AND YAY! We're back!
Thanks to everyone (especially my RUSSIAN reviewer Karelia, hi there!) for your continued support. I am having SO much fun developing Miri and Optimus. Huge and very much continued thanks to Musical Medli for her continued support - go check her out, she's got a pretty solid OP/OC story of her own going on. YES SHAMELESS PLUGS ARE SHAMELESS.
Uploaded another companion oneshot, Say Nothing, which has WAY too much Op/Miri fluff. Go read, minions *shoos* AFTER THIS AFTER THIS!
This chapter didn't EXACTLY go where I wanted it to, but I did sneak in some fun moments and a little bit of OP perspective ;). Leave some reviews behind and I'll try to edit errors, but Megatron makes it pretty hard. His grammar-checking software is BOGUS. lolz. xoxoxoxo
Five a.m. came far too early, especially when she was jet lagged, nervous, and unable to sleep. Spending the majority of the night tossing and turning in the king sized bed after her bath, Miri surmised she'd passed out around one in the morning, giving her a grand total of four sleeping hours and leaving her head splitting with a tension headache.
The alarm blaring from her phoned, accompanied by the desk phone ringing shrilly beside her ear, jolted her awake. She answered the phone, offered a groggy good morning to the front desk and a mumbled "thank you," before sitting up, canceling the additional alarm on her phone. Miri fell back against the headboard as she rubbed her eyes, aware of how swollen they felt, thanks to her lack of rest. Her hand fumbled along the nightstand for her abandoned glasses, and she slipped them on, blinking herself awake. A growl from her stomach demanded attention, and dialed room service, ordering a simple breakfast of toast, bacon, and yogurt.
Throwing off the blankets, she padded into the bathroom, realizing she had a little over an hour before a NEST officer would be arriving to escort her to the Pentagon. The very idea of setting foot in such a prominent, federal building snapped her head up to consider her reflection in the oversized mirror over the sink, her eyes widening at the sight of bloodshot eyes and dark circles. Clapping her hands to her cheeks, she blew out an annoyed breath and groaned, reaching across the counter for her cosmetics bag, which was chucked full with skincare and makeup.
"What it takes to make myself beautiful," she mumbled, running cool water in the sink. I'll bet Marilyn Monroe didn't carry half this junk with her...she cleansed her face, added serum and moisturizer, and brushed her teeth before retrieving her phone and putting on an amount of nineties country music that would make Garth Brooks himself roll his eyes.
It took her all of thirty minutes to wash her face and style her God-forsaken hair. While Miri didn't necessarily hate her makeup process, she despised styling her hair, simply due to the fact that it was physically unable to be styled. She had two different curl patterns working against one another, and they were always unmanageable and wild, regardless if kept long or short. No amount of product produced the same result. Over two decades on Earth had proved it.
Blowing out a breath of exhaustion, her curls were semi-dry from her bath the night before. Day-two hair was always the easiest to style, though she opted for a high ponytail, unwilling to have it defy her throughout her presentation. The knock on the door ended the battle with her hair, drawing her from the bathroom.
Room service dropped off her breakfast, which she picked at as she dressed. Halfway through slipping into her slacks, her phone rang, and she realized it was her mother. Lunging for it and tripping over her opened suitcase, she hit the bed with an ungraceful flop, pain erupting across her toes as she let out a moan into the mattress. Pulling the phone to her ear, she released a sigh and sat up, reaching for a piece of toast.
"Hi Mom," she muttered, cradling the phone between her ear and collarbone. "How's dad?" The vision of her father pacing across the living room in his robe, cotton pajama bottoms, and stained t-shirt as he ignored coffee and muttered to himself about not accompanying her. The mental image made her smile, and suddenly she felt a pang of homesickness hit her abdomen as she popped a piece of bacon into her mouth.
