. "And after that I would look in occasionally. But I didn't watch you; I would never observe you without your consent."

"Sure, creeper," I say, but he knows I'm joking. I can tell he's telling the truth, which is great, because I can't stand the thought of being watched. That's so stalkerish. I smile at him and kiss his palm as he watches me. "How have you been?"

"Well," he says slowly, and for the first time I notice the tired note in his voice. My eyebrows draw together in the center, and I watch the way he moves; he seems slightly stiff, maybe sore.

"Sit," I tell him before he can continue. "You look beat. Lean against the house."

He hesitates before he does; I know he doesn't want to seem weak, hurt, but I know he only just got done with a mission a couple of days ago. Whatever had happened, it hadn't been pretty. I take him in, just leaning there against my old house, his metal dented and scratched; I sigh, suddenly very worried for him. One of his legs is stretched flat on the ground, the other bent slightly at the knee, his arm resting on it as he watches me with a calm, affectionate expression.

I walk closer to him, trailing my fingers over his leg, taking in the scratches and gouges. He doesn't move to stop me, his eyes half-closed. I suddenly want to be closer to him. But, rather than asking him to lift me to his shoulder, I decide to get there myself.

I hoist myself up into his thigh, gently digging my fingers into the grooves in his metal, careful not to touch the wounds. He looks startled, watching me with a new intensity, his head tilted slightly to one side.

"What are you doing?"

"Climbing," I reply, crouching on his thigh for a moment, taking in the planes of his chest and arms, trying to figure out the best way to get to his shoulder. I'm suddenly smiling.

"I can lift you—"

"No," I say, "you're tired. It's okay; I want to do this myself. I've secretly always wanted to."

"Why?" He sounds completely confused.

"No idea."

Carefully edging around the scrapes, I make my way to his torso, leaning against it for support. With a wild grin I hook my fingers between the plates and pull myself up; his hand hovers just behind me, ready to catch me if I fall. It takes a few minutes and some blind grasping, but I finally make it to his chest, just below his shoulder.

Then I slip.

It's not exactly a slip, though; my hand slides between two of the plates and I slam against him, my arm slipping up to my elbow beneath the plates, brushing against wires and things. For a moment I'm terrified I'm going to be electrocuted or something, but nothing happens. Nothing, that is, aside from Optimus stiffening and making a strange sound, something like a groan.

I pull my arm out, brushing more wires as he cups his hand around my body, holding me to his chest.

"Optimus?" I gasp worriedly. "Did I hurt you? I'm sorry, I—"

"No," he clears his throat, blinking. "That was—I—" He's spluttering. He seems, for a moment, just as startled as I am.

"What did I do? I'm sorry—"

"Don't apologize," he chuckles fondly. "You just…" he pauses thoughtfully. "I'm not sure how to explain it. What you touched are comparable to… nerve endings, perhaps. They're small wires, for lack of a better term, beneath our plating. They communicate sensation—"

"So, like… neural wires?" I offer.

"Yes, you could call them that."

"Did it hurt?"

"No," he laughs, and I'm relieved. "I'm sorry; sometimes I forget how naïve you are when it comes to our bodies. While they do communicate pain, at times, gentle touches like yours are pleasurable."

"Oh," I say, remembering the noise he had made. I'm fascinated. "Do they ever get tangled?"

"They do—usually after strenuous activities, such as battles, or when one does too much transforming."

"Do they hurt?"

"When they're tangled? Yes; they're uncomfortable."

"Are they tangled now?" I ask.

"There are always tangles," he says dismissively. "They'll work themselves out."

"Hmm," I watch him for a moment, cupped comfortably against his chest. "Can I untangle them? Like, would that be possible?"

"Yes," he says slowly, watching me. "Normally, when they don't work themselves out, the other Autbots will step in and help."

"But I'm smaller," I say eagerly, grinning again. "I bet I could do it better."

"Parker—"

"Can I try? If that's okay with you, I mean. I don't know much about this stuff. I don't want to molest you or anything."

"You won't be molesting me," he chuckles. "But you don't need to. They'll work themselves out, as I said."

"I want to try," I say firmly. "If it'll help you—if you're in pain…" I imagine it must feel like a cramp, and I know how bad cramps and strained muscles hurt. "Please?"

I can tell he's tempted; he doesn't want to admit to the weakness, admit to needing help. But, at the same time, it's obvious he's in pain. He looks down at my face for a long moment, then nods.

"That would be… nice," he says gently. "Thank you, Parker."

"Of course," I say. "Where does it hurt?"

"Don't try too hard," he warns. "If you cannot reach them, then don't." Another moment of hesitation before he rotates his right shoulder stiffly; "It's rather painful there."

He helps me onto his shoulder; I use the motion lights outside the house to help me see, but it doesn't really help that much. It's all dark beneath his plating.

"Tell me when I'm close," I say, sliding my hand slowly over the metal. He stops me halfway to his shoulder joint.

"There," he says, and I dip my fingers beneath the plates, sliding the tips lightly along the wires—I wonder what they really are. "To the left—just slightly—there." I feel it, a small tangle, the wires pulled taut as opposed to the others, which are generally more flexible. I slide my fingers over the tightened wires, into the looping tangles, searching blindly.

"Tell me if I hurt you," I tell him. He shakes his head.

