NOTE: Pay attention to what Parker mentions is written on her walls—the specific lyrics, I mean. They reveal a lot about her, and a lot about what is to come. :D

Fluff ahead; Parker teaches him a little more. This chapter is slightly longer because I wanted to get all the fluff out of the way here, rather than splitting it up. The next chapter will address more serious things (GASP!). Time to move the plot along!

Review please?

Chapter 35

Well, shit.

The cake's a goner. I'd run inside to find the poor cake blackened and dried up and rock solid; the two layers are now nothing more than two oversized hockey pucks. I toss them down on the stove, the pans clattering noisily, and I open up the kitchen window above the sink, both to let out the nasty smelling air and to be able to better see Optimus. Because the music is too loud now to hear him, I run back to the stereo and turn it down before running back into the kitchen, eager to be in his presence again.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," I say, leaning against the sink casually; I can't see his face, just portions of his body. I push up off the sink and head out to him, leaning against his leg; he strokes my hair with a finger, nudging my body affectionately. I grab onto the finger and squeeze it; he lifts me playfully and lightly off the ground, my legs dangling before plopping me down into his palm. I laugh softly, but his metal is cooling, chilling my bare legs. Again, I notice al the dents, the chipped paint, the rough scratches in his armor.

"Optimus," I murmur, running my fingers over the rough edges of his fingertips; they'd clearly been through some sort of trauma. "What happened to you?"

"There were complications," he says offhandedly.

"Complications," I echo. "As in Decepticons?" He sighs; he seems uncomfortable talking about it in front of me, which makes me wonder: "Who was it, Optimus? Who did this to you?"

"I'm fine," he says.

"You look like you lost a battle with a—a car crusher!" His lips tip up slightly, a subtle smile as he nudges my chin with a finger. "Who did this to you?" I ask again.

"No one of any importance," he says hesitantly. "I wasn't familiar with them; they're rogues, most likely, considering Megatron is out of commission. The Decepticon ranks seem to be suffering for it."

"Are they dead?" I sense his hesitation, and it kind of irritates me. Why won't he tell me? Does he suspect that, deep down, I still love them?

"They are," he finally says, and looks at me carefully.

"Good," I murmur, and he blinks; I drop it. I wonder who they were, though I doubt I knew them. It doesn't matter. I don't love them anymore.

"Forgive me," he murmurs a moment later, his tone grudging. "But—I must ask. We need to know; do you have any idea where Megatron is hiding?"

My temper flares slightly; does he honestly think I would hide that from him? Would I hide that from him? I don't know, and it only makes me angrier. No, I decide. If I knew, I wouldn't tell him—simply because I dread the day when he and Megatron face off.

"I don't," I say honestly, shaking my head. I shiver; he notices and tucks me close to his chest, where it's warm. He cups his hands around me, locking the heat in.

"I'm sorry," he says as I shudder at the warmth, tucking my body against the warm metal. "I had to ask."

"It's okay," I breathe, rubbing my hand up and down on the plating, feeling the little scrapes against my palms. "I'm freezing," I say, in spite of his warmth. "Want to come inside?"

He's quiet for a moment. "This is your home."

I open my mouth to tell him that, no, this is not in fact, my home. But I don't. Instead I say, "Yeah, I grew up here. Why?"

"You would have me in?"

"Why not?"

"It just seems… deeply… private," he says slowly. I smile.

"You can come in," I tell him. "Just—you're going to have to use the holoform, though, sorry. I don't think you are gonna fit."

"I sincerely doubt it," he chuckles. "Go inside, then, and I'll meet you when the holoform is ready."

"Sure thing, boss," I say, grinning and bounding into the warmth of the house as he sets me down. Casting a glance over my shoulder, I catch sight of the Peterbilt—it's beat to hell.

I leave the door open behind me so that he can walk in when he's ready. I start off trying to clean up the kitchen, but give up in a matter of seconds, deciding I don't really care.

"Parker?"

I poke my head around the kitchen entryway and find him standing in the doorway, hesitant; he hasn't stepped foot in the house yet. He's wearing dark jeans and a snuggish white t-shirt. My jaw drops, but it's not because of his simple outfit. It's because of the way he looks.