Her mother sighed, and Miri heard something which she could only assume was coffee pouring into a mug. "As fine as he can be, sweetheart. Just nervous is all," there was a brief pause as her mother sighed. "But enough of that! How's your room? You sleep okay?" Her mother's tone had returned to its familiar strength, Wren Otten obviously having processed the fact that her daughter had flown halfway across the country on behalf of their business.
Miri didn't doubt for a moment that her parents didn't trust her, but she understood it was still nerve-wracking - there were so many unknowns. A stone suddenly sank into the hollow of her gut, and she discarded the piece of toast she'd decided to eat, feeling wave of anxiety pass through her chest. She opted for orange juice, hoping the lump on the back of her tongue would dissipate as she stared at the laptop on her desk, as if would get up and walk itself to the meeting. Somewhere in the back of her brain, she hoped it would.
Getting up, she moved to the desk, and began slipping her jewelry back into place, continuing to cradle the phone. "Tell Dad he shouldn't worry. Lennox is here, and so is that other officer, Epps," she smiled when the familiar face of the soldier from the plane, Optimus, passed through her mind. "I'm sure they'll help me make a good impression. I met some some of the other guys as well, everyone seems friendly enough. And the room is huge; I slept okay." While the comment about her sleep was a direct lie, she figured worrying her mother more than necessary wasn't a good play.
Another sigh, and Miri could practically see her mother's shoulders drop in reassurance, even despite the fact they were an entire half-a-nation apart. "Oh that's good," the sound of a chair scraping across the floor was evident, "I wanted to call and say good morning, and tell you that we're prayin' for you, sweetheart. You're gonna be amazing. You've always had a way of talking up the business, and I'm sure you'll be fine," she chuckled, "but you keep a lid on all that fiery sass, ya hear?"
Miri couldn't help the grin that split her face, or the chuckle that escaped her as she bit the inside of her cheek. "I love you, Mama," she shook her head, reaching up to adjust the earring in her left ear. Catching her appearance in the mirror near the closet, she felt a small blossom of pride at her mother's confidence. She certainly looked the part of an Executive Officer, though the pang of something in her gut didn't reinforce the shrinking confidence that seemed as if it was ebbing out of her spine.
"I love you too, Sugar," her mother replied, before Miri heard her mutter to someone on the other end of the call. Within seconds her father's familiar breathing dominated the call, and she felt a punch of reassurance stiffen her nerves. "John, you be nice!" Was her mother's plea, at distance from the phone.
She chuckled and shook her head, as if her father had been there. "Hi, Dad," she said quietly. "You holding up okay?"
His low grumble told her that he was anything but holding up. "Just worried about my little girl," the sigh he gave reassured her previous assumption - John Otten did not rest easy when it came to matters pertaining to his livelihood or his only daughter, Miri remembering a choice few instances that had stirred his unease and a forceful hand. The one had ended up with a better business deal, the other - well, she'd never dated that particular man again. "I wish I was there with ya, Miri honey, but you'll be good. Always are," he paused. "What about you? You holding up?"
She shrugged a shoulder, lowering to the bed again as she studied her bare feet. Taking a moment to discern her feelings, a soft smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, and she wiggled her toes to confirm the feeling seeding itself in her stomach. While she was nervous, hearing her father's voice was helpful, and encouraging. Hearing his words of affirmation sent a warm spiral of peace down her spine, which chased away all the negative energy pushing thoughts through her brain.
"I'm just fine, Dad," she confirmed with a smile. "But I should hop off - I gotta get around. An officer will be by shortly to pick me up. I'll call you tonight?" She stood and moved to her luggage, where the heels she'd packed were awaiting. Plucking those, as well as the emergency flats she'd stowed from the bag, she moved to put them in her oversized tote, along with her laptop and presentation notes.
The busyness in the background told her that August and Dirk were up and in the kitchen, morning duties already well underway at the Otten homestead. Right about now they'd be guzzling coffee and scarfing down breakfast, hustling to get to the office to begin the day's work. A smile found the corner of her mouth as she moved to retrieve her blazer jacket from where she'd hung it the night before.
