*Decacycle = 1 Week

ooooo ooooo

~ Chapter 11 ~

Cybertron - Distant Past

The party was a welcome respite from the grind of war, and thank Primus, no severely wounded for him to sit and brood and worry over; just a chance to unwind, get to know some of the other mechs in his new posting, and enjoy the victory celebration over the success of their latest battle.

Loud laughter rang out from the table, and Ratchet grinned, relaxing a little more. Only a decacycle with this new unit, and he was still too busy getting the medbay into shape after taking over from his admittedly shoddy predecessor to have a chance to get out much. He hadn't met any officers or even the Prime yet. They'd been sequestered in conference rooms planning for the battle, and none of them had been among the wounded he'd tended afterwards.

An elbow nudged his side. "He's watching you."

Ratchet looked at the large mech sitting next to him.

"Who's watching me?"

The mech smirked. "The Prime, that's who."

Ratchet gave a snort as he rolled his optics. "I'd lay off the strong stuff now, if I were you. Your processors are liable to melt into a puddle of slag."

"No, I'm serious. He just got here a few kliks ago, and he's definitely got his optics on you."

Don't fall for it, was Ratchet's first thought, but then his optics flicked over to the first table to find that the Prime was indeed looking right at him as he lounged back in the biggest chair. He looked away when one of his officers leaned over to hand him a cube of high-grade, and Ratchet watched curiously as Prime's mask slid back and he took a swallow. Optics glowed with pleasure and lips curved up in a slow smile as he looked over at the medic again.

Ratchet's own optics widened, his intakes caught. He thought there would be battle scars, features half-destroyed by war, hidden away by the mask, but Prime's features bore not a single mark, his face handsome, strong, beautiful. The medic was dumbfounded. Why in the universe is he hiding behind that mask? He watched Prime's smile grow broader, an optic ridge raise, and realized he'd been caught staring.

Ratchet's gaze dropped to the cube in front of him, faceplates heating with embarrassment. Way to make a great first impression, he thought glumly, staring like you've never seen a handsome mech before, and at the Prime, no less. Utterly unprofessional, he scolded himself, and scrubbed a hand over his jaw and knocked back the rest of the cube's contents. Before he could even look around for more, another cube was slid in front of him. The mech next to him chuckled.

"Don't worry about it, everyone has that reaction the first time they see the new Prime's face."

Another large mech leaned in and grinned down at him. "Fine lookin' mech, ain't he? And he sure is lookin' you over. I bet bein' with the Prime would be one wild ride, what with all that energy inside of him clawin' to get out. You know, he's been alone for some time now, and all them Primes are known to have large… appetites, when they first get the Matrix."

The mech clapped him on the back and chortled while the medic squirmed uncomfortably. Ignore them, they're just having fun with the new recruit, Ratchet thought grimly, taking a large swallow of high-grade. Just think how easy it will be to prove yourself here, surrounded by glitching idiots like this.

The first mech draped an arm over his shoulders and leered down at him as he spoke to the other mech. "Maybe the Prime thinks our young and pretty little medic here looks like a tasty morsel to take some of the edge off his appetite."

Ratchet's jaw dropped open, then he snapped it shut again and stared down into his drink, his faceplates burning.

The other mech swayed in his seat as he sagely nodded his agreement. "Could be he's decided that our medic will be his new berthwarmer."

He turned his attention to Ratchet as the medic made a strangled sound and tried to wiggle out from under his arm to make his escape. The large mech pulled him closer and purred into his audial. "It's just a matter of time before Prime takes you, medic, but the real question is, can you take him?"

Both mechs laughed uproariously at their own wit, Prime was looking at him again, and Ratchet was hoping the floor would open up and swallow him. He gulped the last of his drink and looked desperately around for more.

Just then the heavy arm was removed, his shoulder was clasped in a friendly manner, and a cheerful voice rang out from behind him.

"Okay, you two, enough with torturin' the new recruit. Primus, how d'ya expect us ta win this war if ya keep scarin' 'em all off?"

The medic turned to see his rescuer. A small, visored, silver mech grinned at him.

"Name's Jazz."

"Ratchet. Happy to meet you."

Jazz chuckled. "Oh, I bet. You're not the first one I've pried from the clutches of this rowdy bunch here. Now, just a moment while I do your invite properly."