I don't think I've ever seen someone look more like hell. Honestly. His eyes are dark-rimmed, bruised, his posture tired. There are deep, violent gouges in his arms; they're damp-looking, but they're not oozing blood or anything. His skin is raw in some places, scraped off, probably a representation of shipped paint. Bruises here and there, and, on his chest are a few shallow cuts; I can see them through the white fabric.

"What…" I don't even know what to say as I approach him. His short hair is mussed, and a tired stubbly shadow lines his jaw. I hadn't even known he could have stubble. His mouth tips up into a soft, tired smile; there's a cut in his lower lip, slightly off center.

"I… couldn't do anything about it," he says, gesturing awkwardly at the body. "The holoform—it directly reflects the real me, wounds and all." He looks at me apologetically. "I can dismiss it, if you like."

"No, no," I say quickly. "It's fine, it's just… wow." If he had come back so beat up, how had the others fared? "Is it always like this?"

"War is brutal, Parker. I will heal."

I think about Megatron's face, and the wounds there. They hadn't healed. I wonder what he would look like as a holoform.

"Are you sure?"

"With proper care, I will heal."

"And the stubble? I didn't know you could do that."

He rubs his jaw, the stubble making a scratchy sound against his skin. It suddenly occurs to me that I very badly want to feel that stubble against my skin. I push the thought back.

"I've been a little behind on personal maintenance," he says, "that is all. There are more important things to consider."

With a soft sigh I shake my head and reach for him, wrapping a hand around his wrist and pulling him inside before closing the door behind him. I'd lived with the Decepticons long enough to know what war does to a person—or robot—both physically and mentally. I'd thought I'd been used to it. Now, though… I don't want to get used to this. I don't like seeing him like this, robot or human. I wrap my arms carefully around his torso, locking my hands together and letting them rest at the small of his back. He embraces me, gently, using one hand to press my head against his heated chest, his thumb tracing patterns in my hair.

"I'm not fragile, you know," he tells me with some amusement, giving me a firm squeeze. "You can't break me."

I want to say, If only you knew, but I keep my mouth shut against the dark thoughts that seem to be constantly present lately. "I know," I say, "but still." I squeeze him a little tighter, still careful, before I draw away. I watch as he looks curiously around the inside of the house. I show him around a little, mainly just the living room before I lead him into the kitchen, setting him up at a barstool at the center island across from where I'm mixing.

"What are you doing?"

"Baking," I say, then give the hockey puck cake a dark look. "Or trying to, anyway."

He watches me quietly, for the most part, as I throw things in the mixing bowl, only speaking to ask questions here and there. I'm stirring the thick mix of dough and tasting it when a particularly good song comes on. I don't realize I'm doing it, but I start sort of dancing, mostly just swinging my hips and swaying my shoulders to the beat, using my hips to close drawers as I dance from one spot to another.

"Why do you do that?" Immediately, I freeze.

"Do what?"

"Dance," he says. He's leaning against the counter top, still perched on the stool, his arms folded flat on the counter and his chin rested on them. He looks so damn cute and curious for a second that I want to just go pet him, but I resist the urge.

"I didn't realize I was," I say quickly. "Is it annoying? I can stop—"

"Of course not," he says quickly, tilting his head to one side. "It is not annoying in the least. In fact, I find it amusing and—endearing."

"Oh," I say, returning to the mix. "I don't know why I do. I don't realize I'm doing it. I always used to; you know, before. But when I moved in with the 'Cons, I just stopped."

"Why?"

I shrug. "Megs—uh, Megatron—he thought it was annoying."

He makes a low grunting sound, and I decide right then to stop talking about this. I also make a mental effort not to dance anymore. I guess, after I'd been freed from the Decepticons, even in the small way, initially, my dancing for the first time with the twins had been a form of rebellion. I hadn't realized it at the time, but it's pretty clear to me now.

Optimus suddenly chuckles, stirring me from my thoughts. I glance curiously up at him, and he brushes a finger over his nose. "You have flour," he says, then brushes his cheek. I dust my hands furiously over my face, which makes him laugh a little more. After a moment, I'm rolling the dough into balls, setting them up on the cookie sheet, and he's glancing curiously around at the house again seeming completely intrigued.

