Chapter Thirty-Five

Plenoptic

I know, I know, it's been forever. If this story has any readers left-YOU ARE ALL AWESOME.

I have a bad habit of making stories too complex for even me to follow along with them. My fault. I'm going to steer it more carefully from here on out.

Anyway-new chapter! In which PiL officially becomes a romance again. A million thanks, as always, to riah riddle, for getting on my aft when I'm being useless.

Elita didn't have a T-cog.

When Optimus suggested that they travel back toward Iacon in vehicle mode, she'd had to explain the absence of her part, and it was nothing short of humiliating. Empress Sephirium had been controlling in more ways than one. She had known that giving her flighty, rebellious the daughter the power of transformation would only expand her opportunities for escape, and as such, Elita had never been granted the privilege of taking on an alternate form.

Alchemist Prime seemed completely nonplussed by this news, claiming that he'd never had the appetite for transformation that others of his race did, and Solus Prime was characteristically indifferent to the entire situation. Optimus, however, was clearly disturbed. Upon hearing Elita's admission, his optics had widened, his jaw slackened, and he hadn't met her gaze since, even as they began their brisk pace across the barren terrain surrounding the Sea of Light.

She chose to occupy her mind with other things, engaging Alchemist in casual conversation—as casual as conversation with one of the ancient order of the Covenant could be, she supposed. Walking seemed a bad idea, she mused; he reminded her cheerfully that Unicron's minions would be on the look-out for any vehicles departing the Sea at high speeds, and might dismiss a few bipedal wanderers as simple nomads.

"Though I think we're out of danger now," he added when she failed to look reassured. "It takes an enormous amount of energy to force such beings so close to Primus, even for Unicron—and he summoned the Liege Maximo, at that. He will need to recharge, so to speak, before he can mount another assault."

"How long?" Optimus piped up, speaking for the first time since they set out.

"Long enough, perhaps, for you and your father to sort out this issue with the Femmaxian empress, I should think."

That brought the conversation uncomfortably close to the very issue Elita had been trying to avoid, and she fell silent, as did Optimus. She found it unnerving that the simple absence of a part would create such a sudden rift between them. It wasn't as though she'd ever studied the Cybertronian paradigm when it came to such things as T-cogs—she'd always been too busy learning about their brother planet's government and etiquette and diplomatic style—and Optimus didn't seen keen on offering up the information. Did he see her as somehow defective now? Maybe a femme without a T-cog was as undesirable as one who couldn't bear sparklings. His sudden silence awakened all of her old fears about how his culture might clash with hers, how it might drive a wedge between them, and that realization was nothing short of terrifying.

A T-cog was such a little thing; surely it couldn't be big enough to keep them apart. Could it?

Sentinel Prime and company came upon the aimless wanderers so quickly, barreling around the ruins of a long-abandoned trading post where Optimus and Elita and their ancient companions were resting, that they nearly ran them over. The transport made an alarming, sliding stop, just barely avoiding hitting them (Optimus, Elita, and Alchemist had all leapt rather comically out of the way, while Solus sat perfectly still, apparently not worried in the slightest) and Sentinel himself was struggling out the door before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop.

He threw himself on his son before the younger mech could get a word in, trapping him in an embrace so tight that Optimus felt his armor creak.

"Ow—I—Father—"

"I'll learn," Sentinel said miserably, shaking his head. "I swear to you, Optimus, one of these orns I'll learn that it does no good to send you away—"

"It's fine—I'm—"

"It's not fine! I never should have—"

"Oh, save it," Ironhide snapped, exasperated, climbing out of the transport, looking haggard. His stabilizing gyros were nowhere near as carefully maintained as those of his younger companions, and he had a bad tendency toward motion sickness. "You can hate yourself later, Prime. Where's this great beast? I brought this plasma cannon, wait till ya see it, Optimus—"

"The Liege Maximo is gone," Solus Prime interrupted, in her serene, cool way. Not paying any heed to the fact that she'd just broken Ironhide's spark, she turned to Ratchet as he disembarked. "Have you come for Leviathus?"

"I have," Ratchet said, evidently a little startled at her presence—it was easy enough to recognize the ancients, even having never seen them before. "I expect he's—"

"He doesn't need you," she informed him, and then abruptly turned away, ducking into one of the abandoned buildings nearby.

