[Bay] Insoluble - Final Part
a/n: last chapter to add here. more of the same from previous chapters. self-edited. Enjoy!
Title: Insoluble VII
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM
Characters: Megatron, Ratchet, Sideswipe, Optimus
Rating: T
Warning: refs past character death, refs twincest
Description: All are truly one as Megatron learns that forgiveness is in the eye of the beholder.
The Autobots return to Cybertron, fewer than Megatron expects, but more than he is comfortable with.
There is no talk of separate barracks or slow integration.
“We are one people,” Optimus declares to the gathered crowd and those watching the broadcast. “It is time we behave as such.”
Megatron stands beside him, a show of support and agreement. He is without a badge and now, even Optimus has removed his. They are not Autobots or Decepticons.
They are one.
Optimus, as talented with words as ever, draws applause and cheers. Even the former Decepticons show few signs of bitterness. Peace, while initially difficult to accept, had become addictive to them all. And the survivors fill the planet's energy with relief.
Megatron himself finds it hard to hold to his disdain.
Ratchet's words, though spoken in anger, have become a comfort. He had, if not by plan, accomplished his goal.
They are all equal, perhaps in misery, but still, one and the same. It brings Megatron a sense of closure. He feels that much less like a complete failure. Though the chains of obligation yet prove their weight.
And then the celebrations begin. They were Thundercracker's idea and Optimus had supported him with cheer. Even Ratchet had put in his agreement and Skyquake had reluctantly agreed to the importance.
What better way to cement alliances than a party? High grade is the perfect lubricant, so to speak. And when Megatron suspends the rebuilding for a cycle so that everyone can attends, spirits are at their zenith.
The cheer is almost infectious, but Megatron removes himself of it. He chooses to observe from afar instead, watching for potential trouble. High grade makes friends but it can also cause old hurts to resurface. Someone needs to be paying attention and it's certainly not his co-ruler, Megatron notices with distaste.
No. Optimus is barely visible in the thickest of the crowd, politicking with the same cube of high grade in one hand and Sideswipe at his other. Their behavior is perfectly appropriate, chaste even to the casual observer, but a trained optic can detect all the subtleties.
He is the one I chose as opposed to the one forced upon me.
Megatron sneers.
It is not jealousy that overcomes him. But there is a faint longing and a lingering resentment.
Primus certainly shows his favor at times like these.
Behind him, Megatron hears the door slide open. He suspects it is one of his subordinates but a quick scan informs him otherwise.
“Shouldn't you be enjoying the festivities?” Megatron asks without turning.
“Since when have you known me to enjoy anything?” Ratchet retorts as he sidles up beside Megatron, holding out a cube of mid-grade.
Megatron takes it, grunting out a thanks.
“Besides,” Ratchet continues, sipping at his own cube of midgrade. No overindulgence for him apparently. “I could ask the same of you.”
Megatron leans against the railing, cradling his cube with both hands. “I am in no mood for revelry.”
“You're brooding.”
He tosses the medic a glare from his periphery. “I am doing my duty.” He gestures with one hand to the merrymaking getting louder by the nanoklik. “The slightest spark could set off a fire.”
Ratchet leans against the rail, optics skimming the helms of all the mechs beneath them. They are close enough to pick out familiar faces, but far enough that conversation is a dull roar.
“I see.” He tips his helm, lips curving into a grin. “And you think Optimus is the most likely culprit?”
Megatron doesn't dignify that with an answer. He sips at his cube, and raises his orbital ridges in surprise. The flavor is actually quite pleasant. It's something Sunstreaker would have enjoyed anyway. He had an appreciation for the darker brews.
“They're going to bond,” Ratchet says.
Something crawls down Megatron's backstrut and settles in his engine with a growl. “Yes, I know.”
“Optimus told you?”
“As a courtesy.” And hadn't that been a joyous conversation to have?
“Terms of the truce?”
Megatron laughs with more static than he intended. “Something like that.”
He stares at the mass of seething Cybertronians, easily picking out his co-ruler despite the larger warframes cloistered around him. Sideswipe is even more difficult to see, especially since he's reframed himself again. Gone is the heavy, bulky warrior's armor, placed by something more aesthetic, a civilian’s build. The matching blades are completely gone.
Sunstreaker would have been appalled.
Ratchet makes a noncommittal noise. “Well, at least someone gets a happy ending.”
Megatron tilts his helm toward the medic, not that Ratchet is at all looking at him. “Why are you here?” It's a curious thing, he has to admit. Of anyone he would expect to seek his company this evening, Ratchet is not on the list.
Ratchet arches an orbital ridge at him. “Staying on Earth wasn't an option.”
“Not what I meant and you know it.”
His fingers drum an off-rhythm on the railing as he sighs a ventilation. “I figured if there was one other mech who was left with nothing else, it would be you,” Ratchet admits.
But since you ripped my best friend in half and Sentinel rusted my partner, I don't have many options.
Oh.
Megatron bows his helm, something a lot like shame passing through his spark. He tosses back the last of the midgrade and sets the cube aside.