"Alrighty, Punkin. You take it easy. We'll talk soon," his tone was quieter. "Be safe, Miriana." After a momentary pause, she could've sworn she'd heard the man's voice catch as he added, "I love you, kiddo," as softly as she'd ever heard him speak.
She nodded as if he'd been able to see, her chest stirring with emotion. "Absolutely. Say hi to the boys for me!" She swung into the blazer, transferring the phone to her other ear as she worked, "And tell Ma I love her. I love you, we'll talk soon." With a confirming "alright," the call ended, and Miri glanced at the darkened iPhone screen for a moment too long, closing her eyes to imagine her family's faces in the back of her mind.
She could do this. I can do this, she mentally reminded herself. You're an educated, witty, smart girl. This is doable.
She'd just finished the last drink of orange juice when another knock erupted on the door, making her jump. The orange juice immediately evaporated down the wrong pipe, and she sputtered into a coughing mess, reaching for the napkin that had arrived with her breakfast tray. Dabbing at the orange dribble on her chin, she patted her chest, trying to draw air into her lungs as her chest burned with the scouring orange juice. Eyeballing the door, she glanced to her phone, finding that it was two minutes until six. The officer is here!
Her mind was frantic now, trying to formulate a response as well as correct her orange juice inhalation, Already? What is with these guys and being early!?
Staggering from the bed, she fought with the lock on the door, still sputtering to catch her breath as she pulled it open, her gaze held to the floor as she pressed a fist to her mouth, attempting to cover her cough. Before she could look up, she spotted very familiar boots in her doorway, and her eyes popped open as her head snapped to attention. For a second she half expected it to fall off her shoulders - she had to mentally remind herself to steel her jaw, lest it fall to the floor.
It was Optimus, standing in her doorway. Looking pristine.
Dressed in strange military formals that she'd never seen before, his shoulders were perfectly pulled back in confidence, his stance open but not so militant as to be off-putting. Hands folded behind his back, she had an absolutely perfect and up-close view of his pectoral muscles, which even beneath a suit jacket and white starched shirt were pronounced. He was not shaven, though he did look trimmed, and the hair she remembered over his forehead was brushed up into his beret. Despite his clean presentation, he still smelled fondly of diesel and smoke - a fact which she noted as goosebumps skittered across her skin.
She swallowed roughly, the orange juice promptly souring in her gut beside her toast and bacon. "Oh. Optimus," she remembered his name - who forgets a name like Optimus? - and swallowed the enormous lump that had raced up her throat from her chest, plaguing her mouth with a sudden dryness that she despised. Nervously she flicked the curls of her high ponytail away from her face, willing herself not to blush. "Hi."
Oh brilliant, she chastised herself. Already I'm resorted to monosyllable responses. Curse you, Lennox. Optimus looked pleasantly surprised to see her, the trace of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes, still sparkling with life, looked her over briefly before leveling at her face, locking gazes with her. Everything about him seemed so intense and formal, she felt suddenly out of her depth. Again.
He responded with a nod to her. "Hi," his deep baritone melted over her, sending a bolt of attraction racing through ever bone her body possessed. Meeting forgotten, the nervousness that churned in the depths of her stomach heated into her throat. She released a slow breath, blinking furiously to clear the clutter from her mind as she opened the door wider, stepping aside.
"Hi," she said again. "Lennox didn't tell me you'd be picking me up." She felt the need to explain her stupidity, though he honestly didn't seem to notice, instead choosing to watch her movements closely, as if he'd never seen anything like her before. She looked up to him, half hiding behind the open door, feeling highly self conscious with his frame standing in her doorway. "You can come inside," was her quiet response, before suddenly realizing she was talking to an officer. "Unless that's not something you do -"
He shook his head, and put up a hand. "That won't be necessary, but thank you," he checked his wrist, where an oversized watch rested beneath the cuff of his jacket. "If you're ready, it would be ideal to get an early start. The Washington grid is less than forgiving at this hour." It took her half a second to process what exactly he said, because he spoke like someone from a Shakespearean novel much less an actual man.