"She doesn't much like crowds," Alchemist offered by way of explanation, smiling weakly. "Ratchet, is it? Good to meet you, doctor, I've heard nothing but good things, you know. A shame you came all this way, but Leviathus appears to be as stable as any of us for the time being."

"He does?" Sentinel said, surprised. "How do you know?"

"Vector and Nexus found him, apparently, and have taken off with him on a mission of apparently epic quality—they contacted me in our usual way," Alchemist replied, smiling easily. No one had any idea what their usual way was, but it was safe to assume it was mystical and well outside the realm of their understanding anyway. "I suspect they're hunting down Liege Maximo even now. Solus and I thought it best to get these two back into your custody, as the Halls are no longer safe."

"Yes—I—thank you," Sentinel said somewhat lamely, rather at a loss for words. Ultra Magnus was leaning out the window of the transport on the operator's side, frowning deeply, watching his commander. They'd all raced out here expecting carnage—Ironhide with all the glee and excitement of a femme at her bonding ceremony, thrilled at the prospect of destroying something huge—and they'd come upon little more than Optimus and Elita, unharmed, and a very dapper member of the most ancient Cybertronian race.

At least he couldn't complain about his job being uninteresting, Magnus mused, watching as Optimus and Elita bid Alchemist rather awkward farewells.

"Take care, dear," Alchemist said, offering Elita a warm embrace. He shook Optimus's hand briskly. "That blade—learn how to use it, and use it well. Extensions of your own body, remember."

"I will. Tell her I said thank you again—I'll try to be worthy of it."

"She wouldn't give it to you if she didn't have the utmost confidence that you are already," Alchemist said wisely. "Tell Magnus to drive more carefully, please. Pedestrians always have the right of way, remember."

Elita couldn't stand the ride back to Iacon. The silence was oppressive. Optimus still wouldn't look at her; Sentinel brooded in the corner. He certainly seemed remorseful for Theia's loss, but if he actually mourned her, he didn't show it. Ironhide, too, was quiet for a change, staring absently out the nearest window. Ratchet kept shooting suspicious looks at the transport's youngest occupants, as if he suspected them of hiding serious injuries from him. Elita offered him a reassuring smile the first time he glared her way, but after three more stares had little good humor left to offer. Magnus just drove.

Suddenly, she couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't stand Optimus purposefully avoiding her gaze for the first time ever, treating her like some kind of mutant. She spoke up.

"Ratchet," she said loudly, startling everyone in the transport (Magnus veered sharply to the right before straightening the transport again). "What's so important about having a T-cog to Cybertronians?"

Optimus sank a little in his seat, optic ridges knitting together, confirming her suspicions. What in Primus's name was the matter with him?

Ratchet blinked curiously at her, quirking his head to the side. "I'm afraid I don't understand. The T-cog is a natural part of your anatomy—"

"Not of mine," she corrected him. "My mother had it removed before I could even walk."

It was Sentinel's turn to look surprised. "You haven't got a T-cog? Why in Primus's name would she do something like that?"

"To keep me from escaping," Elita sighed. She was quickly growing weary of explaining her mother's totalitarian psychosis to bots who came from loving creators.

"We can fix that," Ratchet jumped in, leaning forward in his seat, a manic glimmer in his optic. Elita had the sinking feeling that she'd just become the subject of his next published article. "There are donors, believe it or not, older bots who have no need to transform anymore, we'd just need to find a compatible—"

"No," Optimus cut in abruptly, startling both Elita and the medic. He hesitated under their twin gazes before looking back down at his lap almost shyly. "It doesn't matter if she's missing the part. She's perfect the way she is."

Ratchet lifted his optic ridges, looking ready to protest, but Sentinel chuckled and dissuaded him with a pat to the shoulder. Elita stared at her intended, stunned, and for the first time in several joors he finally glanced her way. Wordlessly, the femme got to her feet, squeezed past Sentinel and Ratchet's knocking knees, and settled herself gracefully beside the crimson and navy form, looking hopefully up at him. Optimus placed his hand over hers, squeezing her fingers gently, but said nothing. She followed his cue, turning her attention out the window.

She watched the quiet landscape race by until Iacon came into view.