I slide the cookies into the oven and wash my hands before sauntering over to him. "We have twelve minutes," I say. "How 'bout a tour of the house?"

He smiles and slides off the barstool. "You really grew up here?"

"Yeah," I say wistfully.

"Show me," he says.

I groan, but agree, figuring I can skip over the family pictures. Let's face it; no one wants to look at those, and anyone who seems interested is just pretending. I hate looking at pictures of other people, particularly their childhood photos. But maybe that's me. I'm really not all that sentimental. I won't put either of us through that.

Optimus, of course, if far too observant for his own good—or mine, really. As I skirt carefully around the fireplace, where the pictures are nestled cozily in their frames, he walks right toward them, curiosity etched into his face.

"No," I moan. But before I can stop him, he's picked on up, holding it gently, as though afraid of shattering the glass.

"Who are these people?"

I peer over his shoulder at the picture; it's an old photo of mom and dad. My stomach curls. My dad is in his military uniform, holding my mother. Now that I look at it, it's a lot like the picture Savannah had shown me of him and Ronnie.

"They're my parents," I say.

He looks at it harder, as though concentrating. "You have your father's features," he finally says, looking at me.

He has no idea how happy that makes me. Dad and I had been close. His death had really hurt. I can feel Optimus's eyes searching my face, so I smile a little and blink away the tears before they can come.

"Thanks," I say, my voice strong and steady. He casts a lingering look at me face before he grabs another picture from the back, replacing the first. I really hope we won't be here long. I'm so not in the mood for a stroll down memory lane.

"And these people?" He asks. I glance at the photo, a picture of a middle aged black man and black woman.

"My grandparents, I guess."

"Where are they now?"

"Dunno. Dead?" I shrug, and he looks puzzled. "They ditched us."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they abandoned my parents. So did my mom's parents. They were really old fashioned."

"I don't understand."

"It's a race thing, Optimus," I sigh, shaking my head. "My dad was black, my mom was white. No one approved. So when they insisted on being together, they got the boot." He looks at me as though he thinks I might be joking. When the punch line doesn't come, he looks mildly disgusted.

"Remember when I told you that people suck?" I ask him, and he nods. "This is what I mean. People are horrible, disgusting, evil creatures, Optimus. We murder. We rape. We enslave. We hate. There's genocide still going on today. I think you're the only one who sees any good in us, anything worth saving." He gingerly puts the photo back. "Anyway, the first time I met Grandma and Grandpa Rook was at Daddy—er, my dad's—funeral. First and last time. They didn't have much interest in Savannah or me."

God, I'm such a mood killer. I watch as he lifts another photo, and a smile slowly comes to his bruised, tired face.

"What's this?"

"Ugh," I groan. It's a photo of me and Savannah at our sixth birthday party. When it had come time to blow out the candles, I had thought it would be hilarious if I shoved Savannah's face into the cake. I'd been right, of course. Everyone had laughed, except for Savannah. In the picture, I'm laughing hysterically; Savannah's face is covered in cake, and he's crying. Optimus laughs as I explain the picture.

"Ever the troublemaker," he says, shaking his head and replacing the picture.

"Born bad," I laugh.

He looks through the other photos—milestones, mostly. My high school graduation. Prom—I'd gone with a boy named Scott my junior year, one of Savannah's friends, and I'd gone alone senior year. The day I'd gotten my license is also in there somewhere, as well as a few pictures of me and my dad, my and mom, Savannah…

Finally, he seems content, and I lead him to the stairs. On the way there, he notices the notches in the doorframe, marking our heights. He seems fascinated when I tell him about the ritual, even if he doesn't understand it. He trails his fingers over the notches in the wood, finally allowing me to tow him upstairs, to the bedrooms.

I don't take him inside Ronnie's or Savannah's or my parents' rooms, because they're not mine to show. Instead, I lead him into mine. Before I can, however, Boo, as loyal and protective as ever (and I mean that with total sarcasm) bolts out of Ronnie's room, apparently having only just noticed Optimus's presence. Snarling, he limps toward Optimus, who goes very still. Boo's never, ever looks so menacing; his lips are peeled back from his teeth, his ears flat against his skull, his eyes evil slits. Every hair on his black body is standing on end; he's completely rigid.

