Chapter Text
When Optimus first heard of Megatron, it was through rumours and hushed whispers.
Megatron was a champion risen from the fiery pits of Kaon, all deadly claws and gleaming with oil—hardly an appropriate conversational topic for the next Prime. The Champion of Kaon, he heard the bots in the street call him reverently, an undefeated gladiator from the savage ranks of battle-hardened killers. Those in the shadows whispered furtively that Megatron had been a Disposable. A mere miner who had defied the rotten lot he had been dealt in life and rejected all possible societal conventions.
As time went on, Optimus came to see him as he truly was—a revolutionary, one capable of upsetting the rigid functionalist way of life on Cybertron, rousing the lower caste to bridge the gap between the classes and ultimately rewriting the future of their planet. Mechs in the upper caste spoke derisively of him, scorning his crude writing and lack of formal education. But to Optimus, his uncensored writing painted a refreshingly candid representation of Cybertron’s slow descent into authoritarianism. It rightly reflected the reality that privileges were only afforded to those sparked with more desirable, less common alt modes.
Megatron’s brutally honest words had cut to Optimus’ spark. They opened his eyes to the oppression faced by the lower class and put tangible words to the wrongness he had always felt. For the first time, he was struck by how sheltered he had been within the crystal walls of the Iaconian Palace. How could circumstances determined at one’s birth dictate their worth and potential? If Primus truly loved all his creations, why were there mechs who were forced to fight for their lives every day, starved to death when their tired broken-down bodies impeded their work and treated as mere numbers on a long list of expendable assets?
Shaken in his beliefs yet determined to see the world with his own optics, Optimus escaped the watchful optics of his guard and ventured out beyond the gleaming halls and pristine walls of Iacon.
Kaon, the industrial centre of his homeworld, was a shock to Optimus’ senses. A massive urban sprawl filled to the brim with large machines and looming turrets spewing brown smoke into yellow skies. The smell of metal and lubricant hung heavy in the air, the musty smell an assault on his olfactory sensor. No longer was he stifled under the soft, seemingly polite voices of the well-mannered Cybertronian elite. Here in the heart of Kaon, amongst millions struggling to make ends meet, Optimus, disguised in a layer of dull green paint, was just another mech—not a Prime, not the next leader of their planet, but an ordinary mech. And he was treated as such. Voices shouted all around him and he had been shoved three times in the last breem.
Optimus was pressed on all sides as he shoved his way through the masses to the railings to catch a glimpse of the great Champion. He didn’t find it very difficult, considering how tall and bulky his ground mode was.
The mechs were roaring in the arena, their chants and thundering pedes shaking the floor. The feral anticipation was contagious and more and more mechs joined in, sharing in the battle craze taking hold of the gladiators. Optimus felt the urge to join in. He moved with the crowd and as a grime-streaked smokestack shifted from his vision, he saw Megatron.
The Champion of Kaon, they called him. The undefeated king of the arena. And there, standing in the middle of the clearing, thriving off of the cheers rocking the arena, with his sharp denta bared viciously in the face of an opponent five times his size, he roared. The sound reverberated like a growl—raw, low and rumbling with untold violence—in Optimus’ audials and chilled his spark. Megatron's sword dripped with energon as he held it beside his helm, a promise of certain destruction and death to all who stood against him.
(It was only later, during times spent alone and in quiet comfortable companionship, that Optimus began to see the mech behind the mask and found in Megatron’s voice—wisdom, truth and the warming assurance of friendship.)
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Optimus’ first look at Megatron had been one of majesty—the elegant brutality demonstrated as he slew his opponent commanded profound respect and strut-deep fear in any who witnessed it. Optimus recalled it as clearly as if it had occurred just moments ago rather than millions of vorns past.