Optimus hugged and embraced his mother for the first time in what had, for all intents and purposes, been an eternity, then picked up each of his siblings in turn while Angelbane lavished attention on her sparkmate. Megatron clung to his older brother's knees while Optimus juggled the twins, hugging their tiny bodies close to his frame, responding unashamedly to their sparkling chatter. The chirps and bleeps were becoming harder and harder for him to understand; that realization made his spark ache. He held the twins a little tighter.

"Where's Elita?" Angelbane questioned, having determined that her mechs were hale and whole. "I've been worried about her, too."

"She's with her father and sister," Optimus answered, coaxing Ember off of his chestplates and seating himself on the couch. Megatron scrambled up after him. "She promised to come by later."

"Did something happen between you two?" Sentinel inquired, joining his young on the couch and allowing both twins to clamber into his lap, resting a hand on each little head. "The ride home was a little…strange."

Optimus vented a low sigh, shrugging one shoulder. Angelbane smiled wisely, leaning over to kiss her eldest's helm before scooping Megatron into her arms.

"Bedtime," she declared, silencing his protests with a hug. "You can play with your brother tomorrow. Sentinel, would you put the twins down?"

The Prime nodded, beckoning to Optimus, and each ferried a sparkling into their little berthroom. Bumblebee crawled in and was out in moments, as per the usual; and Ember, as per the usual, stood back up, holding onto the edge of her box, and chattered incessantly while Sentinel tried to soothe her into recharge.

"Was I like that?" Optimus asked quietly, stroking Bee's helm while he watched his father and only sister interact.

"Primus, no," Sentinel chuckled. "You were just like Bee. Megatron wasn't bad at going down for recharge, he woke frequently, though—always wound up in our berth, somehow. You wouldn't believe how little I saw of your mother back then. She was always up with him at odd joors. At least she could rest on occasion. This one," he sighed, patting Ember's head and detaching her grabbing hands from his chest, "doesn't seem to recharge at all."

"Does that have anything to do…with…"

"Her being budded? No, I don't think so," Sentinel answered, sparing his son the awkward question. He wasn't surprised that Optimus hadn't quite come to terms with the idea of his father being—well, being a mother. Sentinel hadn't quite come to terms with it himself. "It's just part of her personality."

"Wonder what she'll be like when she grows up."

"I wonder what you'll be like when you grow up," Sentinel retorted, shooting his eldest son a grin when Optimus scoffed. "You're a youngling yet, lad. On that note, want to tell me what your tiff with Elita was about? This must be the first time you've fought."

"We didn't really fight," Optimus said awkwardly, looking down at his feet. "I just, um—I didn't know how to handle her not having a T-cog. It was a little…it was really weird. Especially because, here, on Cybertron, non-transformers are sort of…they're…"

"Cripples?" Sentinel interjected, looking up at his heir. "Handicapped? Disabled? That doesn't make them any less sentient, Optimus, or any less valuable to Primus—and to their Prime."

"I know that," Optimus said hastily. "I just—I don't know how to act around someone who's been mutilated like that. I just—what am I supposed to say? Or do? And, on top of that, her own mother had it ripped out of her. I was so angry, I couldn't even look at Elita without wanting to just explode—"

"She doesn't seem upset by it," Sentinel cut in, urgently motioning for Optimus to lower his voice; Ember finally seemed to be settling down, lulled toward recharge by the large hand stroking her helm. "Clearly Elita doesn't see herself as a cripple, or as someone who's been mutilated. She sees the removal of her T-cog as exactly what it is—a feeble attempt on her mother's part to control every facet of her child's life. And you and I both can see that it didn't work. Elita is as free and fiery a spark as you or I, maybe more so. Do you think she's disabled?"

"No," Optimus said quickly. "Of course I don't. She's a lot stronger than I am. I just…" He ran a hand over his helmet, struggling to find the right words. "I mean…transforming makes us special. Doesn't it?"

Sentinel was quiet for a moment, looking down at his slumbering daughter, the progeny of his own spark, and he smiled. "You think on that Optimus. And then—you tell me."

Home hadn't changed much since he'd been away. New recruits were in the middle of their integration into the command structure, and the main command center hummed with activity. Optimus, leaning against the railing that encircled the ring of the upper floor, listened to its bustling energy with a smile on his face, letting himself enjoy the familiar setting. After all that had happened—the escape to Duke, being attacked by Blackarachnia, Convergence, hiding out in the Halls, losing Theia—his father's base, with its friendly faces and optimistic atmosphere, was nothing short of a paradise.