Blinking at him, it resonated when her brain finally connected with her spinal column. "Oh, sure," she turned, leaving the door opened, and swiftly began to move about the room, collecting the rest of the items she'd need for the day. Miri was keenly aware of the man's stare following her from the doorway, and she didn't miss the nervous tremble that overtook her hands. Taking a minute to clutch them to her chest, she bit her bottom lip before turning on her heel to march to the bathroom.
Collecting her makeup bag, she said a blissful prayer for the privacy of the Humvee that would certainly meet her at the curb. She'd developed a habit (and quite a good skill) at doing her makeup on the road when she wasn't driving - and even when she was. Her job often required travel across town or to business dealings, and she never had time to actually do her face they way she loved to, so she'd adapted to doing it behind the wheel or in the backseat - it oftentimes provided an ample distraction from her day, and in today's case...overly sexualized military officers.
Slipping into her shoes, she killed the lights, slipped her phone and keycard into her pocket, and slung her purse and tote over her shoulder before moving toward the door. Optimus had stepped aside, waiting for her diligently as he scanned the corridor, his chin lifted in observation. Miri stepped out of the door beside him, flipped the doorcard for maid service, and checked the lock. Turning to face the corridor, she clapped her hands against her thighs and released a breath.
Optimus was looking at her, his face almost expressionless, had his eyes not been practically glowing. "Are you ready, Miss Otten?" The way he said her name sent a warmth to her cheeks she didn't appreciate, and she nodded at him and looked down to her feet, smiling softly as she rocked back onto her heels, thankful for the distraction.
"As I'll ever be, I guess," she rubbed the back of her neck, "You lead." He nodded, and she fell into step beside him when he moved to the elevator. Fluidly, he signaled for the car, Miri slipping her hands into the pockets of her dress pants, watching the floor indicator. She felt Optimus watching her, though she didn't move to catch his gaze - she was already uncomfortable enough, the attention of an attractive man so far from her list of wants that it wasn't funny.
They rode the car in silence. Miri noticed that the man beside her didn't break proper posture once, his shoulders still pulled back commandingly and his chin level with the floor. He was a head and shoulders (and then some) taller than herself, but she couldn't help but notice the fullness of his frame in the confines of the elevator - he might as well been made out of marble, because she didn't see an ounce of what could be considered cellulite anywhere on his person. She had physically shake off a sudden and very unclothed mental image of him as soon as it popped into the scape of her mind, sending more moisture to her mouth than probably necessary.
She was in a wide-eyed staring contest with her feet when the car leveled, her unexpecting of the sudden halt. She staggered, stabled herself against the elevator's wall, and blinked when the man named Optimus looked over to her curiously. After a few seconds the door began to retract, and he snapped to stare at it quizzically, almost baffled that it had dared to move. Jerked from her embarrassed imagination, her brow folded downward into a confused wrinkled as she threw herself at the doors, arm extended to halt it's closure.
"Don't!" His command was barked so rapidly that it startled her to a stop, and before she realized what had happened, his arms were around her middle, pulling her away from the door, to the back wall of the car. Unnerved, her heartbeat was already pounding from lunging towards the door so rapidly, but it was now throbbing as she realized she was back against his chest, his grip around her middle more than secure.
Heat blossomed across her features, and for a second she was struck dumb. Two times in two days, she swallowed a nervous gasp, I could get used of this. Good God his arms are hard. She stopped herself and looked down to his hold around her waist, blinking in stunned silence that they were still there. She nervously bit the inside of her cheek, then the corner of her bottom lip, wondering if she should say something.
She opted for a nervous chuckle. "Um, not that this isn't nice and all, but..." she turned to glance at her shoulder, finding that his startled expression hadn't given way to reason, his stare filtering from the door down to her. "...shouldn't we be, I don't know, leaving the elevator?" He blinked at her, and she saw the moment the pin of realization dropped into his head.