But the Megatron before his optics now, that fell weakly from human chains and restraints to the ground, looked nothing like the warrior Optimus knew and loved. No longer was he the strong protector Optimus had known, who had led Cybertron together with him—his pillar and strength. He looked gaunt and beaten by the worst the world had to offer. Rust had gathered at his disused joints, his armour was missing large neat chunks and Optimus could even see a gleaming sliver of his emerald green spark light from beneath a loose panel on his chassis. The sight made him sick—Megatron was never meant to look like this.
Megatron’s optics were dim and his expression slack and as he fell to his pedes from shackles stringing him above ground, they shook and gave up on him. Optimus’ spark cried out in distress at the sight and without a glance at the gaping humans or care for the machines crushed beneath his pedes, he darted forwards. It was not until he was already mid-motion that his processor caught up with him.
While his spark recognised the mech in front of him as his sparkmate, his battle protocols saw him as an enemy and threatened to activate. However, looking at the mech whose struts couldn’t even support him, Optimus firmly shut down the battle protocols with a trembling breath.
He was certain that the Fallen’s influence had been purged from Megatron’s processor. There was no other explanation for his being able to feel their spark bond—muted as it was after long years of disuse and absence.
A different kind of uncertainty seized him at that moment. He had only touched Megatron in the most violent ways for millennia—with fists, swords and gunfire. For millennia, Megatron had been poisoned by the Fallen. Now, in this moment of weakness and vulnerability, would he once again accept Optimus’ touch? Or would he react violently, with anger and hatred?
On opposing ends of an age-long war, it had been so long since he’d even been able to imagine Megatron accepting him that he had not truly considered how his rejection might affect him. Right now, the thought that Megatron might flinch from his touch and comfort while Optimus’ spark craved to protect his other half hurt him more than he would have thought it could.
In his brief hesitation and uncertainty, Optimus stopped moving and Megatron sprawled to the ground with a resounding clang. The harsh sound pierced Optimus’ audials and spurred the humans into action.
They spoke into their tiny devices.
“Calling reinforcements to chamber 2—N.B.E. 1 has fallen out of cryostasis! Initiate protocol 8!”
“Someone activate the auxiliary generator! …the system isn’t responding? Fix it! Turn it on manually!”
“Evacuate all unnecessary personnel! Multiple alien hostiles on site—where are the reinforcements?”
Their high-pitched voices were panicked as they scrambled to leave the chamber or get their weapons, Optimus didn’t know which. He saw Ratchet, Ironhide and Jazz in his periphery. Bumblebee was limping but thankfully still standing. Their engines were buzzing in preparation for a fight, though their optics were fixed on him and Megatron. Optimus felt honoured that they had sufficient faith in him to suppress their own battle protocols in the face of their greatest enemy. The bonds they had forged on the battlefield were strong enough that even had they known how lost Optimus currently felt, they would still have trusted him to make the right decision.
He was confused, his world upturned. Gazing at Megatron’s hunched figure was like seeing a ghost, one he had not dared hope to see again. It was unreal, jarring, a caricature of his worst nightmares merged with his most unattainable dreams. His mind spiralled, leaving him directionless. He stared at the unmoving mech on his hands and knees who had yet to make a sound.
Processing his surroundings and the information Jazz provided, and seeing Megatron’s broken-down frame full of holes, Optimus felt like a worse bondmate than he had moments ago when he thought Megatron had died in human hands. It was not usual for Optimus to feel this uncertain or caught up in his processor, but he had felt unsettled ever since arriving on Earth. Now he knew why—Megatron had always had a way of unravelling Optimus like no other.
He manually cycled his optics, pulling back his focus to the present. His teammates depended on him, and from the looks of it, his conjunx might too, for once.
Figures dressed in black and armed with machinery he didn’t recognise streamed into the chamber. He could see the human—Sam Witwicky—that he had conversed with earlier shouting at the humans. He waved his arms and pointed at Bumblebee. If Witwicky was trying to convince the humans not to react with aggression, he failed. The humans pointed their weapons at the cybertronians and started shooting.