"Optimus."

The Cybertronian prince turned to his left, smiling at the older mech who joined him. "Magnus. Or do I have to call you Uncle Mags now?"

"I wouldn't recommend it," Ultra Magnus replied dryly, shaking his head. "Unless you still feel the need to get back at me for not being there for you as family."

"You've always been family, Magnus," Optimus laughed. "You qualified that time Megatron ejected on your armor right before your promotion ceremony."

Magnus winced. "Oh Primus. And here I thought I nearly had that memory repressed. Thank you for reminding me…"

"Anytime." Optimus turned his attention back to the bustling command center, his smile faltering a little. "Father seemed upset earlier this orn."

"Apparently, Solus and Alchemist Prime have vanished without a trace," Magnus sighed. "He's frustrated. He'd been counting on Solus to bequeath to him the Star Saber. He needs every artifact the Primes are willing to give him—which, so far, has been nil."

Optimus said nothing. He hadn't told his father—or Magnus, for that matter—about the Omni Blade. It hadn't been an intentional omission, but for some reason he felt that they shouldn't know. He had to trust Solus, believe that there was a reason she armed the bots she did and left others to their own devices, even if those others included his own father. He owed her that much.

"We'll find the Star Saber on our own, then," Optimus mused aloud. "We don't need to depend on the ancients for help with Sephirium. We brought this on ourselves."

"It would be easier to deal with her if we knew what her intentions were," Magnus sighed. "She seems to want to usurp Prime as leader of Cybertron, but why? For what purpose? And why is she so sure she can do it?"

It was a fair point. They all knew Sephirium was ambitious, but ambition alone wouldn't be enough to help her surmount the Prime's pure military might. There wasn't a mech on the planet who could best Sentinel Prime on the field of battle, not when he was uninhibited and powered by the Matrix.

"Sentinel and Alpha Trion seem to understand her motives," Magnus went on, more to himself than to the prince. "Both are reluctant to give up any information, but I'm going to need all the intel I can get to keep your fool of a father safe."

"We have to trust him," Optimus said gently. "If something important comes up, Father will tell you before anyone else. Just do your best, Magnus. That's all we ask of you."

The High Protectorate made a low noise of assent, dipping his helm, and Optimus couldn't help but feel just a little pleased with himself. His social skills as a leader were improving, if he did say so himself.

"How are things with Elita?" Magnus asked, changing the subject. "You two were obviously having a spat when we picked you up."

Optimus winced. "I haven't, uh, quite worked it out with her yet. I'm…working through some things myself."

Magnus lifted an optic ridge. "Falling out of love?"

"No, definitely not. Just…wondering if we're too different. If our backgrounds make us incompatible."

"Always something to consider, I suppose. But you two seem compatible enough to me." Magnus waved a hand dismissively. "If Ironhide and Chromia can make this work, then I'd say you have more than a green light. You and Elita have the benefit of both being sane."

Optimus laughed, but he made note of that advice. Ironhide and Chromia, too, were from different worlds, and yet as far as Optimus knew, they were still hopelessly infatuated with one another, if Ironhide's curious absence from several of his shifts in tandem with Chromia's regular disappearances was anything to go by.

"Have you ever been in love, Magnus?" the prince asked curiously, looking up at his father's brother. "You must have drawn a few optics, being High Protectorate and all."

"Er." Magnus shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "I'm a tad too busy for such things."

"Oh, come on. If Father has time to raise four sparklings and take care of a sparkbond on top of everything his position requires, surely you have time for a date or two," Optimus said, raising his optic ridges. "Unless you're already past the dating stage?"

"Come off it, Optimus."

"There is someone, isn't there!"

"Enough," Magnus said, faceplates growing hot.

"Who is she?"

"Optimus…"

"Is it a mech? That would actually make more sense."

"Opt—wait, what? Why would it make more sense for me to be with a mech?"

"Femmes must be scared of you—you're even bigger than Father," Optimus teased, ducking when Magnus extended an arm to cuff him on the back of his helm. "Own up, Magnus, who's getting under your plates these days?"

"You, at the moment," Magnus growled, finally catching the prince and tweaking one of his antenna, getting a pained yelp from the younger mech. "Don't you have better things to do than annoy me? Why don't you go talk to Elita?"

"Yeah," Optimus grumped, rubbing his antenna tenderly. "I guess I should. I'll see you later, Magnus."