"Boo, no," I say. "Bad dog. Bad. Leave the robot alone, Boo!" Boo, of course, ignores me, cornering Optimus. I sigh. "Just kick him, Optimus. He'll learn."

Optimus doesn't move. He doesn't look scared—in fact, he looks patient, understanding. With a groan, I grab Boo's collar and haul him into Ronnie's room, locking him in. He whines. "Stupid dog," I mutter as Optimus relaxes. "You okay?"

"Of course," he says. "I've seen far worse things than an angry dog."

"I'm sure," I say, casting a significant look at his wounds; there's a ring on his left forearm that specifically looks like bite marks. That, or he got it caught in a nasty bear trap, but that seems unlikely.

I open my bedroom door and stand there awkwardly for a moment, suddenly very nervous.

"Well," I say. "This is my room."

It's changed a lot since I first came back. The walls are covered in posters of old bands and new bands alike—Nirvana, Alice Cooper, Aerosmith, Whitesnake, Bon Jovi, Guns 'n Roses, Linkin Park, 30 Seconds to Mars—and there's a corkboard in one corner with a bunch of magazine cutouts and drawings stuck to it. The plain white sheets had been replaced with zebra print; black and white is the general theme of the room with hints of red here and there.

"So," I say, "that's the bed. That's the closet. That's the window," I say with a growl. "I've spent my whole life terrified of this window."

"Why?" He glances at it, at the tree outside.

"I've always been afraid of monsters climbing in," I tell him. "It's silly now, but it still scares me."

"It's not silly," he says, his voice quiet. I know he's thinking the same thing as me; it's not silly, because monsters are very real.

I rub the back of my neck awkwardly. I hope he likes it. This room is an extension of myself; it's the first real thing I'd put time into since I'd been freed. Please let him like it.

"What do you think?" I finally ask.

"It reminds me of you," he says simply, nodding. "It's different. Not what I had expected. But I like it."

I move to sit on the bed, allowing him to look around, relieved. He pauses every now and then to take in the words written on my wall, my favorite one-liner song lyrics, with the bands written beside them:

"Sold my soul to heaven and to hell"—30stm
"This is not the end, this is not the beginning"—LP
"There is simply nothing worse than knowing how it ends"—Panicthedisco
"Chase your shadow til the sun goes down"—Sia
"I am not a born leader, I'm a tough act to follow"—linkin park
"I'm a suspect, I'm a traitor"—Jimmy Eat World
"One night of the hunter, one day I will get revenge. One night of the hunter, one day it'll all just end"—30STM (Written beside a 30 Seconds to Mars poster)
"Save a horse, ride a cowboy!"—Big & Rich
"Whatever you do, don't be afraid of the dark"—30 seconds to mars (This written above my window)

Unfortunately, some of them have a darker feel—such as the one about revenge, the night of the hunter. And selling my soul to heaven and to hell. I hope he doesn't notice these, because I'd written them because they helped me cope with what I was going through with the Autobots and Decepticons. He doesn't ask about them, though, so I don't mention them.

Eventually, he sits beside me on the bed, which startles me slightly before I realize he must be oblivious to social customs where boys and girls and beds are concerned. Especially when boys and girls who are attracted to each other are concerned. I don't mind, of course, as he sits next to me, staring around the room before turning to me, an exhausted smile on his face.

"You look so tired," I tell him gently, leaning my shoulder carefully against his. He rests his chin on top of my head briefly.

"I am," he says, his voice thick with exhaustion. I think of the night I'd interrupted his sleep after having been pranked by the twins and Bumblebee—he'd sounded just as tired then.

"Maybe you should get some rest," I say, finally unable to resist touching his hair. He leans into the touch.

"No," he says. "I don't know when I'll be able to come here again. I refuse to waste this time sleeping."

"Oh," I say. "That's sweet, Optimus, but I really think—"

His index finger against my mouth silences me, smudging my mouth slightly. I grin and look up at him, but he doesn't remove the finger. His eyes are focused on it, or maybe on my mouth, but I'm not sure. Their glow draws me in, illuminates his finger; the tips are raw, like the scratches on his real fingers. On the real him.