Ratchet's forearm was clasped in a firm warrior's greeting, then released. Jazz stepped back, bowed, and stood stiffly at attention as he recited the formal phrases in a ringing voice.

"I bring you greetings and felicitations from Prime, most honored medic, and extend his invitation to you to join him and his officers in this, our victory celebration."

Jazz bowed with a deep flourish and cheers and laughter erupted around the room. He grinned broadly at his audience and sketched a salute, and then burst out laughing at the look of horror on Ratchet's face.

"Relax, Ratch, we're not all formal here or anythin'," he assured the medic. "That was just for fun. They love it when I go all prim and proper like that," and he laughed again as relief swept over Ratchet's features.

"Oh and here, before I forget and drink it myself." Jazz whipped out a fresh cube of high-grade, pressing it into the medic's hands. "With Prime's compliments, and now I get ta escort ya ta the grownup's table."

Ratchet's relief fled when Jazz put a hand under his elbow to urge him up.

"You mean I really am supposed to go sit with the officers and - the Prime?" He looked down at the cube from Prime like it was about to bite him.

"Yeah, sure. Don't know why you're not already there. You sober enough ta walk? If not, I'm sure your two friends here can lend a hand."

Ratchet stood up reluctantly, while the two mechs nudged each other and laughed.

"Aww, lookit that, he's shy about bein' with the Prime. That won't last. Prime'll get that worked outta him in no time."

"Yeah, our little medic's gonna get broken in fast and hard by the looks of things."

"Go on now. Prime seems mighty eager to get started on you, and he's not a mech to be kept waiting."

Jazz looked at the two mechs and then at Ratchet, who was looking everywhere but at the first table where Prime sat watching them.

"They been mouthin' off like that the whole night?" he asked quietly.

Ratchet felt the heat creep up under his faceplates again. "No, just since the Prime got here."

"Ahh, I see."

Jazz's visor shimmered with amusement as he turned to the two mechs still laughing over the medic's embarrassment. His next words wiped their smirks away.

"Glad you've both been enjoyin' yourselves. Allow me ta introduce ya ta Ratchet, our new Chief Medical Officer."

Ratchet opened his mouth to protest - he was certainly no officer! - but Jazz continued blithely on. "That means you two have just earned an evenin's stay in the beautiful and lush accommodations of our finest resort - the Brig - followed by a decacycle of scrubbin' down every wall and floor in the Base for disrespectin' an officer."

Howls of protest followed his pronouncement, and Ratchet jumped as a deep, gravelly voice boomed out over his head.

"Need a hand here, Jazz?"

Jazz smirked up at one of the largest mechs Ratchet had ever seen, a warrior model and bristling with armaments.

"Funny you should ask that, 'Hide. These two were just leavin' for the Brig, and I'd sure hate for them ta get lost on the way."

The massive black warrior snorted. "That'd be a shame. I'll just escort them myself, make sure they don't run into a wall or the floor or anything."

The two mechs blanched as he gave them an evil grin, then he turned to Ratchet, looked him over and nodded.

"Ironhide, Weapons Specialist. Here, hold this for me while I take care of these two slagheads."

A cube was shoved into the bemused medic's free hand, and Ratchet watched the warrior scruff the cringing mechs by their neck fairings and haul them out of the room.

He winced as one of them hit the doorframe with a resounding clang, followed by a pained groan and a loud "Oops!" from Ironhide.

Ratchet turned to Jazz. "Primus, is it always like this around here?"

"Nah, just when there's no actual fightin' goin' on ta distract everyone," Jazz told him. "Let's go -"

"Wait a moment. What was all that about me being the Chief Medical Officer? I was told I was replacing the field medic here."

"Well, ya are, but now it comes with a promotion. Prime's orders. Didn't ya get the datapad?"

"No, my orders were verbal only, about replacing the field medic."

"Huh. And I sent those orders myself, too. Prime had me do it the day your name popped up on the list of new recruits. A good thing, too, since the sorry medic we had here wasn't worth the…"

"Wait, you mean, Prime sent for me? He doesn't even know me!"

Jazz shrugged. "Your record's good, and we needed a new medic. Anythin' else, you should bring up with him. Come on, they're all waitin' ta meet ya," and he strode off towards the first table with Ratchet trailing reluctantly behind.

Everyone rose politely as they reached the table, except the Prime, of course, and Jazz began the introductions.

