This is pretty much just a filler chapter leading into ROTF.
Fun Fact, I don't know if anyone noticed, but last chapter there was a line where Declan's name was changed into 'Derek', and that's because when I wrote this story about a year ago he was still called Derek.
Anyway, I hope you guys like some more Optimus/Rex quality content.
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Rex would usually ditch medical as quickly as possible, wouldn't bother with the shitty locker room showers when he could be back in his own private bathroom in ten minutes. But he stays this time, rinses off, gets the blood and sweat and dirt off his skin and out of his hair. He stays in the steaming hot shower until he's clean and red-haired again. He gets the smell of smoke out of his hair and the mud out from under his fingernails. He brushes his teeth, towel-dries his hair, and gets distracted by the purple galaxy of bruising on his ribs.
After a moment, he yanks his shirt up and scans his chest, fingers running across his skin, catching on all the deep, ugly gashes barely held together by a line of butterfly stitches and angry, red skin he's tried not to notice and has memorized anyway. It's a strange, terrible moment. He wants to tell the reflection in the mirror to be more careful. It's a stupid impulse. It's his own skin, his own scars. It's just that there's something terrifying in how he's cataloging all the ways he's been hurt. His bottom lip is barely healed with a fresh, raised scab.
Ten minutes later he saunters back out in plain NEST clothes, loose-jointed, comfortable, and makes his way towards the cafeteria. He's almost light-headed with the heat of the shower, and the comfort of clean clothes and the lingering exhaustion from the mission.
"Hey," he says, leaning into the doorframe and staring at Will and Declan sitting at the table.
Will is wearing running shorts and a tank top that shows off way too much of his chest. He's flushed and shining from his early morning six-mile run. Next to him, Declan looks offensively, deliberately healthy. He's also desperately inhaling from the dregs of a fruit smoothie.
There's the strong smell of coffee, probably dark-roasted and freshly-brewed. French Roast , Rex thinks, ludicrously, and makes a beeline for the coffee pot.
"Hey. Ratchet said you wouldn't be awake for another three, four hours," Will says, and there's a whole heap of disapproval in there that Rex just lets go right by him as he starts opening cabinets, nonchalantly searching until he finds his coffee mug.
He's leaning back against the kitchen counter like he's about to capsize, and Will looks at him like he doesn't even know where to grab him to steady him.
"Epps made breakfast?" he asks.
Will frowns at him but then tips his head towards the table. "I saved you some."
'Some' is the understatement of the century. Epps is always cooking enough food to feed an army. Or a six person team of highly-dangerous, very picky eaters.
There are several colorful, passive aggressive post-it notes affixed to the fridge to keep anyone away from all their post-mission meals or pre-brewed coffee. Epps is practically everyone's dad. Rex is not sure the other man ever noticed the number of fans he has, the way a cafeteria or mission briefing can light up when he walks in, but Rex never doubted that, out of all of them, out of the entire team, Epps is NEST's sweetheart.
Rex groans. "I forgot about team breakfast."
Or maybe he didn't forget , he just doesn't have a lot of faith in good things. Sometimes he tries to tamp it down, hedge his bets. Can't be disappointed if you never expected anything in the first place.
He smiles and grabs the coffee pot. He tops off Will's cup before pouring the last of it into his own, swigs back the remaining couple of mouthfuls directly from the pot. He goes still at the sight of pancakes, sunny side up eggs and bacon.
"Declan wanted pancakes," Will says.
" You wanted pancakes," Declan mumbles into the palm of his hand. He looks like he's having some trouble keeping his eyes open. "Everyone knows I'm a waffle fan."
"How would they know that?"
Rex steals a slice of bacon and bites into it, letting it hang out of his mouth as he grabs the coconut creamer out of the fridge and starts pouring.
"Please don't choke on that," Will says, in mock-exasperation.
"After I just beat certain death?" Rex asks, eyebrows up.
He takes his cup and leans back against the counter, eyes slipping closed as he sips at his coffee. It's still bitter and too strong and probably wakes up half his brain cells immediately. When he opens his eyes again, Will's mouth is pulled into a frown, eyes sharp and serious.
"Hey," Rex says with a shrug and with another crunch of bacon. "It's my fault I was on that roof. You're the one who told me not to go, remember?"
"I made the call. I put the teams together."
"Yeah, and between me and Declan, I'm the better shooter. That's not a failure on your part."
"You're the better shooter?" Declan says, because that's the only part of that sentence he wants to acknowledge at all. "The way you said that, there's just a hint of doubt in your voice, like you think you're actually better than me."