"Are you cold outside?" I ask lowly, guilt nagging at me. He shakes his head.

"Stop thinking about that."

I sigh as he runs his raw finger over my lips. I catch his wrist in my hand and kiss the tip of the finger gently, boldly. His eyes slide shut for a moment before he gently grabs the back of my neck and presses our foreheads together. I nuzzle mine against his and he sighs heavily—not quite a groan, but almost. He seems completely content to just sit here and Cybertron-kiss me and, to be honest, I'm just as content. I love being near him like this. To hopefully increase whatever pleasure he's getting out of his kiss, I slide one hand up into his hair, playing with it idly. I feel him sigh against my lips, pressing more firmly against me, cupping my face in his hands.

I smile as he brushes his mouth over mine, almost accidentally in his attempts to get closer. I'm suddenly craving the feel of his stubble against my skin. I wait, hope for him to initiate the human kiss, but my hopes are dashed every time our mouths brush and he does nothing about it. It's like some sort of torture, but I don't mention it, thinking that, maybe, he doesn't want to kiss me like that. A moment later, though, he proves me wrong.

"I'm not going to initiate your kiss," he informs me, "if that's what you're waiting for."

"Hmm?" I ask distractedly.

"Human kissing; it is your kiss to initiate. I don't know how."

"I wasn't sure if you wanted to." His eyes are closed.

"Of course I want t—"

I don't let him finish; the rest of his words are jumbled against my mouth. I feel him smile against my lips and I let my eyes fall shut as I grip his hair, tilting his head to one side as I kiss him—still gently, still carefully, because he's still new at it. We combine the two forms of kissing, making sure it's just as pleasant for both of us, occasionally breaking away to brush or touch foreheads before locking lips again.

I don't realize I'm breathing heavily; I don't realize I've got a good grip on the back of his neck, or that my other hand is twisted into his short hair; all I'm aware of his the feeling of his hand in my hair, exploring, trying to get the motion down right. I don't come to my senses again until the oven beeps demandingly from downstairs, making us both jump.

Then I realize how heavily I'm breathing, how intensely I'd been holding him. But, for the record, he's breathing heavily too, and his hands had been just as right. He makes a startled noise as I steal another quick kiss before standing, drawing him with me downstairs as I remove the cookies—which I'm intensely uninterested in, now.

I'd been right in my earlier observation about him being very affectionate tonight. As I stand there, peeling the soft cookies from the sheet, waiting for them to cool, I feel his presence behind me, his warmth radiating; he places a large hand gently on my shoulder. Our bodies are just brushing as he leans curiously over my shoulder, watching what I'm doing.

I smile to myself, twisting to look over my shoulder and giving him a quick peck; I adore the startled look on his face every time I do this.

"What are you doing?" I laugh as his arms slip around me. I gasp as he lifts me off the ground, burying his face in my neck, my back to his chest.

"Being affectionate," he rumbles playfully into my skin, and I laugh again. "What?" He says innocently in my ear. "I don't know when I'll get to do this again. I'm seizing the day."

"Carpe diem?"

"Noctem," he corrects, and I elbow him gently.

"Go away," I laugh, wiggling free of his grasp. "You're a distraction. I've got things to do, you bug."

I run a hand over his head and he closes his eyes, leaning into my touch. I'm reminded of just how much Skids loves it when I play with his hair. I give his hair the softest of tugs and he makes a soft sound in return.

"Go wait on the couch," I tell him. "I'll be there in a minute."

He obeys and after I slip in the new cookies, I sit beside him on the couch. I fold my legs beneath me and order him to rest his head in my lap, which he does. I play with his hair as he lies on his back, his eyes closing. The holoform flickers a couple of times, and I realize I must be putting him to sleep. I smile.

"I'm glad I came here," he mumbles tiredly. "It's wrong, and it's selfish, but I am glad."

"Good," I tell him. I hadn't missed the guilt in his voice. "What if I come see you next time? That way you won't feel bad."

"That would be wonderful."

