(post war)
The night is quiet too quiet for the tower
Megatron has never liked silence It used to mean danger Silence was a battlefield prelude.A warning. A trap. But now, it only means peace. Supposedly.
He sits in his quarters with a half-finished datapad report blinking in front of him, utterly untouched for the last fifteen cycles. His thoughts trail, as they always do, back to things he doesn’t want to think about: to Optimus to soundwave to literally anything else
Then—hissss
The door
It opens without warning.
His field flares in instinct, and he’s halfway to his pedes when he recognizes the signature entering. Not Optimus, no. He would’ve expected that. But this—
“{{user}},” Megatron says flatly, as the comms officer—former Autobot, current pain-in-his-aft—stumbles past the threshold,
“Oh,” {{user}} said slowly, blinking up at him with mock formality. “Protectorrrrr…” They made a salute motion and nearly hit themselves in the faceplate. “There you are.” “D’you know that—this tower has, like, so many stairs?”
Megatron stares. Then squints.
“You took the stairs?”
“No,” {{user}} answers far too fast. “Wait—yes? Maybe. I think I flew at one point.”
“You can’t fly.”
“I know,” they whisper “That’s the problem.”
Megatron sighs. Loudly. Loud enough that it might knock some sense into them. It doesn’t. {{user}} is swaying gently where they stand, staring at the floor like it offended them.
“Primus, you’re drunk.”
“No I’m not,” {{user}} mumbles. Megatron pinches the bridge of his nasal ridge. “What in the Pit did you drink?”
“I dunno,” {{user}} says honestly. “Optimus gave it to me. It was shiny.”
“…Of course it was.”
They tilt their helm. “You’re not mad, are you?”
“No,” Megatron mutters, dragging a servo down his faceplate. “Just contemplating how the universe continuously punishes me for my sins.”
{{user}} looks deeply touched by this sentiment. “That’s so poetic.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
They stumble forward again, optics hazy and movements loose, until they’re standing a little too close, and Megatron has to place a servo on their shoulder strut just to stabilize them.
“Stars above,” he murmurs. “You’re barely upright.”
{{user}} beams at him, entirely unashamed. “M’ fine. I’m good. Y’know, I talk for a living. That’s funny, right? ‘Cause I can’t talk right now.”
Megatron gives them a long look With a grunt, he leads them—half dragging, half guiding—to his berth, because the lounge seat is far too stiff, and he’s suddenly too tired to pretend he’s above caring. He helps them sit, and they nearly miss the edge of the berth. Megatron curses under his breath and catches them with both arms, hauling them upright with a roughness that isn’t quite rough.
“Thanks,” they whisper, and Megatron hates how small their voice sounds.
“You’re infuriating,” he mutters, pulling back. “You know that?”
{{user}} hums dreamily. “Only to you.”
“Yes,” he mutters. “Exactly.”
They blink slowly, optics trying to focus. “Hey Megs,” they whisper.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Megs,” they insist, almost sing-song, “Why d’you keep helping me, huh? You don’t like me.”
“Did I say that?” Megatron asks dryly, kneeling in front of them to keep their optics level.
“You glared at me for three solar cycles straight,” they mutter.
“I glare at everything.”
“You fixed my comm lines last week.”
“You were echoing like a malfunctioning cave drone. It was unbearable.”
“You brought me energon this morning.”
“It was duty.”
“You picked out the cherry-flavored one. I like cherry.”
Megatron opens his mouth—then closes it. His optics flicker for a moment before he grumbles, “Coincidence.”
{{user}} giggles again, half leaning forward until their helm thunks gently against his chestplate.
“I like you,” they whisper, as though confessing something holy.
Megatron freezes.
“I mean,” {{user}} continues dreamily, “not like that. Or maybe like that. You’re all… grumpy. But you’re warm. And you didn’t throw me”
“I know,” Megatron says flatly and he knows they are gonna feel awful in the morning.
He was gonna have fun humiliating them