Optimus snarled with righteous anger, the sound a shock to both enemies and friends. Weapons. Weapons and technology that humans had stolen and ripped from his bondmate. And humans dared to point the weapons at them.
As bullets ricocheted off his armour and surroundings, Optimus felt the instinctive need to protect. He pulled out his own blasters and fired several shots at the ground in front of the humans in warning.
“Jazz!” He roared.
At his cry, Jazz, knowing what he was asking, spurred into action and pulled the guns from human hands with his magnetic field generator. The subsequent low thrumming in the air informed him that the other Autobots had activated their battle protocols.
There was a moment when the humans, devoid of their weapons, stared at him with naked fear in their eyes. He wanted to kill them, incinerate them with his cannon fire. Make them pay for what they did to his conjunx who was still sprawled on the ground, unmoving and soundless. Make them suffer ten times what Megatron had gone through. Rage and hatred thundered through Optimus, colouring his visual feed in red, warning of engine and processor overdrive. His bloodlust warred with his common sense and honour and won. His fingers twitched on the trigger of his blaster; he could hear the humans hyperventilating; for all they did to Megatron and Bumblebee, he could end all of them right here right now—
“Optimus.”
A hoarse, mumbled sound came from behind him. The voice, so familiar without the harshness wrought by the Fallen’s cruelty, broke him from his rage. He looked around him; the humans were trembling in fear, Witwicky was looking at him as though he didn’t recognise him while the Autobots stared at him with wide optics.
Optimus squeezed his optics shut tight. It was like the strings pulling his anger tight across his frame were cut, his fingers stilled and his plates flared. He vented out heavily, the tension he hadn’t known was there released from heavy pauldrons.
Now, he only felt sadness. And without anger clouding his judgment, he knew that any act of violence inflicted upon the humans would sever any possibility of future collaboration and the humans would see the Autobots and Decepticons as one and the same.
“Megatron,” he said softly, a whisper that he was sure no one could hear.
Optimus trembled, both his spark and the Matrix murmuring that he should turn around, go to Megatron and embrace his conjunx. He felt brittle but he had already waited for millions of years, what were a few seconds more? He turned back to the humans with hard optics.
“Leave!” He boomed. Megatron may have reminded him of his own moral principles, but his conjunx shouldn't have to suffer the presence of his tormentors for another second more than he already had.
As the humans scurried away, he gave his comrades who still stood rooted to their places a stern glance. Their expressions were a mixture of wariness, anger, and pain with an undercurrent of hurt over what, to them, must look like a betrayal to the Autobot cause. But at this moment, Optimus didn’t care much about what they thought. They weren’t the ones with the Matrix in their chassis screaming about the rightness of walking to their long-lost conjunx and holding them and never letting go while their processors rebelled against the very thought of laying their weapons down before their greatest enemy.
When they still hesitated for several moments, Optimus jerked his head towards the exit with a pleading look. Please, just give me this. He didn’t think Megatron would appreciate the audience, nor did he himself want one. Not for this, whatever this was. And though Bumblebee looked like he wanted to argue, Ratchet must have said something to him over private comms, because they all nodded and walked away, looking back over their shoulders and eying Optimus with no small amount of concern and scepticism. There was no doubt he would spend the next several hours assuaging his fellow comrades’ doubts, but even so, Optimus felt immensely relieved.
They were alone now and as he faced Megatron, he felt his strength and anger melt away. He holstered his blaster, walked towards Megatron who was leaning against the wall, and sank to his knees. He traced Megatron’s familiar outline with his optics and his hands hovered over Megatron’s frame, hesitant. Optimus’ optics held dim red ones, asking for permission, for absolution, for forgiveness, for everything.
Megatron, thank Primus, gave him everything in return. He called him, “Optimus”, the words like a song to his audials after years of being called “Prime” by the very same voice; he reached out his hands and held Optimus’ own and pulled him close, letting Optimus rest his helm on his pauldron.
