A/N: Holy sweet Primus, this one ended up expanding and becoming about four times longer than I'd initially thought. But dang, I like it. I love how these beloved bots will take over the writing of a story, insisting that they tell "what really happened."

OK. So a few notes – TF's still don't have tear ducts. But any other word was just too long and cumbersome.

Also, in TF Ongoing #22, Megatron apparently used to make up poetry. Yesss. And thussly am I vindicated in all charges that perhaps I've softened the big gray lug overmuch.

Glee.

That's What Brothers Are For

"He needs you," said Elita bluntly, charging into the Decepticon Commander's office without so much as a knock.

Megatron rose abruptly from his chair. "Are you all right?" he asked quickly, turning to touch her shoulder as he passed.

"I'm fine!" she snapped. "Just go to Prime!"

"You're still important to him," the gray mech offered lamely. "I'm not-"

"Megatron," she said, "If you're not in his quarters in five kliks, you're going to experience pain. And probably the loss of a few limbs. Just a fair warning."

She slammed the door behind him as he left. Then she sank down to the floor in one dark corner of the Decepticon Commander's office, wrapped her arms around her knees, and cried.

"Wow. Great atmosphere you've got here," Megatron commented as he walked into Prime's sanctum of gloom. The room was only dimly-lit by running lights along its edges midway up the walls. And Optimus was radiating desolation and distemper in such strong concentration that Megatron would not have been surprised to find the floor was oozing thick black gunk.

Prime huffed in glum acknowledgment. "I've got all my worst memories – and quite a few of yours – playing on a loop in my processor. And I can't seem to find the "stop" button, he explained unnecessarily.

Megatron flourished a hand. "Fear not!" he proclaimed grandly. "For I am here to help you find it!"

"Primacron protect me," muttered Optimus in an undertone.

"And now," continued Megatron, schlumping himself down beside Prime on his berth, "Let's see what's on this loop of yours."

"This is so humiliating," Optimus complained, but obediently he raised his head; and suddenly a flickering blue cone of light was projecting moving images from a tiny transmitter beside his optics, onto the metallic surface of the wall in front of them.

Not every transformer could do such a thing, of course. But after a few episodes like this way back in the early days of the Great War, Ratchet had demanded that Prime install something that would allow the Medic to see what his Commander was reacting to. Of course, the Autobot Doctor could have hacked into Optimus's systems with a medical link-up. But this alternate method had two advantages. First it was less invasive. And secondly it forced Prime to project his memories outside himself, to see them as historical occurrences, instead of present pains.

Ratchet's insight had proved most useful. But there were still times, once in a long while, when the good Doctor's help was not enough. And anyway, as Optimus complained when he was being peevish, so much of this was Megatron's fault in the first place...

"Elita's mad at me, you know," remarked the gray Decepticon, watching the silent images rush back and forth across the wall.

Prime blinked. "I know. I hate shutting her out like this. She's tougher than I give her credit for; but at the same time, wallowing in all this with me would put a great weight on her spirit. And I just can't do that to her, Megatron!"

"Which is why you call on me," the Decepticon replied easily. "I'm the heartless mech who doesn't flinch when your spark-light is blacker than a dirty engine block, and just as grimy."

"Nice metaphor," Prime put in dryly.

"If the wing-nut fits..." Megatron replied. "I suppose I could come up with something different – perhaps a reference to the sewers underneath the Smelting Pool-"

"Yes, yes," said Prime sardonically. "You'll be spouting poetry about it, next, I shouldn't wonder."

"But not tonight," said Megatron, looking uncomfortable. Anxious to get onto a new topic, he went on, "In any case, I'm safe to blather to. Because you know that you can toss that dirty engine block of yours right at my head, and never leave a mark."

Prime snorted. "Not any more, I can't," he teased. "Your flower cap can't take it."

"Flower cap! You-!"

In equanimity, they called each other names for quite a while. Then Prime said, looking out into the glowing memories upon the wall, "I suppose there are some good moments wrapped up in all this slag. I must admit to a bit of dark glee when I beat your punk face in with your precious fusion cannon." He huffed. "I've also sent you to the rim of the Allspark on more than one occasion."

Megatron grunted. "Yeah, but you'll notice that I lived. Not all of us require a special dispensation from our god to keep us ticking."

"Irreverent hunk of scrap."

"Damn straight. I'd cuss my Maker to his face."

"-And have done so. I hope that you were proud," said Prime.