Rex shrugs. "I've been doing this shit for three years, rookie," he says. "We can dick-measure when you break the double digits."
"I'm older than you. And we aren't dick-measuring. Ever," Declan says.
Rex huffs into his coffee. "Jesus," he says, cradling the cup to his chest like it's the last bit of caffeine on earth. "This is good."
It's hot, nearly scalding through the thin cotton of his t-shit. The discomfort gives him something to focus on that isn't Will's disapproving stare.
"You're still injured," Will tells him, "Don't do anything strenuous, or Ratchet's going to drag you back to medical by your balls."
"Oh, I thought I was just gonna snort a line off the table and hit the treadmill until I puke," Rex says around his first bite of food.
There's a second where he thinks Will might honestly, legitimately hurt him, and Rex stops shoveling eggs into his mouth just long enough to level a look in Will's direction.
"Relax. I'll eat, and then I'll find something to keep myself occupied."
He finishes breakfast, and then does the dishes, for the sheer, surreal thrill of it. He hasn't done anything close to chores in years.
In an effort to abide by Ratchet's request not to rip his stitches and go out of his way to cause problems for him, he decides to perch on the roof and smoke, and that, honestly is pretty much perfect. If he's on bed rest, he doesn't have to be sorry about a Goddamn thing.
He smirks while he maneuvers his way onto the rooftop. He settles on the ledge, legs dangling and bouncing off the side of the building with a dull thud.
Prime and Ratchet are a little ways below him, not acknowledging, though he's sure they know he's there.
"You have been working with him," Ratchet tells Prime. It sounds like an accusation.
"Yes."
Prime shifts, and Rex tracks the way he moves.
There are some similarities between this Prime and the human version Rex got to see last night. He can see a little bit of that Prime's mannerisms, in the way he holds himself, perpetually regal, in the Prime of right now. Rex wouldn't want to fight either of them, although he wouldn't mind getting his hands on him again. Human or robot.
He kind of wants to run his hands all over Prime's vehicle mode, follow the curves until he's memorized them. From this angle, lit by the warm light of the sunrise, the flames glow .
"There are many fights a human cannot win," Ratchet says. "He will find them. Primus, he is looking for them."
"If he does find them," Prime says, "he will have a team to help him."
"You wouldn't say that if you saw how many scars he has under his uniform," Ratchet replies, and then, "Do they really expect us to stand there and pretend he does not have a history of getting injured? He's a soldier, but even so, humans have life expectancies in the double digits. He needs to do himself a favor and -"
"I do gymnastics," Rex says, smiling. He flicks open a lighter and starts a cigarette. "And I drink smoothies. The ones with green shit in 'em."
He takes a deep inhale and exhales in their direction when Ratchet raises a brow at him. He waves a hand in the air to clear the smoke.
"I'm perfectly healthy."
Rex doesn't want to piss them off. But it rankles, the insinuation that he has a deathwish, or he is going to get himself killed over something as stupid as bravado.
Ratchet looks up at him and he has that worried, stern look on his face that should absolutely have no effect on Rex at seven in the goddamn morning. Prime looks up too, and Rex can see the widening of his eyes. He wonders what it indicates, if that's surprise or if he's actually happy to see him.
"You know, it's not nice to talk about people behind their backs," Rex says.
He takes another drag from his cigarette. Maybe, if he inhales it fast enough, it'll save him from this conversation.
"Rex," Ratchet says. He looks exasperated. "You have a very creative interpretation of 'rest'."
Rex shrugs. "I didn't pull any stitches climbing up here, if that's what you're worried about."
Apparently, Ratchet takes himself too seriously to roll his eyes. He narrows them instead. Rex would be intimidated, except he's still mad at him.
"Would you put that out, please?" Prime says, jerking his chin toward the cigarette. "It will kill you."
"I don't smoke enough for that," Rex says.
"You are, right now, at this moment, smoking a cigarette," Prime says.
Rex huffs and takes the cigarette out of his mouth. "I was checking your mothering instincts. They seem to be working fine."
"Put it out," Prime says, and it is deeply, unreasonably unfair that his 'quit that' voice has this effect on him, cuts some of the stubbornness in Rex's head.
He shrugs. "You got an ashtray or do you just want me to swallow it?"
Rex can throw a threat with a mean grin and a look, and Ratchet can do it with a stare, but Prime manages it with less than that, and Rex has just enough brain to admire the skill.
"Sorry. But unless you're gonna come up here and make me, I'm gonna finish this."
