The room was dim, lit only by low, blue strips along the ceiling—barely enough to see by, but enough to highlight the sharp metal lines of Megatron’s warship quarters. The bed was far too large. Meant to be cold, austere. But now it wasn’t. Now it smelled like melted plating and static and her.

Elita lay stretched along his side, mostly under the thick grey cover thrown over them in haste. Her plating was retracted beneath it—everywhere—but she didn’t seem the least bit self-conscious. Her back rested against his chest, helm tipped lazily against his shoulder, ice-blue optics half-lidded. His arm draped possessively across her waist, claws resting low on her hip. He held a smoking contraption in his free hand—a Cybertronian stimulant stick, something roughly equivalent to a cigarette, glowing faintly with energon vapor as he exhaled through his vents.

The air was thick. Quiet. Sated. And on the floor, barely visible in the half-light, an opened security override packet lay discarded. Its seal was torn. Contents used. Neither of them spoke for a long time.