He looked down to his hold around her, bristling to attention so suddenly it startled her. "My apologies," was his utterance. She squeaked when he released her so quickly that she staggered forward, and she had the distinct feeling that he was embarrassed, because when she looked up at him, he was coughing into his hand and checking his watch again.
He appeared to be covering up the moment by keeping himself busy, but Miri didn't miss the apprehensive side-glance that he shot over to her as he signaled the doors again. Oddly enough, Miri was relieved that he had shown some ability to be flustered, though he was far more graceful about it than she could ever pray to be. Stepping up beside him, she smoothed the front of her pants, then adjusted the strap of her bags on her shoulder.
The doors parted and they exited, Miri walking more briskly than she would've preferred to match the man's stride. He nodded to the NEST soldiers stationed outside the hotel doors, who didn't make a move to acknowledge him. Miri had to shield her eyes when sunlight glinted off the buttons of his suit, searing illuminated light into her face. She slowed to a halt, blinking rapidly to ease the sudden pain from her eyes, dropping her hand as she did so.
When her sight returned, she found parked at the curb not the promised haven of silence that had been the Humvee from yesterday, but the Peterbilt. Her throat closed and she let out a trembling sigh, her tongue suddenly dry and feeling very large in the cavity of her mouth as her her ovaries gave another appreciative clench. She set her jaw, and folded her hands across her chest, in an effort to quell the rising moisture from them.
Oh Jesus, not again. Please, Lord, not again. I can't handle this semi! "This is what we're taking?" she eked out, Optimus coming to a halt just off the curb. He turned to face her, before considering the grille of the Peterbilt for a moment. Looking back to her, the bemused upturn of his lips sent her stomach plummeting to the floor, and for a moment she wondered if her breakfast was suddenly on display at her feet.
He nodded, once. "Absolutely," he moved, lithely climbed up the passenger's side, and popped the door's latch. It swung open, him gracefully jumping down from the step, looking as if he'd been doing it all his life. He straightened the front of his jacket, more focused on the material than he was as he approached her again. His gaze lifted from the clothing, finding her eyes with a sparkle that stopped her pulse for just a moment. "There's not better way to travel," he tacked on smartly.
"But why?" She inserted, managing words. Gesturing to the truck, Miri followed him to the passengers side. "Doesn't this beast suck to park?" She couldn't believe she'd actually just used the word suck in the presence of a decorated officer, and she made a mental note to keep the slang to a minimum and actually utilize the expensive education she'd paid for.
He smiled, a chortle rumbling up from his chest. "While it has its inconveniences," he shrugged a shoulder, and reached up to steady the door as she lifted a hand to the step-up assist. He offered her a strong hand, which she accepted, "Though, there's something to be said for traveling in style, don't you think?"
She pinned him with a lidded, deadpanned expression. "Can you say overkill...?" her eyes darted to the breast of his jacket, her mind spinning to remember all of what she'd researched for proper titles and badges in the right way to address him. After a few seconds too long, her confused expression found his face. "Sorry for the stupid question and my complete lack of military prowess, but...are you a Commander?" The way she'd stressed the title made the question sound even worse.
Feeling the red hue of heat rise to her nose, she didn't miss his gentle smile. "You have a keen eye," blinking at the compliment, she slid into the Peterbilt's familiar passenger seat, setting her purse and tote bag at her feet. Looking down at him, she found that he was fully smiling at her, and for a moment she wasn't certain if it was the paint's reflection or something else, but a dance of blue seemed to dust his features. "Yes, my official rank is that of a Commander. As I told you before, I oversee the division of the Autobots," he closed the door, the opened window allowing her to peer down at him. He rapped his knuckles on the paint twice. "And I'm afraid this beast and I are never far apart."