The High Protectorate raised a hand in farewell, watching the prince fondly as he headed down to the lower level. He was a good mech, Optimus. The knowledge that the planet would be in capable hands when Sentinel grew weary of his responsibilities set Magnus's spark at ease. If Optimus could hang on to the wonderful femme who'd dropped into his life, he'd been in good shape for his role as Prime.

Sighing, Magnus looked down at the command center, observing his soldiers discreetly. Prowl was at his station, as always—and, as always, lately, anyway, Jazz was sitting with him, talking animatedly and laughing when he managed to get the stern tactician to smile. Magnus raised his optic ridges when they leaned in and kissed briefly—or, to be more accurate, Jazz enthusiastically kissed the scandalized Prowl, who reciprocated only for a breath before shoving the other mech off. A smiling Jazz returned to his seat, nonplussed.

Idly wondering how long Prowl had been hooking up with the Femmaxian princess's guardian, Magnus continued to let his optics wander. There seemed to be couples everywhere lately. Ironhide and Chromia, for one, were absolutely repulsive with their open and passionate displays of public affection, and could be heard interfacing loudly at regular intervals from behind (barely) closed doors. Magnus had had to boot them out of a conference room only two orns ago. He still hadn't quite recovered from the trauma of seeing Ironhide's mechly bits swinging around as the smirking mech jumped down off the table with his equally revolting lover, both laughing at Magnus's obvious discomfort. No sense of decency, none whatsoever, Magnus mused disapprovingly.

Ironhide and Chromia were one thing, then of course Sentinel and Angelbane constantly flitted around the base reminding single bots of how lonely and miserable they were in comparison. Jetfire's scandalous liaison with the femme named Firestar had gone startlingly public when she officially renounced her Femmaxian citizenship and applied for political sanctuary on Cybertron, which Sentinel had granted immediately. It was excellent news for both young bots—of course, now Jetfire was faced with the prospect of a serious, long term-relationship, which scared him absolutely witless. Problematic, since he didn't have a great deal of wit to begin with.

Magnus's optic ridges lifted when Springer dragged himself into the command center, looking irritable, with Arcee dogging his heels like an adoring technopuppy. The High Protectorate couldn't help but chuckle a little at that. The triple-changer loved voicing his chagrin over the Femmaxian's unceasing adoration of him, but he seemed to feel something for the little femme that was at least akin to fondness. Magnus hadn't heard a whisper about Springer's intimate escapades with his regular flings, which were, at one point, the subject of much idle chatter in the rec room. As much as he professed to be annoyed by her, Springer's ways had changed since the princess arrived on Cybertron, and for the better. Arcee was far too young for commitment now, but Magnus sensed a courtship in the distant future.

The large mech's idle musings brought him back to the subject of his own courtship—and wasn't that just going miserably. Aside from a few terribly awkward kisses, and one absolutely horrible attempt at taking his paramour out for a drink, Magnus had made zero progress on the relationship that he desperately wanted. He couldn't help but feel that the other bot wanted it too, maybe more so—they'd been dancing around it for vorns without any real resolution for feelings that had been hidden for far too long. Magnus found himself hoping too often that he wasn't too late, that he'd had a chance at something meaningful with the bot he loved, had always loved…

"Magnus?"

A gentle female voice startled him from his troubled thoughts, and he whirled around, a mass of flailing limbs. "Primus! Uh—Angelbane—my lady—"

"Sorry," the empress said quickly, holding up her hands. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"No, it's fine, fine, I shouldn't have let myself become so distracted. I apologize," Magnus babbled, turning back to the railing and tightening his hands around it, embarrassed by his unprofessionalism.

Angelbane only smiled, moving tentatively closer to the mech who was her brother by sparkbond. "Are you alright? You were looking awfully morose for a moment, there."

"I'm not morose," he objected, frowning. "I was just…lost in thought."

"…About?"

The High Protectorate sighed, rolling his optics skyward. Leave it to the femme with a Magnum degree in psychology to want to pick apart his processors. "Now's not really the time, my lady."

"There's no time like the present, as they say," she replied brightly.

"You and your son share the unconscionable habit of sticking your noseplates into others' business," Magnus grumbled at her.

"We're curious bots, Optimus and me," she laughed. "Come on, Magnus. You're dying to spill to someone, I can see it in your optics."