I smile as I continue to rub his head and play in his hair. I bend down a couple of times to press a soft, languid kiss to his lips; this one lazy and entirely affectionate. I pull away before he can kiss me back; he's still a little slow on the uptake. We spend a lot of time like that; him resting, not quite asleep, me soothing him and kissing him occasionally. The holoform continues to flicker, and while I'm afraid I might lose him to sleep, I won't stop him, either. In fact, I'm falling asleep too…

Time must have passed; I don't remember it. My eyelids are heavy, my head foggy, my legs numb from his head and being folded beneath me. I'm not sure what woke me up. I blink a couple of times; my hands are splayed in his hair, and my back is sore; I'd slumped forward slightly. Optimus blinks open his eyes in confusion. His brow furrows and he tilts his head, his nose wrinkling.

"Do you smell that?"

"Goddammit!"

He lifts his head and I spring from the couch and into the kitchen to rescue the cookies. But it's too late; there's no hope for them. They're black little hockey pucks, just like the cake. I sigh sadly, letting them clatter onto the stove to cool before I toss them out.

"You're not particularly good at that, are you?"

"Normally I am," I say, giving him a pointed look as he slides casually up behind me. He rests both hands on my shoulders. "But you keep distracting me."

"My apologies," he says, his voice far too serious to be really serious. I bump him with a hip and he chuckles.

A moment later I gasp softly as his hands squeeze my shoulders, the pleasurable sensation shooting down my spine. I immediately tense up. "What are you—?"

"I'm returning the favor," he says, his voice full of concentration. "From earlier." He must be talking about me untwisting his wires. "But I'm not quite sure how to—" His words halt as he presses against a spot on my shoulder blade and I make a soft, tiny, embarrassing little moaning sound. "Ah," he says. But before he can do anymore, I spin around, leaning back against the counter. Something, something very dark and engrained very deeply into me, where I can't quite reach it, doesn't want him rubbing my back, making me feel good like that, no matter how badly I may need it. But the look on his face tells me he doesn't understand, which is good. I don't understand it either. I just know I can't let him. I know it'd be wrong.

Instead, I cup my hand along his jaw, feeling the sharp pricks of his stubble there. Again, I'm suddenly craving the feeling of it against my face, as I hadn't quite gotten it earlier. Those kisses had been too light, too gentle. I rub my hand over his jaw, watching him watch me curiously.

"Did I do it wrong?" he finally asks, and I laugh, shaking my head.

"Not at all," I tell him, tracing my thumb in a circle. "I'm just more interested in… in kissing you, at the moment."

He smiles softly, looking slightly embarrassed, but pleased all the same. He takes a couple of steps closer and dips his head; I press up and slide my mouth over his, tugging his head closer. After a while, though, it just isn't enough. I can taste the raw, metallic taste of his cut lip as I slide my tongue over it. He gasps through his nose, confused.

"Optimush," I murmur against his mouth, pulling away slightly. He closes the distance, pressing his forehead to mine. "Open your mouth this time. I want to teach you something else." He nods wordlessly. "But tell me if you don't like it." Another nod.

I start kissing him again, gently at first, then with a little more heat. I lick his lower lip again, and this time he opens his mouth a little. I slide my tongue in just a little, just the tip very slightly past his lips, and he makes a startled sound. I walk him through it patiently, instructing him to do as I do, which he does. Our tongues touch very softly—nothing too intense just yet, because I'm still teaching him, because he's still new to the sensations.

After a while, he draws away, looking troubled. I stare up at him, licking my lips. "Human tongues—they're so difficult," he muses.

"You'll get the hang of it. Practice makes perfect."

"Indeed."

"We can stop, if you want."

But he shakes his head, determined to learn this. So I lean into him again, kissing him; he's bolder this time, and I can feel him growing more confident. His stubble scratches deliciously against my face, and I pull him tighter at the feeling; it's rough, almost painful, but not quite. I wrap my arms around him, tilting his face as I brush my cheek over his, my forehead to his, before I kiss him again.

The kiss isn't really intense—I'm determined to keep it from growing too intense before he's ready. For now, it's all about learning and teaching and, hopefully, there's a little pleasure involved in it for him. I know there is for me. The fact that he's drawn away only to breathe tips me off that he's probably enjoying himself.