Despite his stressing of her former statement, he looked over the vehicle with a fondness that was almost familial. Miri had met her share of men who held a fondness for big rigs and cars, all of them gearheads with enough ego to drive any sane woman away, gearheads like herself aside. The corner of her mouth lifted when his eyes found hers again, the Commander looking pleased at her presence in the passenger side. Stepping away, he moved around the front of the truck in a light job, and Miri went for the seatbelt, pulling it home as he climbed into the cab.
A thought smacked her between the eyes suddenly, her heart riveting to a stop. Dear God, she looked to the bag at her feet, her eyes slowly filtering closed as the realization of what was about to happen hit fully home in the core of her being. Goosebumps of anxiety raced up her arms, prickling down her spine just enough to send cold, nervous energy across her shoulders.
Her makeup. The cab of the semi. With...Optimus.
If she bit the inside of her cheek any harder, it would be bleeding.
Within minutes the Peterbilt was rolling through traffic, rumbling mass and all. Miri drummed her fingers against her thighs, nervously staring at the bag containing her cosmetics. She chastised herself for not waking early enough to do her makeup at the hotel, but habit had reared its ugly head her way, sinking fangs of regret deep into her. Like a paralytic poison it slowly crept through her veins, until finally she just exhaled loudly, rolled her eyes, and reached for the bag, hauling it to her feet.
I've never let a man unnerve me so much in the entirety of my life, and I'm not about to start, was the firm ruling in the court of her thoughts as she plucked the smaller cosmetics unit from her bag. Sending her tote to the floor by her feet, she opened the bag, flicked down the visor, and opened the small mirror, two vanity lights popping on. Blinking at her appearance she scrunched her nose, not at all appreciating the fact that a military officer had seen her look so exhausted, much less an attractive one like the man beside her.
She sighed. "I hope you don't mind, but this is a habit," Without breaking contact with her makeup bag, she looked over at him, her brow lifting at his presence behind the wheel. "But something tells me you're busier than I think you are."
He laughed at her. "It's not nearly as hard as it appears," every one of his motions were fluid, as if he understood every mechanical working of the truck, knew every rotation of the tires against the pavement. His posture had relaxed, and he drove one-handed, completely hands off when the transmission demanded a shift of gears. Miri was practically entranced, until she realized that she was stupidly holding a tube of concealer and a makeup sponge, her gaze transfixed on the movement of her hand.
She looked back at the mirror, and began applying the makeup to her face. He didn't offer any more conversation, and while the silence between them was not awkward, she felt the need to at least offer some type of stimulation, instead of being so focused on her own attempts at vanity. Her eyes filtered to the dash, then the gearstick, taking in the fine details of the truck's interior. His hand, flat against the stick, gently pushed it back as they slowed to meet a stoplight, him taking it through the gear pattern with practiced ease.
Hit bubbled at the base of her spine. There is nothing sexier than a man working a gearstick, was the thought that spiraled down her spine as she smoothed the concealer beneath her eyes with her fingertips. "So does this have the thirteen speed transmission, or is it custom?" She was mildly alarmed when he looked surprised at her statement, as if he'd never expected her to bring up engine mechanics.
He was quiet a moment before he focused back on the road before them. "While the Peterbilt's powertrain does have customizations, it is the standard thirteen speeds," he looked back to her, his other hand finding the wheel again as he popped the clutch, sending the semi into a higher gear. "You know vehicles, then, I assume?" The question asked in a curious, though pleased, tone.
Having moved to blush, she shrugged a shoulder. "Uh, well," she gave a sideways wave of her hand, offering a "so-so" gesture, "some. Cars mostly, but I've always loved Peterbilts," she ran the brush with product across the bridge of her nose, immediately regretting the decision when a much-to-dark blotch of subdued pink appeared across her nose. As she rubbed at it, she realized the majority of it was a natural blush, only intensified by the color she'd applied. "I try to keep it to myself; guys don't like it when girls know more about cars than they do." She considered Erik for a momently, back home, and instantly her mood dampened.