There were some chuckles as one of the first officers he met reached forward to clasp his arm in greeting, and looked pointedly down at the two cubes the medic was holding.

Ratchet flushed as Jazz laughingly plucked Ironhide's cube out of his hand so he could return the greeting.

"This one ain't his, he's holdin' it for 'Hide."

The officer chuckled and clasped Ratchet's arm. "Really? You must rate then, if he let you guard his drink. Welcome."

The greetings continued, and then Jazz was finally leading him over to where Prime sat. Ratchet was going into a quiet panic because he didn't know about being an officer, or protocols, or ceremonies or anything really, except that Prime stood for no one, but suddenly there was Prime standing up to greet him and Ratchet was looking what seemed like a long way up to see Prime's face, and his arm was being clasped by a very large hand.

He heard a few gasps and some collective murmuring from behind, and saw Prime's optics flick to his officers, who immediately fell silent. Prime's gaze returned to his, and at the same time his deep voice rumbled out a welcome, the medic's internal comm buzzed to life and that same voice was murmuring, "I hate pomp and ceremony, don't you?"

Before Ratchet could even gape at him, his arm was released and Jazz was seating him in an empty chair near Prime. He gave him Ironhide's cube to hold again, and leaned forward to mutter in his audial.

"Bunch of sycophants. Prime's lookin' ta replace a lot of 'em. He wants officers who can think for themselves, not mindless drones droolin' over the shiny Matrix."

Ironhide came back just then and reclaimed his drink with a gruff word of thanks and a nod to Prime. Jazz took the empty seat across from the medic and immediately launched into some story about other worlds and aliens and strange customs, and it must have been pretty funny because everyone else was laughing, but Ratchet couldn't focus on it.

He tried to listen, but he couldn't ignore the little tingle of awareness that niggled through his circuits. He could see Prime from the corner of his optics, lounging comfortably in the oversized chair, watching him, and it was all Ratchet could do not to squirm as the heat crept back up under his faceplates, and all the innuendoes from earlier started cycling through aching processors. He raised his cube, realized it was empty, and stared at it miserably, wondering if it would be a terrible breach of etiquette if he just got up and left the room. And he'd only been sitting here for 15 kliks.

"Here, try this. Jazz just broke out some of his special stores," a deep voice murmured, a large hand pushed another cube in front of him, and Ratchet realized that it was Prime's voice and Prime's hand, and he looked up to see Prime's face, up close and without his mask, and sat there staring in a daze.

I am so overcharged, he thought, as he gazed at the stunning features, because he suddenly wanted to touch Prime's face, trace the curve of his mouth, his lips, just to see if they were real. He watched those lips curve up into a smile, heard a soft chuckle, and dropped his gaze back to his drink.

"Stop staring at me," he muttered resentfully, taking a swallow from the cube and rubbing at a processor ache. A low laugh rumbled around him.

"I believe you were staring at me," Prime pointed out, and if Ratchet had been just a bit less agitated, and a bit more sober, he never would have dreamed of answering so rudely to the Prime, let alone swearing at him.

"You've been staring holes into me all evening! Slagging Pits, Prime! What is your problem?"

There was a collective gasp of intakes from around the table, and the medic was suddenly the center of attention. Ratchet looked over the assembled officers, a sinking feeling at his core. The younger officers were trying to hide smiles, Ironhide was grinning broadly, and Jazz looked ready to explode with laughter, but the faces of the older officers reflected varying degrees of shock, if not outright horror. And Prime… he didn't dare look at Prime. It was enough to imagine his likely fate. Career over, before it even got started.

He heard a deep laugh and looked up to see Prime's optics flickering and his entire frame shaking with laughter. He heard more laughter and looked over to see the younger officers chuckling, Ironhide slapping a hand on the table as he shook, and Jazz laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. The older officers simply stared at him in disgust.

Ratchet was quite sure by then that he'd had enough of everything. Protocols be slagged. He drained his cube and stood up to leave, and startled as Prime clapped him on the back and handed him another, pushing him firmly back down into his seat.

Prime's optics were bright with amusement as he leaned close to the medic.

"And there's that charm I remember," Prime said softly, and Ratchet pulled back to stare at him.

"But we've only just met. How do you know me?"

"We met originallyat the energon dispensary near the clinic where you interned. Do you remember the place?"