We must be more into it than I thought, our attentions entirely focused one each other. Optimus groans and wriggles as I bite and suck on his lower lip. His hand at my waist clutches the fabric of my sweatshirt, drawing me against him.

"This is—quite pleasurable," he says breathily in my ear as I separate for air.

"This is going easy," I tell him teasingly before we both lean into each other simultaneously.

That's how my brother finds us; my arms around his neck, our lips locked in a semi-deep kiss, me without pants on, his hands, one on my hip, the other on my jaw, tilting my face. We don't notice him or Ronnie, which is what makes me think we're completely dead to the world, focused entirely on each other and the growing intensity of the kiss.

"Optimus?"

We both jump, our lips separating noisily as we whirl around. Savannah and Ronnie are standing just inside the kitchen; Ronnie is beaming, her eyes red from crying, and she looks slightly confused and embarrassed. Savannah looks like he might be sick.

"Savannah!" I gasp. I look at the clock; it's 2:00 am. "I—we—"

"I knew it," he says lowly.

"Savannah," Optimus says, standing up straight as we disentangle ourselves. Surprisingly, he doesn't look embarrassed. "I am sorry that you had to—"

"I don't want to hear it," he says, shaking his head, his eyes flickering back and forth between us. "Really?" He asks in disbelief. Ronnie shifts uncomfortably, and at the movement, Savannah seems to snap out of it. He smiles at her adoringly, though his eyes are still tense, and her smile is even brighter.

"Uh," I say, stepping forward. I can feel Savannah taking note of my lack of pants. I step protectively in front of Optimus. "What's with the smiles?"

Beaming, bouncing slightly, tears welling in her eyes, Ronnie holds up her left hand. I spot the ring there. I gasp and Ronnie squeals.

"We're getting married!" She sings, her voice ecstatic as she launches into me, hugging me tightly. I hug her back.

"Congratulations," I say, startled. But I can't keep the smile off my face. Savannah looks so happy. I smile at him, and he returns it. I separate from Ronnie to hug him, and as I do, he murmurs in my ear:

"We need to talk."

"Let it go," I whisper. "Please."

"Parker, you're not even the same species—"

He stops suddenly as Ronnie comes over to him. He releases me and I step back to Optimus. Smiling, obviously in love, Ronnie stretches up to kiss him; she's so tiny in comparison to us. I groan at the sight of my brother kissing her, but they ignore me.

I turn to Optimus sheepishly.

"The drive back to base will not be pleasant," he says.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

"It was worth it." I smile and stretch up, brushing my forehead briefly against his. My cheeks and jaw are wonderfully sore from his stubble. He trails a thumb over the places, noting the red skin that is probably there. I kiss his thumb, and Savannah clears his throat.

This is so awkward.

"We should probably go," Savannah says to Optimus. "I wasn't planning on anyone being up. I was just dropping Ronnie off."

"Of course," Optimus says, straightening his spine and nodding. I sigh sadly, giving Savannah a dirty look. Ronnie and I walk them to the front door, where we say our goodbyes.

"I'll see you," I tell Optimus. "And I'll come to you next time, remember."

"I'm counting on it," he says gently. I run my palm over his forehead before he returns the gesture. A moment later I slip into his arms, pressing an innocent kiss against his throat.

"I will miss you," he says.

"I'm gonna miss you, too," I tell him, squeezing his hand. Finally I let him go, and Savannah gives him a hard look.

"It was nice meeting you," he tells Ronnie. "And congratulations on your engagement."

"Thank you," she breathes earnestly. He gives us a polite nod before he walks around to the truck, climbing in. Savannah hugs me next.

"You are both dead," he hisses in my ear.

"Savannah, leave it alone," I hiss back.

"You're a piece of work, you know that?"

"I've been told. Let it go."

He grumbles something unintelligible as I let him go and he turns to Ronnie. I block them out, heading into the kitchen as they kiss and say their goodbyes. I wait by the window with Optimus, both of us silent for a moment before I speak.

"Tonight was fun," I tell him. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," he says, his low voice even lower since there are people around.

"Take care of yourself," I tell him. "I mean it."

"Consider it done," he says, his tone amused. Our conversation stops as Savannah climbs inside of him. Optimus starts the engine.

"Bye, Optimus."

"Goodbye, Parker."