The gray mech shifted his position, finding a more comfortable seat. He nudged the Autobot Commander down onto his side, and hefted his blue helm onto his lap. "Remember back on earth, when I kept your head as a souvenir, and had the 'Structies build whatever they wanted out of your spare parts?" He smiled his most devilish grin. "That was a lot of fun," he added, patting Prime's shoulder absently.

"We still laugh about that whole episode in Captains' briefings, actually," replied the red mech, curling in contentment.

"How dare you laugh?" retorted Megatron. "It was a gruesome humiliation, terrifying in the extreme. And more importantly, I scored one over on you big time that day." The big mech puffed out his chest in smug satisfaction.

"It seemed so juvenile at the time," remarked Prime affably. He shot a look at Megatron. "Still does, in fact..."

"You slagger! I'll upload a virus into your charge-berth for that one!"

"You wouldn't," replied Prime contentedly. "But go ahead and threaten all you want, if it makes you feel better."

Megatron swore, and clamped a hand over his bond-brother's mouth. It wouldn't block all the sound from his speakers, but it was the spirit of the thing that mattered. Optimus punched him in the side, also to maintain the look of the thing.

"Slagging glitch," said Megatron agreeably.

"Noxious, malformed effluence from the waste-pools of the Pit."

"Wow, Optimus. I'm impressed! That was a pretty good one."

Prime gave an impish grin. "Yeah, I've always had a way with words..."

"That's because beneath the Matrix-bestowed hoo-rah, you're still just a jumped-up librarian."

"And proud of it!" said Prime.

They sat (or lay, in Prime's case) in silence for a while. Megatron stared unseeing at the projections still flickering before them. Slowly, his head began to tilt over to one side. When he finally realized what he was doing, he yelped and waved a hand impatiently. "Shut that thing off, for Pit's sake. It's nothing that I haven't seen before. And besides, it's sideways now, you little slagger."

Prime chuckled. "It probably makes more sense that way..." But he obliged. And now the room was dark and still. Peaceful, in fact. It still surprised them, even after several vorns, how much contentment the two former enemies could find in one another's company.

Megatron toinggg-ed the end of one of Prime's helm-finials, abstractedly."You got anything specific you want to get off of your chest?" he asked at last.

"Not really," Prime admitted. He paused. "Although you do seem to have found the stop button on that vid-stream after all. Nice work," he acknowledged grudgingly. He hunched his shoulder up against Megatron's leg, hoping for a yelp if he could get his arm-smokestack to gouge the other mech a little. But Megatron was wise to that attack by now, and simply lifted up his thigh and set it down upon the offending cylinder, trapping Prime's shoulder beneath it. Optimus grumbled some mild objection, but subsided.

"You actually like this!" Megatron complained, trying to sound affronted. "You just want someone to take care of you, for a change, instead of feeling like you're responsible for the fate of the whole planet."

"You're absolutely right," replied Prime without a trace of shame. "It's nice being the little bot in the equation, instead of the Great Autobot Commander."

Megatron grinned. "Rock-a-bye Primey, on the treeee-toooooppp – " he sang, his gravely voice squeaking. "You know," he put in, creaking to a sudden stop, "I'll never understand what in the Pit that lullaby is supposed to be about. Earthlings make no sense at all."

Prime laughed. But then he sobered. "I wish I didn't have to run away from Elita."

Megatron huffed in heartfelt agreement. After all, he'd seem her face. "You're still trying to be the Big Mech and protect her?" he asked glumly.

Optimus snorted. "She hates it when I do that."

"But..." Megatron shrugged uncomfortably. "She can't let all your sludge roll off of her, the way I can.'

Prime said nothing. He didn't always like this new arrangement, even though recovery for him had been so much more difficult before the arrival of Megatron into their little bond-family.

"I will admit it makes me feel all kinds of heroic and scrap, when I get to be the Great Healer for the Prime," said the Decepticon. "You should enter that into the famous records that you Archivists like to keep." Then, somewhat flustered, he added, "But, you know, don't really put it in-!".

Optimus considered in mock solemnity. "Megs the Hero. It has a certain ring to it..."

"Shut up, you fragging lugnut," yipped Megatron, thumping the Prime's red shoulder, and then hugging him a little.

"That's me."

"Quit talking, and shut down, I mean it. I've got better things to do."

"Yes, Megatron," said Prime meekly.

The gray mech flinched. "Stop that!"

"Whatever you say, Great Megatron."

"Fragging cut that out!"

"I love you, Megatron."

The Decepticon sighed (a pathetic affectation brought on by too much time spent in the company of sappy Autobots). "I love you too, you slagging glitch. Now go to sleep!"