Ratchet looked closely at Prime, seeing something vaguely familiar in those amused optics, the curve of his lips as he smiled. Originally. A memory jarred out of storage. Ratchet's optics widened, his vents gave a slow sigh of air.

"Orion," he breathed.

Prime gave him a wry smile. "It's Optimus, now," he reminded the medic, and reached out a hand to squeeze his shoulderplates. "Good to see you again, Ratch."

"You were the one chosen, I can't believe it," Ratchet murmured, still staring at Prime, then he realized what he'd said and started to stammer out an apology.

Prime waved it off, chuckling, his field brushing warmly against Ratchet's. "No, it's all right. It came as quite a shock to me, too."

Ratchet smiled, humming at the brief contact, stronger than he remembered, but still familiar. Still Orio- Optimus, he corrected himself, and wasn't that going to be a name to keep stumbling over.

Prime tilted his helm in a listening pose, and lowered his voice to a quiet murmur. "My Second tells me we've given enough cause for speculation among the gossips for the evening. We'll talk more later."

He stood up and all the officers rose as one, while Ratchet struggled belatedly to his feet.

"I'll take my leave of you now, gentlemechs. Please, stay and enjoy the rest of your evening." There were murmurs of 'good recharge' from the assembly, Prime nodded to them all, and left with Jazz at his side.

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Ratchet was in his own quarters preparing for recharge later that night when Jazz came and brought him to Prime's office. It was a large room, with a desk and conference table on one side, and a comfortable seating area on the other. The silver mech carefully left the office door propped open and pointed Ratchet to a cushioned seat, while he busied himself with datapads at the desk. Prime came in after a few moments and joined Ratchet.

The two sat and looked at each other for long moments, taking in the changes. Prime's gaze wandered over Ratchet's features, the medical sigals on his shoulders, the lines of his chassis, while Ratchet struggled to reconcile his memories of the mech he knew vorns ago with the reality of Prime sitting before him now.

The Matrix changes had made Prime large, much larger than Orion, and his face… Orion had been good-looking, but Optimus - Ratchet realized he was staring again and looked away. Primus, if everyone does this to him, it's no wonder he wears that mask all the time.

"No, go ahead," Optimus murmured. "Do you see - Is there anything left?" Of Orion hung in the air between them.

"No, not really," Ratchet finally said, and Prime heaved a sigh.

"I didn't think so," but his disappointment was obvious.

Silence, while memories crowded thickly around them, only the quiet click of data pads across the room breaking the stillness. Prime sent a request to Jazz for more high grade, and they both watched the young mech leave the room.

"I looked for you the next day," Prime said, a hint of regret in his voice, "and then I went to the clinic, but they told me you'd gone."

Ratchet nodded, his thoughts following the same path. "That emergency call. Every medic and intern they could spare was sent, including me. It was chaos for a while, and when things finally settled, the administrator kept me there."

"Pit of a way to end your graduation party."

"Yes, it was. Terrible waste of high-grade, too." They both smiled.

"I tried to reach you, too," Ratchet said, "but for the first two decacycles I barely had time to recharge, and then when I did, no one knew where you'd gone."

"I was taken to the Matrix a decacycle after you left," Prime said. "I had no time to let you know what was happening. I'm sorry."

Silence again, as they gazed at each other, and then Jazz was there, handing them each a cube, and quietly asking to speak privately with Prime. Prime excused himself and stepped into the hallway with the young officer, shutting the door behind him and leaving the medic to his thoughts.

Ratchet sat and sipped his cube, mentally comparing his memories of Orion to Optimus and trying to put his finger on the exact changes, processors rifling through medical data files for anything relevant concerning new Primes.

The sudden influx of a tremendous amount of power coupled with the physical changes were known to be overwhelming at first. The power that came with the Matrix was often a two-edged sword, and stories were sometimes told, never too loudly, about Primes that had lost control and become corrupt, with disastrous results. It had not happened for more vorns than anyone could remember, and the stories were fast receding into legend, but there were still firm guidelines in place for the careful handling of a new Prime.

Orion had been an archivist, with an interest in history, an odd background for the future leader of an entire world. But his interest and studies had led him to the strong belief that the best hope for the future lay not with the Autobots or the Decepticons, but with all Cybertronians choosing to unite and live together in peace. Not a very popular stand, when everyone around them was busily choosing sides, and the Neutrals as a group and way of life were rapidly becoming extinct.