I'll have to deal with him later, her internal sigh did nothing for her mood. One beefcake at a time, Miriana. You can barely compile two intelligent words around this one; imagine what a conversation with Erik will do to your confidence. Correcting a smudge of mascara beneath her eye, she pushed Erik from the back of her head, delegating him to nightmare-for-another-day status.
"I see." The conversation closed, him not offering further retort. She continued her makeup, until the base of her face was completed, allowing her to move to eyes.
Opting for something professional, she added a small amount of glitter to the eye look, which immediately lifted the pallor of her face and brightened her eyes. Mascara only added to her work, waking her appearance enough to bely the measly four hours of sleep she'd managed the night before. Finishing with lip gloss, she considered her appearance, smacking her lips together with a satisfied smile as she flipped the visor closed.
She replaced her makeup bag, sat back against the bench seat, and closed her eyes as she sighed, feeling all the more confident beneath a layer of beauty products.
. . .
He wasn't entirely sure what she'd done to her face, but Optimus was certain he'd never seen anything so mesmerizing in all his days. And, that would have been being gracious, because he'd seen the formation of many beautiful things back on Cybertron, not mentioning the glittering mass of constellations throughout the galaxy. None of them compared to the absolute fascination of science that transformed the woman within the Peterbilt.
Without words he'd watched her apply products to her face. As he'd matched images of them against the internet, he'd discovered that the products she was using were cosmetics, a mixture of pigmentation, chemicals, and other man-made materials used traditionally by women to enhance their appearance. None of his online research explained why femme humans participated in this ritual, other than for their own pleasures, and to appease a general population of males who thought the practice was appropriate.
As odd as it was, she did it so fluidly and naturally, that it was baffling. Her confidence had balanced as well, as she'd started opening up in conversation, asking questions and exchanging words with him in a much more genuine way than she had before. He'd watched her, and even felt the moment she'd fully relaxed, the rise of her shoulders easing as she regained her social footing. While he could still sense that she was nervous (his scans indicated her rise in pulse and oxygen intake) she didn't seem nearly so flustered - not as much as she had aboard the aircraft.
She finished with her ritual, replaced her items, and settled into the bench seat quietly. Optimus took in the full features of her face, mildly startled by how different she looked now to when he'd been standing at her doorway exchanging greetings with her. Now, she looked rested and lifted, almost glowing, as if her skin retained a dewiness that he didn't recall seeing before. Whatever she had done to her eyes was staggering, because he'd never seen an appearance so changed.
He'd seen femmes undergo this same ritual - Michaela Banes often applied the same cosmetic products to her appearance, and it always had transformed her into a lovely representation of female humanity. However, he'd never been speechless before. While not the traditional representation of beauty by Earth standards, the woman beside him certainly qualified for one more so changed by the application of cosmetic makeup, because she looked nothing like her own self outside of it. While he wouldn't dare say it was awful, it was unusual, and for a moment he didn't quite have an opinion on it.
Optimus supposed it could be equated to his own people, who transformed daily between two forms. But, humanity received no benefit to changing their appearances, it seemed - his research didn't determine any lasting hypothesis for the benefit of cosmetic to human life, aside from vain reasons. Though, one online article suggested that not all women who applied cosmetics strived for a vain outcome - many underwent the ritual for their own satisfaction, or for their own happiness. He supposed, in many cases, it was an innocent gesture - though something told him the entire affair stemmed from a lack of confidence.
The woman drifted into a light sleep, which was mildly thankful for. Engaging in human customs was not nearly as forthcoming as he had hoped it would be; Ratchet had never fully walked any of them through elaborate training. Earth had strong customs among its human population, and from what he'd been able to determine, first impressions were everything, beyond importance. While he had spent countless hours researching bureaucracy, societal customs and norms, as well as basic etiquette, nothing felt right. He ever wondered if it would.
I suppose we will just have to work at it and see, his attention found the woman again, who stirred against the seat. At least I am not the only one beyond my depths. Even humanity itself seems unsure of its own presence within this world.
The lingering hue on the female's cheeks, which he'd taken great amusement in noticing, confirmed his suspicions.