He tips his head towards the roof ledge like an invitation.
Prime shifts, and then he is transforming. The driver's door opens, and Rex goes still for a second, cigarette halfway to his mouth.
"Oh shit."
Prime looks up at him, head tipped the slightest bit to the side, and Rex kind of wants to throw something at him, but he can't see how it would accomplish anything productive.
Prime turns his back to him, and Rex glowers at Ratchet.
"Okay," he says, a little rushed. "I have some questions. About the, uh. The human thing."
"Are you sure," Ratchet says, "you want me to explain the specifics of our advanced projection technology while Optimus makes his way up to you?"
Rex does his best to keep his face clear, but he's self-aware enough to know that some of his panic shows anyway.
"You've got a point. Gotta run."
Ratchet looks away again. He sighs, like Rex is exhausting.
Rex considers being insulted, but decides to take it as a compliment instead.
He brings his cigarette to his mouth and holds it in place with his teeth while he gets the hell out of here. He is off, actually running without thinking about his stitches, beelining for the exit like there's still some chance he'll get away.
When he gets to the door, Prime is standing right there, staring at him.
For a second, Rex's heart stops, and he has enough time to think that it is really, unbelievably unfair that Prime gets to keep his glower as a human, and then his heart starts up again, jackhammering quickly in his throat. Because Prime shouldn't be chasing someone like Rex to a rooftop.
"Hi."
"I did not aid you so I can watch you kill yourself with these," Prime says, plucking his cigarette away from Rex's mouth so he can get the full effect of his grin.
"Huh," Rex says back, breathlessly, smirking as he watches Prime's eyes working down the whole, inglorious mess of him. "I don't know if anyone's told you, but I don't like getting drugged without permission. No warning? No, 'hey, I'm gonna tell Ratchet to prescribe you some emergency naptime'?"
"You need to get back to medical. We can talk about this when you're better."
For a long moment neither of them moves, and then Rex takes a step forward and stops a foot or so away from Prime, and he just looks at him. At Prime's face, and Rex knows he's staring all over again. At the arch of Prime's thick neck, the muscles in his arm. The long, hard lines of him. There's not a whole lot of gentleness to those lines, like he's still part-machine.
He's wearing combat boots and a leather jacket and a steel blue shirt underneath. His jeans are tight across the thighs.
Rex can't decide if he's dismayed or impressed by the realization that Prime's wardrobe choices are probably an attempt at casual attire.
The silver hair at his temples gleams in the light. He looks almost human, under the warm sunlight, and Rex doesn't even know what to do with that thought.
"Ratchet spent the entire morning looking for you," Prime says.
"Sorry."
He isn't.
"I got bored laying around all day. No one visited."
"You were not supposed to wake up for some time."
Rex shrugs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. They fit better than the last ones, and they're newer, don't have any holes or rips or signs of wear. He also has a NEST hoodie, dark and unusually shapeless.
"High tolerance," he says, and Prime looks like he feels troubled about that. "I'm sorry. I won't leave again. Happy?"
"Yes, you will."
"Yeah, probably," he admits.
Prime shakes his head and eyes the cigarette pinched between his fingers. He looks conflicted, and tired. Rex feels guilty about that. Guilty and young and stupid, because Prime is only here because Rex can't help being an asshole.
Prime is only up here because he is up here.
"I won't, if you tell me to."
Prime sighs. "Alexander -"
"Fine," he says, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll try not to. I wouldn't fucking try for anyone else."
"You should try for your own sake."
Rex makes a quiet, choked off noise in the back of his throat, and now he does feel guilty. He actually regrets what he wanted to say next.
Prime's eyes cut to his side. He steps right into Rex's personal space, gets a hand inside Rex's pocket, and takes out the pack of cigarettes. It's new, still has the cellophane on.
"I don't think you are supposed to smoke inside, either," Prime says.
He probably isn't. He thought about it. But the entire base is heavily monitored.
"Fuck me if I start caring now about what I'm supposed to do," Rex says.
Prime blinks. 'Fuck me' is probably just another example of the slang he's not yet used to.
Rex rolls his eyes and squeezes past him. "Anyway," he says, throwing a grin over his shoulder, "You wanna go for a drive?"
Prime studies him for a moment, the whole stretch of him, from his mussed red hair to his smile.
"I'm asking if you want to get out of here for a while."
"I don't know if that would be wise," Prime says, careful. "I should take you back to Ratchet. You need to rest."
"You haven't ordered me yet," Rex says, as a perfectly reasonable counterargument.