"Would you check on Elita for me?" Prime asked, sober again.

"Yes, Optimus," returned the gray Decepticon, trying to imitate the cloying tone his Brother had used earlier, and failing. "I'll make sure she's all right."

"Thanks, old man," Prime mumbled. And he gave Megatron's leg one last good punch, for luck.

"All in day's work," replied the gray mech with a roll of his red optics .

But Optimus had already dropped off into a senseless idle/rest-mode.

Megatron pinged Elita's comm the moment he left Prime's quarters, but all he got back was a residual image on the building's locator grid. Had she really not left his workroom? He sped up, almost sprinting down the last hallway.

"Little One? Are you in here?" he called, keying the door open.

It was dark inside, the lights shut down as they would be in an unoccupied room. But somehow he did not think it was as empty as it seemed.

"Sweetheart? Where are you?"

A tiny hiccup caught his auditory sensor, and he turned. Elita was hunched in a narrow space between one of his data-stacks and the far wall. The fact that she'd not bothered to get up – to try to seem unruffled and controlled – was by far the most disturbing thing he'd seen all day, and that included the things played out on Prime's old memory reel. He hurried over to her, and crouched down beside the little femme.

"Hey. 'Lita..." His call sounded almost plaintive as he held out a hand to her. "Come on out of there, ok?"

She shook her head, refusing to be drawn out of her hidey-hole.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you hurt?" She gave a harsh snort, but shook her head again.

"This is about the thing with Prime?"

Elita's tight vocoder clicked; but still she did not trust herself to speak.

Feeling awkward, Megatron sat down upon his workroom floor, and reached out a hesitating hand to pat the femme's slim ankle. (It was the only part of her that he could reach.) He was nervous, not sure whether his presence would be a help or burden to her.

Megatron loved the little femme without restraint. Into her he poured all of the unspent care he would have shown to others, had he chosen to become something besides what he had been. And yet, as always, an old worry niggled at the back of his mind – a worry that he might break Elita without meaning to.

The knowledge that she'd thrown him on his back in more than one impromptu wrestling match did nothing to dispel this feeling. She was a femme. And Megatron had long been in the habit of breaking the femmes he came across.

"He's resting now. Much better," he reported, just for something to say. But it didn't seem to be the right thing; for Elita's vocals only hitched, and her arms clutched even more tightly around her middle, as if she were in pain.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked, withdrawing his arm in quick concern.

She shook her head, huffed into her tightly-drawn-up knees, and still said nothing.

"He asked me to make sure you were ok," he told her numbly. "He's in idle right now – defragging his processor – or he would do it himself."

"I know," she muttered curtly.

"So he's ok, but you're not," the big Decepticon declared. "What's wrong, sweetheart? I hate seeing you like this."

"He's ok."

"Yes..." Megatron wondered why she sounded like this was a bad thing.

"He's ok. You helped him. I could never help him."

Megatron tried to contest that point – he knew how much Elita gave to Prime – but the femme silenced him with a single raised finger.

He waited. One thing he was learning from these Autobots was the value of patience. And on occasion Megatron took those lessons to heart.

When they emerged, Elita's words sounded as if they'd been pushed through a criss-cross of razorwire: they tore as they emerged. "Before, back when he used to have to go through this alone, I'd wait outside his door, hating myself for my weakness. Ratchet would do whatever he could do..." She raised her head and met his gaze. "Now you're the one who can defuse his waking nightmares. But I'm still waiting on the outside. Locked out because I am not strong enough to take it."

Megatron choked. "But precious, don't you understand he wouldn't have you any other way? You are – you are his Ariel!"

"But I'm no good," she said, in tones so low that Megatron almost did not hear them. But when he'd processed their small sounds, his vocalizer clicked and something broke free in his spark.

"Don't say that!" Megatron grabbed hold of Elita's foot, and pulled her from her corner. He took her roughly by the shoulders, fighting down an impulse to shake her. "Don't ever say that you're no good! 'Cause that's a load of scrap,"he told her angrily.

At last, Elita flared. She twisted from his grip, reacting with reflexes trained through vorns of hard warfare. She crouched before him, servos whirring, optics wide, awake and ready for attack.

As suddenly as he had lunged, Megatron drew back, and dropped his head into his hands. He'd failed to keep his anger caged. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Elita's light cydraulics hissed. Watching him all the while, she sank down from her battle-ready crouch. At last, unspeaking, she sat down beside him with her back against the wall, and leaned her shoulder against his. "I still function," she said dully.