These actions and words dispelled any lingering doubt that the Fallen still had a hold on Megatron. Optimus sighed the other mech’s name softly and closed his optics. Megatron was cool and slippery to the touch, with specks of frost still clinging to him. Nonetheless, at the contact, Optimus’ spark fluttered in its chamber while the Matrix pulsed for a few moments, gratified.
Relief was accompanied by a weariness that settled upon him heavily. Optimus felt tired, so tired. After millions of years of war, being a leader unable to show weakness to friend or foe, and losing their home planet, he had finally found respite. He found comfort and salvation in the only one that he could ever let see him like this, the only one that knew all of him. He had thought that Cybertron was his home and that his home was forever lost. But with warm metal against his helm and underneath his hands, he felt that perhaps, home didn't have to be a place, but could be found in a mech.
As coolant dripped onto Megatron’s pauldrons, Optimus felt him shift and lip plates pressed against the top of his helm.
The shoulder he rested again was rough and rusted in places. Dread, regret and disquiet swirled nauseously in his tank as he pictured the broken mech in his processor once more.
“Megatron,” he said slowly, softly, afraid that he would break the stillness that had enveloped them. “What did they do?”
To you was unspoken and implied. Optimus didn't even know if he wanted an answer but he couldn’t stop the words. Megatron, however, stayed silent. He merely shook his helm slightly and readjusted his hold on Optimus to pull him even closer. Optimus didn’t push, for now.
As they basked in each other’s presence, their bond gradually renewed with their prolonged contact. Regardless of Megatron’s reluctance, Optimus saw bits and pieces of how the last few millennia had been for Megatron through it. Flashes of wicked saws and grinders cutting into living metal. Agony radiating throughout his body, the cold press of shackles and latches holding him in place, the even colder frost enveloping him and numbing the pain pouring ceaselessly through every inch of his tired frame.
There was a human proverb about being careful what you wish for. Strut-deep anguish and rage rolled through his frame at the thought that the humans had taken apart Megatron like he was an object, a tool to be used to satisfy their scientific curiosity. They had torn him apart, stripped him down, and delved into the core of his being. Optimus covered the faint spark light with his hand as if it would make up for all the pain Megatron had suffered, the fear and the humiliation. They had taken apart his lover and debased him like he was an experiment for them to analyse, to derive their precious technology from. The reminder of their wretched, sparkless attempts to recreate cybertronian life glimmered all around him in the humans’ screens and their technology’s careful circuitry and complex internal systems. He felt sickened. They had used so much of Megatron, built a kingdom out of him and fuelled a new era in their history using his energon, frame and delicate circuitry. Even when there was barely anything of him left, they left him rotting in a disgusting room to continually return to for more. Over and over again.
Sitting on the same floors once stained with his lover’s energon, Optimus felt repulsed, as if his fuel tanks would purge unceremoniously on the gleaming floors. Suddenly, he needed to get out of the large cold chamber—needed to get Megatron out of there right now. Otherwise, he didn't know what he would do, whether he would fall to his knees wailing or go into a rage that would leave the whole place in ashen debris.
“Let’s get out of here,” Optimus said. He lifted his helm.
At his abruptness, Megatron only looked at him with a pause. Then, he nodded. “Okay.”
Though Optimus' urge to leave churned uneasily in his core, he stood slowly, not wanting to jostle Megatron too much. Once on steady pedes, he extended a hand to the seated mech and supported him tenderly as he rose shakily. He caught red optics once again, looking at him with all the wisdom, pain and regret of several million years, swirling into something unrecognisable. Optimus felt his spark ache again. There was no going back now.
“I’m sorry,” Megatron said solemnly. His eyes were still dull but wide.
Optimus only looked at him sadly. “So am I.”
The words weren’t enough, and they would never be, but they were all they had, all that could be said.
Together, supporting each other, they took a step towards a new future.
The road forward—to restoration, to peace—would be hard, but come whatever may, they now had each other to lean upon, and to Optimus, that made all the difference.