Ratchet wondered again why Orion had been chosen. His faith in Primus and the Matrix were strong, but that hardly seemed like a necessary qualification when a civil war was raging, and what was needed was a leader who could fight.

The Matrix had changed Orion physically, that much was obvious, and a little overwhelming, Ratchet thought with a faint snort. Harder to spot were the changes that might have occurred in his thoughts and convictions, but Optimus appeared to have retained the same set of goals and beliefs that Orion had. Orion had been calm and a bit reserved, and by all accounts Optimus was even more reserved, perhaps a compensation for his somewhat dubious distinction as the youngest Prime in history. He no doubt still had his faith, given that the living proof of it was now firmly implanted in him, and it was well-known by now that the new Prime considered the war a necessary evil, and his ultimate goal was unity and peace for Cybertron.

There were some differences between the two mechs, and Ratchet wondered if the Matrix had caused them. Orion had never been ambitious and claimed no interest in leadership, but Optimus was establishing himself very well as a leader, and a good one, judging by what the medic had seen and heard just this evening. He had a strong presence and expected his orders to be followed, but he was also surrounding himself with officers who were not afraid to speak their minds and challenge those orders if the reasons were valid.

Orion had always insisted he was no fighter, but he had the quiet confidence of a mech who would stand by his convictions and fight for them if he was forced to it. The confidence was still there, but Optimus was a leader, and that confidence now had a commanding edge to it.

As for fighting, the story of the new Prime leaping into his first battle only moments after receiving the Matrix had already taken on all the trappings of a myth brought to life. Optimus Prime was a legend in the making, and he wasn't even dead yet, Ratchet thought cynically, a reflection of how desperately hopeful everyone was that the new Prime would make all the difference, and the war would soon be over.

Ratchet's vents blew out air in a sigh. He missed his friend's steady calm the most. Was it still there in Optimus? He wasn't sure. Optimus seemed calm, but there was an intensity to him that Orion had lacked, or maybe it was tension. Even dipping into Jazz's store of high-grade this evening had failed to ease it entirely.

The door opened and he heard Optimus bidding Jazz a good recharge, and Prime returned to take his seat. It was then Ratchet realized that by far the most striking difference about Prime was the sense of power that surrounded him. Ratchet could almost hear the air crackling with it, and his optics were drawn to the large center seam of Prime's chestplates. His receptors could feel the Matrix as it throbbed and beat and churned with energy. Too much, too restless.

Prime's movement startled him as he leaned forward and lifted one of his hands. "I see you received the final upgrades." Large fingers caressed the palm, Prime's optics lifted to his, and Ratchet's intakes caught. Sensual smile, stunning features that belonged on the face of Primus himself, bright blue optics darkening with lust, the same as Orion's had on that last night. Prime's field reached out. A shudder went through Ratchet's frame. I am way too overcharged right now, he thought, his systems revving unsteadily.

"Ahh, they're very sensitive, too." That sensual smile again, and Prime's thumb stroked small circles over his palm, his field curling in erotic invitation around him. "I remember everything about you, Ratch."

Ratchet pulled his gaze away with an effort and gently withdrew his hand, his own field pulsing a negative response to the Prime's. "Please, don't. The guidelines are quite clear. It's the Council that decides these things and you should be following their recommendations. I'm surprised you don't have a berthmate by now."

Prime's field withdrew abruptly. "There are many things the Council tells me I'm supposed to do as Prime that I find myself not wanting to do."

The first faint alarms went up in Ratchet's processors. "That's not a good sign. A berthmate would help -"

"I've already lost two," Prime snapped. He rose to his feet, angry now, pacing away restlessly. The medic could hear the Matrix humming and seething, feel the static crackle in the air as power bled out of Prime. He turned back to Ratchet, outrage on his faceplates. "They were targeted as soon as their status became general knowledge. Can you imagine? They were killed because I was fragging them! I'm not choosing anyone else and have yet another death on my hands that I could have prevented.

"And besides…" The anger vanished as quickly as it came, and Optimus trailed off, a deep frown lowering optic ridges. Ratchet had never known Orion to be moody, but now, as Prime, he was almost volatile.

"Besides?" Ratchet prompted, uneasy with the swiftly changing moods of the powerful mech before him.