Megatron did not know what to do. He felt almost crazy with wanting to make everything all better; but everything he did only seemed to make things worse. "What can I do?" he asked, a little brokenly. "What do you need from me?"

"I don't know," she declared, sounding dead-tired.

"I just want-" He choked, his grating voice made rougher by emotion. "I wish I could just hold you and make everything all right." He chuffed. "With Prime, it is so easy..."

"Femmes are more complicated," she declared, sounding as if right now she wished they weren't.

"So I'm learning," he replied grimly.

"But we do like hugs," she said, and leaned against him with a worn-out sigh.

Megatron gawped at her a little. Then he threw his arms around her frame, and drew her clumsily into his inelegant lap. He cupped his hand around her helm, and held her tightly to his chest. He was overwhelmed with gratitude that she had given him a second chance. He stroked her armor, but then winced at the sharp screel of metal against metal. So he forced himself to stillness. Time passed. A micron at a time, his pounding systems slowed, till finally he drowsed in contentment.

Slowly, very slowly, Elita loosened her taut servos. With small movements, she made herself more comfortable in the Decepticon's gray arms. All was quiet and still. She curled against him, lost in thought. At first, she did not notice what had changed. But when she did, she looked up at Megatron in shock.

"My walls are down," she said in some amazement, "But you're not hurting me."

His optics flared in quick alarm. "I'm hurting you?" he asked her anxiously, opening his arms in haste.

"No, no, you silly mech. That's what I'm trying to tell you," she said, almost laughing at his exaggerated caution. "Right now, I feel as safe with you as I do with Orion. That's-" she broke off, marveling. "That's incredible."

She snuggled down against his chest. And a slow smile spread across Megatron's face. The longer he had known her, the more it bothered him that his spark-energy could sometimes hurt Elita. But now, with her contented in his arms, he felt an upsurge of pure happiness. Right here, in this moment, he was no menace to the bots he loved and trusted. Right now, he could go out into the universe free of the fear that he might somehow break it. In this one bright instant, he was free.

He bent to touch his brow to the crest of Elita's helm. "Thanks, sweetie," he whispered. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'd find another femme to wrap your dreams around," she told him lightly. She gave a little laugh. "And you've got a lot of options. There are so many new femmes around now..."

"But none of them are you." Megatron grew somber for an instant. "Elita, please don't think you're no good. I hated hearing you say that. I don't think Prime – and I slagging well know that I – can ever say how much we love you. You're our Elita. Your presence is a gift."

For a moment, the pink femme said nothing. Then, "Thanks, Megatron," she replied.

She hesitated, sighed, and then said with obvious reluctance, "I'd better go try to get caught up on the stuff I dropped when I came in here to have my little hissy-fit."

Megatron laughed. "What's on your docket for the day?"

She huffed. "The usual. A couple new femmes and a newling mech to find some mentors for; a disciplinary hearing about something Chromia did to Motormaster's undercarriage after he called her a- Never mind. You know how it is. The list goes on and on..."

He smiled. "Sounds like I ought to let you get back to it, then." He helped to lift her to her feet, then met her gaze with unusual sincerity. "Elita," he began, "I-" He shrugged, as if his armor itched him. "You're-"

Once again, Elita stopped him with a hand. She touched her fingers to her own chestplate, then reached out to brush them against his. The sign of loyalty. "I love you too, Megatron," she said. Then with a wink, she walked out of his office; and the door slid shut behind her.

Megatron leaned back against the wall, and stared up at the girdered ceiling, speculating. He'd slain – or ordered the deaths of – more than a thousand femmes in his lifetime. If you'd asked him he'd have shot you for suggesting he could care for one of them so deeply.

But now Elita's words had got him thinking. Since his and Prime's spark-bond – and after, as he watched the two of them – he'd grown a little jealous of the special bond that she and Prime had built togehter. He wanted someone of his own to snuggle, strange as that might seem. But until now, he'd never thought that he, the half-crazed butcher Megatron, could earn the trust of any of the femmes.

"Remember, Megatron my friend, that you are good at being kind. And you do know how to love," Elita-One had said to him, a vorn or two ago. He wasn't certain even now that he could quite believe her. After all, he'd let his anger get the best of him already once tonight. He pushed a long, slow breath out through his vents, and clambered with the stiffness of an aged bot up to his feet. He wasn't ready quite yet. But it was something he would strive for, a new Something to aim for.

He straightened a few items on his desk, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. By the time he walked out through the door of his workroom, an ancient pre-war melody was humming on his lips.