Another languid sigh, but he found himself tempted by her offer. Angelbane and Sentinel's relationship had been anything but easy; perhaps she would understand the rocky period he was going through.

"I am…very fond…of a mech," he ground out at last, piecing his words together carefully. Her optic ridges rose minutely, but she said nothing. "And though I have tried to start a relationship between us, we…he has proven…difficult. I know that he feels the way I do, and he's said as much, but he's unwilling to trust me. I don't know if he's just afraid, or if…I don't know what I don't know." Magnus ran a hand over his helm, gritting his jaw, grateful for Angelbane's patient silence. She knew very well that articulating his feelings had never been Magnus's strong suit. Articulating anything had never really been his strong suit. He was plenty intelligent, but he preferred action to words. Long-winded, diplomatic responses were more Sentinel's forte. Magnus didn't much have time for anything he couldn't point a gun at.

But Angelbane liked that about him, and she was sure that she couldn't be the only one. "Magnus," she said gently, when he volunteered no further information. "Do you love this mech?"

He considered for a moment, his optic ridges knitting together. "If this isn't love, then I've never felt anything closer," he said at length, shrugging helplessly.

"Good enough. Whatever this mech is afraid of may or may not be something you can help. What you can do—with certainty—is make him see exactly how lucky he is to have you."

Magnus lifted an optic ridge. "How?"

"By doing what you do best," she retorted, giving his aft a playful slap and making him jump. "Looking fine, taking command, and letting him know with a look that he's the only one you want in your armor."

Magnus gaped at her, stunned by the crude advice, his mouthplates working soundlessly. "That's, uh…" he swallowed, shaking his head. "I should…seduce him?"

"That's a word for it. Play to your strengths, Magnus. You're not suited to have a long conversation about your feelings, you're a get-it-done sort of mech. Show him what he's missing out on." She grinned t him, cradling her chin in her palm and leaning her weight against the railing. "He'll eventually figure out that you're worth the risk, and you are. You have to believe that, too, Magnus."

"I…" The High Protectorate paused, pondering, before smiling a little. "Thank you, Angelbane. I needed to hear that."

"Anytime," she replied easily, beaming at him. "So? Who is the lucky mech?"

"That I'm not sharing just yet," he answered archly. "But when there is progress, you'll be the first to know."

Magnus was wrong in thinking that he was the only one on base whose spark had been through the wringer as of late. In spite of his agreement with his uncle to do so, Optimus had yet to find the nerves to speak to Elita about what had transpired between them—whatever it had been, and could seem to find no solace from the issue. His usual haunts on base were also occupied by the mechs who had been with him and Elita in the transport, and their questions and inquires were almost as unwelcome as the stress that met him at home.

Though they covered it well in public, Sentinel and Angelbane appeared to have hit a rough patch, which was becoming more and more frequent since the Femmaxians' arrival. Angelbane had been opposed to hiding Optimus in the first place, and felt that the attack by the Liege Maximo had only served to prove her worst fears, and Sentinel's reluctance to admit it had caused noticeable tension between Cybertron's most prominent couple.

"I already feel guilty enough about what happened without her trying to squeeze a confession out of me," Optimus overheard his father telling Ratchet glumly. "She's my sparkmate, for Primus's sake, all I'm asking for is just a touch of support—"

"She's a mother first and a sparkmate second, you've got to remember that," Ratchet had replied gently. "Give her some time to get over the shock and the fear, and then you'll both be able to discuss what's happened rationally and work through it, just like you always do."

Despite her eldest son's constant reassurances that he was fine, however, Angelbane didn't appear to have settled down since his return. Normally every bit as steady and confident as her mate, the empress appeared to be constantly looking over her shoulder, searching for an enemy that may or may not reveal itself again.

Theia's loss had only compounded an already difficult situation. Optimus and his father both fretted over Leviathus and wondered constantly at his whereabouts, but the guardian hadn't contacted anyone, it seemed, since the attack, and Alchemist and Solus were out of touch as well. This irked Optimus more than anything, especially after they'd said that they would protect the Prime and his family in this time of need. As much as the prince would have liked to believe that they were, in fact, close by, he forced himself to assume that they had been whisked away on yet another adventure, leaving the mortals to fend for themselves. This thought hurt more than anything else that had happened—he knew he shouldn't do so, but Optimus had begun to think of the Thirteen as a sort of extended family, and couldn't help but feel abandoned in light of their sudden absence.