"It's not me they choose, it's the Matrix," Prime said at last, disgust twisting his mouthplates. "And in my berth, it's not passion they offer, not even affection, but honor." He laughed, a short, ugly sound. "It's an honor to be with the Prime, they tell me. Primus slag all of them. The Matrix burns inside of me, but at my core I'm colder than I've ever been in my existence, and all they offer me is honor. I keep doing what the Council tells me to do, and it doesn't help. Nothing helps." Prime's optics shuttered, his frame shook. "It's wrong. Something's very wrong and I don't know what or why, but I want - I need more."

Ratchet was deeply concerned now. Tradition, collective wisdom and the Council decreed that a new Prime be paired with an older mech, one who was calm, unemotional, someone who could provide a steadying influence to the instability inherent in Primes newly gifted with the Matrix. No passion, no desire. Orion would have hated that, interfacing with someone who felt nothing for him, who didn't even want him.

Alarms were going off in his CPU, his instincts clamoring with the danger he could see right in front of his optics. Whatever had worked in the past was not working now. The future crystallized before him with brutal clarity. They're going to ruin him, and then we'll have a rogue Prime on our hands. It would spell disaster for all of Cybertron.

Outwardly he remained calm, but deep down Ratchet was filled with rage and sorrow. Fragging sons of glitches. They stick him on a pedestal to be honored and interface with him like a duty to be performed, and this is where his faith has led him… Orion, Orion… what have they done to you?

Something else rose up then, thrumming through his systems like a clarion call, beating through him and pushing every other concern aside except the need to help and heal.

Ratchet reached a hand up and took Prime's, and drew him back down. Prime sat with his head in his hands, and a memory flashed through the medic's processors. They had first met like this, but then it had been Orion offering his help to Ratchet, anguished over the loss of a patient.

Ratchet pushed Prime's untouched cube towards him. "Here. You look like you need this more than I do."

The cube was drained in one long swallow and set back down. A murmur of thanks, a weak smile.

"Does it help?" the medic asked, wondering what, if anything, would help Prime out of the Pit he was in.

"Barely takes the edge off," was the tired reply.

"Good," Ratchet responded briskly. "Then I can safely recommend it for medicinal purposes, and not worry about you overcharged and leading the troops into battle."

An optic ridge arched in surprise, a small chuckle, another brief smile. Ratchet leaned closer, touching Prime's hand, his field flaring in invitation, an offer of help. Prime's hand closed around his, but not in seduction this time, simply holding his, field flickering against him, seeking comfort.

Whatever relief the high-grade had brought was short-lived. Prime looked unutterably weary. Optics were dim, fingers pinched the bridge of his nasal plate, a rub across his chestplates brought a grimace of pain. Matrix energy seethed.

Ratchet gave his hand a comforting squeeze. "Optimus, talk to me. Tell me what you need." Hesitation, a hard grip of his hand, tremors through the large frame, roiling power crackled through the air. Ratchet's optics pinned on Prime's chestplates, the source of the turmoil.

"The Matrix… it hurts me, Ratchet. I didn't think it would hurt. Sometimes it feels like it's clawing its way out of my chest. Primus, no one told me it would hurt like this. There has to be something wrong, and it can't be the Matrix, so it must be me. I've tried so hard to believe and accept everything that's happened, to do what I'm supposed to do, but nothing helps, the pain never stops. Primus help me, I don't know what to think or believeanymore, I just want the pain to stop."

Prime looked at him then, an eerie similarity to Orion in his optics, but this was not the steady, calm Orion Ratchet knew so well. This Orion was stricken and in pain, his faith shaken right to his core. The medic cursed silently. Did they even tell him what was going to happen? Or did they just stick the slagging thing in his chest and turn him into an icon?

"Can you help me?" Low, tired voice, an aching plea that went right to Ratchet's spark, and Prime's field was making deep inroads into his own, trying to draw support.

He leaned closer, gave another squeeze to Prime's hand, set his field to pulse soothing comfort into Prime's. "I'll do my best."

"Thank you," Optimus said simply.

They stayed for a few moments, just like that, and then Prime withdrew his field and released Ratchet's hand and stood up, the battle mask closing over his faceplates, hiding everything.

Prime looked down at him, calm and serene once more, only the Matrix seething fitfully behind locked chestplates, and Ratchet could only marvel at the control Optimus was still able to exert over himself.

tbc

A/N: As always, a heartfelt thank you and many, many cookies to my lovely betas, and all you wonderful readers. 3