"You're not," he murmurs; his voice is rough. His eyes are closed. It takes a few moments of gentle touching and prodding, but finally I'm able to fix the twisted mass; he tries unsuccessfully to stifle a small groan. I smile.

"Where else?"

He guides me through a few more places on his chest, his shoulders, even a couple on his legs; he's constantly asking me if I want to stop, doesn't want to put me out. But, as the time passes, he seems less and less willing to make me quit. I've worked around to his back, now, balancing very carefully as he leans far forward on his knees. But, because he's sitting on the ground, I'm not too high up, and I'm not afraid of falling.

I'm a quick learner, thankfully, and now he only has to point me to the general area before I find the knots. They're easy to pick out once I know what to look for. His body is completely relaxed, his breathing deep. I've managed to crack the "serious leader" mask a couple of times, eliciting a few gasps and breathless little groans as I untangle the more troublesome, painful neural wires. The longer this has gone on, the more I've noticed the serious leader mask peeling away.

He sighs as I work through a particularly difficult knot between the plates that would be his shoulder blades. The closest thing I can think to compare this to is a massage, in some ways; I've just been working out the kinks and the sore spots, and it obviously feels good for him. And, okay, I know it's really nothing like a massage, but the basic idea is the same.

I don't care what it is. I'm just glad I'm helping him, making him feel better.

"Thank you," he breathes when I'm done, reaching around and lifting me off of his back, holding me in his hand, where I sit, my legs dangling off the edge. I smile and trace my fingers over his palm, rolling down my sweatshirt sleeves. It's cold out here with no pants on (neither of us has mentioned the lack of clothing), but his metal is still fairly warm. I fold my legs up into his palm.

"Everyone thinks you're so tough," I tease him. "But all anyone has to do is pet you right, and look at you; you're a puddle of goo."

"I believe," he sighs, resting against the house, "that you could melt Ironhide into a 'puddle of goo,' were you to administer him the same affections you've just shown me." He smiles gently. "With a touch like yours, you could have the entire Decepticon army trembling at your feet."

I wiggle my fingers in a teasingly threatening way as he tucks me against his shoulder. "I've got the magic touch," I say. "Good to know." He chuckles, but his laugh cuts off with an abrupt gasp as I dip my fingers beneath his plates again, gently touching the wires.

"Parker," he gasps, and I laugh softly, removing my hand.

"I think I've just found myself a weapon," I tell him. He rumbles lowly, surprising me by pressing me against the side of his face with a hand and nuzzling into me.

"I truly have missed you," he murmurs. I trail my hands over his mouth; his eyes are closed, so I stretch up to kiss his forehead.

"You're being really affectionate tonight," I tell him. "Not that I'm complaining."

"You seem have that effect on me," he rumbles, practically purring. I love it.

"Dang," I sigh, curling closer to his face; he still is pressing me there with his hand. "I'm going to have to do this more often."

"Please do," he rumbles, giving me a playful look as he opens his eyes. We lean in and touch out foreheads together, one of the most intimate forms of Cybertronian affection. My heart swells. I'd missed this—I'd missed him.

"I'm sorry you're hurting," I tell him, my voice faintly sad as I rub my fingers over a scratch on his shoulder.

"Trust me," he says, "I am not feeling much pain right now."

I kiss his forehead and he closes his eyes. "Glad I could help."

Part of me had dreaded that it would be awkward between us, considering everything that had happened before I'd left—the kissing, for example. The confession of feelings. But it's anything but awkward. If anything, we're even more affectionate. I guess that old cliché is true: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

"Should you be wearing more clothing?" he finally asks; his tone suggests that he knows I should be.

"I wasn't expecting you," I tell him. "I can change, if you want. I didn't really think about it. If it makes you uncomfortable—"

"It doesn't," he assures me. "Our cultures are different—while I know that nakedness is a taboo for your kind, to us, we simply see it as a human's natural state." I remember Mudflap lying on my bed, innocently inquiring as to whether or not I was naked under the towel. "That isn't to say that it's not distracting…"

"Hm," I say. "Okay, question, and I'm not fishing for compliments or anything; this is an honest question. Do you find human bodies attractive?"

"Parker," he says gently, tucking me against his face again. "I am attracted to you—who you are as a human being. That was what drew me to you in the first place."

"Oh." Do I sound disappointed? He laughs softly.

"Of course," he says, his voice teasing, "despite the differences in our cultures, it's hard not to recognize physical beauty when it parades itself so openly in front of you. So, in answer to your question: I find you very attractive. Painfully, distractingly so."

"Oh," I say, trying and failing to keep my voice neutral. "You know, you're not too bad yourself."

"If memory serves," he says, "I believe I was a ten, on your scale."

I laugh, and he laughs with me. "That sounds about right."

After a while, Optimus tilts his face slightly, inhaling through his nose. He looks puzzled. "Is something burning?"

I gasp. "My cake!"

NOTE: Okay, so the whole wire-untangling thing wasn't really meant to be sexual. Keep in mind that he said the Autobots will do it for each other, so for them, it's obviously not sexual. However, it is pleasurable, like a massage, and for OP and Parker, it sort of has a different, more intimate meaning… it's a way of bonding, making him feel good, I guess.

Reviews? Thanks! I love this chapter, what did you all think?

Again, sorry for typos. My computer is also about to die and I have no power. So I decided to post while I could!