It was the sort of thing he wanted very much to speak to Elita about, but she, unfortunately, didn't seem to want to speak to him at all. She had secluded herself to the floor where her assigned quarters were located, seemingly dividing her time between her remaining family members and the Femmaxians who had remained on base. Two or three had departed with Sephirium, though neither Elita nor Baron would offer up any names.

"I know that puts them in a tight spot, politically speaking, that is, this whole affair has been a mess for intergalactic relations," Baron had told Sentinel, shaking his head emphatically. "But they're so young, Prime, and Sephirium is the sun and moon to them. So long as we have no evidence that they're being mistreated at her hands, I'd like to leave them anonymous, out of the spotlight."

The spotlight. Baron shouldn't have worried—with Sephirium openly hostile and Cybertron in upheaval, the spotlight was fixed solely and resolutely on her eldest daughter, her heir, who would soon be openly addressing the Cybertronian and Femmaxian citizens and disclosing where her loyalties lay. Optimus was still confident that she opposed her mother's rule, her tyrannical quest to have both Femmax and Cybertron, but he couldn't help but feel that their relationship was no longer the chief factor in her decision. He supposed that was the way it should be—Elita was, after all, going to become the sovereign of her world if Sephirium could be stopped, and she shouldn't let a youthful romantic dalliance influence her governing decisions. They had to be mature adults now, after all, both of them.

It still hurt.

Isolated from the femme who had his spark, and reluctant to burden his struggling parents with his own relationship woes, Optimus turned to the one source of comfort he had remaining to him—his siblings. In the time he'd been away, Megatron had sprouted, reaching in full the gangly and awkward stage that Optimus was still anxious to outgrow. His little brother's helm now reached Optimus's hip, and Optimus had the sinking suspicion that he would someday be the shorter of the two. Gone, along with his diminutive stature, was Megatron's tendency to revert to sparkling speech when excited. The youngling was slagging near eloquent now, and a highly impressed Alpha Trion had been giving him extra lessons in speaking and rhetoric.

"Better tools for a Prime to have, but an intelligent High Protectorate never hurt anyone," the wise old mech informed Optimus, before bludgeoning him with the far more advanced version of Megatron's coursework.

"Say you're trying to negotiate with a councilor," Optimus began, sitting with his younger brother in the new addition to their family's apartment, a room dedicated exclusively to their joint studies.

"What am I negotiating?" Megatron inquired, lazily flicking through pages of text on his holocube, his chin resting on his fist.

"Um…you're working on the defense budget. You have intel that suggests that we need to upgrade our planetary missile defense network, and she wants to reroute the credits into a…youth outreach project."

Megatron snorted, but fell silent under his elder brother's glare. Optimus was having a hard time convincing his someday-right-hand-mech that social structure was just as important as military improvements.

"How do you do it?"

"Tell her we need bigger missiles," Megatron said flatly.

Optimus sighed. "You've told her that, but she's adamant that there are youth who need…outreaching."

"Then I tell her about the intel."

"You can't, it's classified. Only you, me, and our intelligence officer know about it."

Megatron looked up from the holocube, frowning. "Well who's our intelligence officer?"

"That's not really relevant."

"Sure it is. Can he keep a secret?"

"Ugh. Fine." Optimus rubbed his helm. "It's Jazz," he suggested at length, thinking back on how many times Elita's appointed guardian had snuck up behind him and scared the plates off him. He had no doubt that that mech could be anywhere he wanted to be without anyone else knowing about it.

"I don't know who that is."

"It's not relevant, Megs."

"How do I know I can trust this mech if I don't even know who—"

"It's a hypothetical situation!"

"Alright, alright…then I'd give her a reason why we need the credits in the defense budget, but give her false intel."

"Megatron," Optimus sighed loudly, "you can't lie to a councilor."

"Why not? She's being an idiot!"

"It's hypothetical!"

"Then she's being a hypocritical idiot!"

"No, hypothetical, hypocritical is a completely different—"

"Optimus?"

Megatron crinkled up his noseplates, mouthing "a completely different Optimus" in utter bewilderment, but his older brother ignored him—he'd spun around on the spot, gaping stupidly at the femme hovering nervously in the doorway.

Elita smiled a little, waggling her fingers. "Hi. Your mother let me in."