The silence builds up between them for several long seconds, and then Prime sighs, and steps towards him. There's a sandy outline of his footprints on the ground, and Rex wonders how long they've been here.
"Come on, Prime," Rex says, smiling up at him. "Live a little."
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They race. They drive around all day, all the windows down, the empty, open roads and the expansive sky almost enough to make the laughter burst out of Rex uncontrollably.
Optimus hears but he doesn't comment, not a sound.
Rex laughs without thinking. Prime pushes the gas pedal lower, and Rex can see the speedometer climbing over ninety, a hundred.
He catches his own breath enough to say, "You love making gravity your bitch, huh?"
His heart is too light and too full. It's beating with pure adrenaline. He's flying, wings beating with every beat of his heart, and it feels like there's no way he could ever fall back down to earth.
"This is fucking amazing !"
And Prime doesn't frown at his language, not this time. Though Rex is sure he's waiting to do so.
"You're amazing!"
Prime gives a little hmm of approval.
"We should get back."
"Country roads, take me home," Rex sings, off-key, as he kicks his feet up out the window.
There's a chuckle, and then John Denver starts singing from the stereo.
Rex snorts. His grin is sidelong and crooked and a little fond as he sprawls out over the seat.
There's a flash of his stomach, when he lays stretched out like this. It would be nice to look at, if it weren't for the ugly stitches that peek out under the shirt, disappearing under his sweats. The stitches are the most prominent, but there are other scars. His torso is littered with old scars. Prime can identify the cause of some: shrapnel, cuts, bullets. He can see every single one of them, but he can see freckles too, and tan lines.
And it is incredible, he thinks, that Rex is still walking around and soaking up sunshine.
"What happened?" he asks.
Rex blinks. He glances down at himself.
"Which time?" he asks.
He smiles when he says it.
He reaches down, half on instinct, and plants his hand on his hip, right where a pale line fades towards his back. His skin is warm and damp. He feels hot. Like he channeled the sun right through his palm until it reached his face, turning his cheeks red.
"Tell me about the first."
Rex straightens up, watching the scenery pass by with blue eyes that are sharper than before.
"My uncle," he says, "he used to do anything to avoid an honest day's work. He would fight pitbulls in abandoned lots. They scared the shit out of me and my brother, but he would pay us to help and take care of 'em."
He examines the faint, puckered scar on the inside of his left arm, silvery in the dim light. He was nine, and he didn't know how to read. And then he was ten, and then eleven, and he was the dumbest kid in town.
But in the lots, no one even noticed. It's one of the reasons Rex loved it so much. He was just happy to be able to do something on his own.
"My brother, he always scared easy. One day my uncle set his dog on him. I jumped in the middle of it."
His mouth tips up like he's laughing, like he thinks it's funny.
He shouldn't have been surprised, most of all - everyone hated his uncle, except for Rex. His uncle gave him his first beer when he was thirteen, his first cigarette a year later, let Rex hang around the bar with him whenever he wanted and let him shoot his gun behind the house.
"You protected your brother, at the risk of your own safety," Prime muses. "It is why you are here now."
Rex snorts. His mouth twists up, and that strange sharpness is gone.
There are a million things he could mention right now, starting with his high school dreams of going to NASA, but high school already feels like a distant, half-forgotten dream, a stupid fucking fantasy, slipping through his fingers before Rex can even grasp at anything solid to tell him.
"Well, it's not because I respond well to highly structured environments," he says.
Prime pauses. "Tell me about him. Your brother."
It's ludicrous. It's such a waste of time.
It is also slightly endearing.
Rex takes a breath and tries to find a way to tell Prime about how it hurts to think about Zach. About Zach playing basketball with him, sitting at the kitchen table and studying for a chemistry exam while Rex burnt the eggs in the pan. About them fighting the bugs that would slip through the screen door, Rex always more than him.
He's still talking when they get back. Prime doesn't tell him to stop.
It's twilight bleeding into dusk, the air cool and velvet-dark against Rex's face. Someone has brought a soccer ball and everyone is outside: more people show up with beer and plastic cups of alcohol. Will, sitting on the hood of Ironhide's Topkick, looks like he's sweaty and out of breath from getting his ass kicked at soccer.
His face lights up when he spots them, yelling Rex's name across the field. But it's been dark for a while by the time Rex joins him.
There's a moment where he thinks about looking back. He thinks about turning around to see Prime, to do something stupid like smile or wink at him, feels like he can't walk away without looking back.
He doesn't.