Resting Comfortably, Part 1
I'll just look in on him a nanoklik, the Decepticon rationalized. Although he never said as much out loud, the fact that he could enter Prime's quarters at will, even while the Autobot was offline, still gave him a little thrill of conquest. He always told himself that he was merely checking up on Optimus. But what he mostly did was stand beside Prime's berth and indulge in a little Ominous Looming. He'd review a few of the Conquering Evil Overlord Speeches that he'd never gotten to give (there were hundreds, all stored up in his memory, and waiting to be called on). Sometimes, he just pulled scary faces.
This time he definitely pulled a face; but it wasn't of the Evil Conqueror variety. Instead, it was more in the category of outraged disgust.
"Really, Optimus?" he said before he thought to stop himself from speaking to an offline bot. "Is this befitting a Commander? What if one of the others saw you like this?"
Megatron was certainly no Nightbeat – in fact, he had little patience for a mech who sat and sifted through the evidence, instead of going to the nearest bots and shaking the real story out of them. But it did not take a detective to imagine what had happened here.
Optimus was sprawled where he had fallen, and lay face-down on his bunk. (Face-first is more likely, grumbled Megatron, annoyed.) His left arm dangled off from one side; and his right foot hung over the opposite edge of the platform. Prime hadn't even bothered to hit the button (A single button, Optimus! It's not that difficult!) to set the berth conforming to his shape. The gray Decepticon could not decide whether his bond-brother looked more like a gruesome war casualty, or like a mech who'd fallen into stasis lock mid-quaff, after one high-grade cube too many.
Grousing in an affronted undertone, Megatron applied all manner of uncomplimentary names to the red Autobot. He knew that Optimus was neither dead nor drunk. And that was somehow ten times worse. Optimus Prime had come in here, that slagging piece of scrap, and flopped onto his charge-bunk like a half-'grammed 12-byte grunt.
The Prime, as Megatron was learning to his ultimate chagrin, had absolutely no sense of proper decorum. His office was always a mess; he spoke familiarly with his soldiers (and what was worse, they spoke familiarly with him); he even indulged on occasion in a few of their ridiculous games. He grinned, now that he had abandoned that famous faceplate of his. (Megatron had questioned his decision to reforge that thing a million times since then.) He laughed a lot. Pit-smelted Autobot, he chortled on occasion. He greeted his two bondmates with unabashed enthusiasm, throwing his arms around Elita, or launching a gleeful punch at Megatron's shoulder when they met. And all this in front of his subordinates.
And yes, when his power was running low, the Prime, the light by which all of New Cybertron was led, fell on his bunk face-first.
Grunting a little, because Optimus was no lightweight minibot, Megatron rolled his Brother over on his back. He straightened his akimbo arms and legs. He crossed his hands over his chest. He made certain both toes pointed properly skyward. He closed Prime's gaping mouth. Then with a humph of long-suffering satisfaction, Megatron stood back to look over his handiwork.
"Much better. Now, was that so hard?"
Offline, the Prime looked more like one of the newlings than like a seasoned wartime general. "Slag-faced twerp!" muttered the big Decepticon, with the reluctant affection that always crept into his voice whenever he forgot to keep it hidden. "I ought to-"
But instead of carrying out whatever half-formed threat had almost tumbled from his vocals, Megatron just smiled and shook his head. He thumped Prime's chest, and then strode out of the door, glancing up and down the corridor to make sure no one saw him leave.
A/N: Second half of this mirrored pair coming soon! *evil glee*