"Uh. Hi. I mean—good, that's—that's good." He stopped, fumbling for words, and realized with a sick, swooping sensation in his tanks that he hadn't even seen her for several orns. "I meant to, um, to—oh, come in, sit down—er, please—"

She hesitated for a moment, easing her weight from one foot to the other, before stepping over the threshold and cautiously entering the room. Optimus sidled sideways on the couch, awkwardly patting the space at his side, which she lowered herself into with hot faceplates. She couldn't remember what it meant to be natural around Optimus—before their silent little argument, she supposed she would have just skipped in and kissed him on the mouth before jauntily asking what he was up to, but now she couldn't even bring herself to look his way.

"We're studying," Megatron said after a moment, breaking an intensely uncomfortable silence.

"Yeah? Studying what?" Elita asked, latching onto the chance at conversation with relief. Smart little mech.

"Rhetoric," Optimus answered, when Megatron stumbled over the word ("Rector—reor—rhe—something dumb"). "With an emphasis on honest persuasion. Care to help me explain why he can't lie to the main body of government?"

"Because in this hypodermic situation," Megatron huffed, ignoring his brother's exasperated correction, "we're the Prime and the High Protectorate, right? We're the main body of government!"

"The body, maybe," Elita consented, shooting Optimus a knowing smile when he scowled at his little brother, "but a body's got a head and arms and legs, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Megatron said dubiously, lifting his optic ridges. "And?"

"That body wouldn't get very far if it didn't have legs to carry it, or a head to think for it, or arms to let it interact with the world. Femmax has just one ruler—my mother—and look how well that's turned out. One individual may be able to handle a city, or a territory, but a whole planet?" Elita wrapped her arms around her knees, looking directly at the silver youngling. "This is a really big and beautiful world you live on, Megatron. It deserves a lot of bots who want to take care of it." She grinned, nudging Optimus with her shoulder. "Besides, your brother is going to be busy—he'll have a sparkmate and little ones to look after."

Optimus was so startled he physically jumped, turning his entire torso around to stare at her in astonishment. Wordlessly, he pointed at Megatron and then at the door.

"What? No, frag off, Optimus, this my room t—hey!" The youngling shrieked, having been abruptly lifted by the back of his armor and carried bodily from the room. "Optimus! Cut it out!"

Optimus shut the door on his younger brother's complaints, locked it, and turned around just as Elita jumped on him. She giggled into every kiss—when had his mouth ever felt so good?—and allowed herself to be deposited on the couch, letting the mech lavish attention on her.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled between fervent kisses, dipping his head to gently mouth her throat. "I don't care if you never, ever transform in your entire life, I was being an idiot—"

"It's nothing, forget about it," she assured him, laughter turning a little breathy while his mouthplates teased her. "I was being stupid too, I had this crazy argument worked up in my head where we're too different to be together—"

"I did too!" he laughed, lifting his helm and beaming down at her. "Primus. Fools, both of us." He trailed his fingertips down her face, admiring her, breathless with adoration. He didn't care that she was from a different world, that her anatomy was different from his, that her family was so twisted and broken, so unlike his own. She loved his planet and his family and him, and he couldn't ask for more, not from anyone, and certainly not from her.

"Come here…"

Elita grinned, pushing him onto his back and straddling his frame, leaning in to kiss him while his hands stole up the sides of her body, exploring her. The aftermath of their spat was like a high; he was intoxicating, his presence like ambrosia, his mouth silken fire against hers, and their want was almost palpable.

"We can't," he gasped, finally tearing himself free and stopping her hands with his, tantalizingly close to where he most wanted her touch. "My parents are in the other room…"

"Then let's sneak out," she whispered, grinning against his mouth after another stolen kiss. "Just once, please, can we not act like we're expected to get ready to run the galaxy?"

He laughed, kissing the thumb that brushed over his mouthplates. It was easy to measure the heat radiating from her frame. She wanted him. "Alright, deal, a hundred times deal. Tonight?"

"Tonight," she agreed at once, sitting up on his hips and smiling down at him, her expression gentling. "Hey—I love you."

The future Prime grinned widely, taking her hands in his and lacing their fingers together, letting her lean forward and stretch their joined arms over his head, welcoming the kiss she pressed to his chin. "Love you too…"

And tonight—tonight—he'd finally be able to show her just how much.