Silence settles between them, but it's not entirely awkward. Not with all the noise beneath them, the loud music and the laughter and in the corner, someone's set up an impromptu stage with invitations to dance. There's a lot of Earth culture influencing the moves.
Ratchet is the first to break the silence.
“He never hated you. Not once,” Ratchet says, tone conversational and his optics focused on the joyful crowd below. “He'd say, Ratch, why? And I couldn't give him an answer. It tore him apart to turn his back on his vow. He kept saying he could save you.”
Megatron snorts a ventilation. “I didn't need to be saved.”
“Yes, you did. But not for the reasons you think.” Ratchet sighs. “I wish he could see this.”
Megatron clenches his hands into fists. “There are many who should be here.”
A small noise of agreement rumbles through Ratchet's chassis before he pushes away from the balcony railing.
“It's late,” the medic says, his tone carefully bland. “I should go.”
Megatron watches him finish off the last of the midgrade and tuck the empty cube into his subspace.
“Don't stay here observing all evening,” Ratchet continues, his armor ruffling in a light stretch before it settled.
“I know my limits.”
“Of course you do.” Ratchet offers a crooked smile and makes his way to the doorway, taking with him the comforting press of a field given in companionship.
Megatron returns his attention to the crowd beneath him and tracks the sound of the medic leaving. For a moment, he almost asks Ratchet to linger, but then the moment passes, Ratchet is gone, and Megatron is left with his solitary contemplation.
It is not as welcome as it had been.
0o0o0
The memorial had been a side project, one of great importance, but set aside while worrying first about accommodations and energon production. In the end, it became Megatron's personal task and he designed and constructed it himself, with the occasional volunteer putting in overtime to lend a hand.
It's the best punishment he could have given himself, he realizes, to see what his own hands have done to his planet. The lists of the dead go on and on. The frames recovered are ravaged by war, stripped of useful parts, given no dignity.
Their history is gone, their progress limited in all but the art of battle. And with every wall he raises, the dead become more than frames to him. They are not faceless enemies that stood in his way. They are mechs who once had dreams of their own.
More than seeing the ruin Cybertron had become, this is the ultimate in humility.
So many names. So many faces. And there are thousands, millions more out there, that will be forgotten entirely. The war had spread across the universe, the battles taking place all over the galaxy.
Megatron may never know the full tally of the damage he has done. It is easy to stand in front of Optimus and claim that he has no regrets, but not so easy to do it here. Building this mausoleum has done what Optimus would have never succeeded with his speeches and his words.
The millions of names stare back at him, judging in silence, and Megatron can't ignore the shame of it.
He owes and the tattered remnants of his Protectorate coding drive him to reparation, but even without it, Megatron would have done so. By his own choice, rather than order of the Prime, and that makes it so much easier.
His field prickles. He is no longer alone.
“Is my brother here?”
It takes great effort not to cringe at the unwelcome presence. Megatron has grown accustomed to not having visitors here.
Sideswipe will be the first.
He rises to his pedes and turns. His brother's lover is within reach, but far enough that he displays a touch of wariness. Considering their last encounter, Megatron is not surprised.
“Yes,” Megatron answers. After all, it's in his best interest to be civil. “How kind of you to remember that he existed.”
Sideswipe's optics narrow. “I was not the one who walked away.”
“Perhaps not. But you did not leave him any other choice. A trait you and my brother share.” Megatron shifts away from Sideswipe, heading toward a nearby corridor.
He hears a shift in weight as Sideswipe falls in step behind him. “You still call him that?”
“Disowning me does not make the link between us nonexistent,” Megatron growls, his armor clamping tight to his frame. If he still had his cannon, it would be powering up now, but alas, he goes unarmed most of the time now. “As you well know.”
Sideswipe makes a noncommittal sound and Megatron allows the conversation to lapse. Spending quality time with his brother's lover is not something that holds any appeal. And he is glad that the next room bears what he seeks.
There's nothing special here, nothing that would make it stand out from any of the others. It's another series of names and plaques and labeled drawers, for lack of a better word, containing the memories and remnants of the millions of sparks lost in the war. Megatron doesn't have to search to know that on the far wall, six rows down and twelve plaques over is Sunstreaker.
“There,” he says, pointing. If Sideswipe can't find his own twin's name amongst the others, he has no right to view it.
Sideswipe's optics narrow, but he follows direction well enough. A soldier to the spark, even if he's reconstructed himself for a civilian's life. For Optimus' sake or his own? Megatron's not about to ask.
Megatron hangs back, watching as Sideswipe is unerringly drawn to the plaque, as though there's some connection between himself and Sunstreaker's empty frame. Sideswipe pauses, staring, his hands at rest at his side.
And then Sideswipe reaches for the plaque and Megatron growls before he can stop himself. He's not even sure if it's warning or jealousy. He only knows that he doesn't want Sideswipe touching even so much as the memory of Sunstreaker.
He lost that right when his sword pierced Sunstreaker's spark.
Sideswipe, wisely, does not push his luck. He retracts his hand, tucking it at his side. He stares at the small plaque, no larger than any of the others, a name amongst millions.
Megatron hadn't been able to justify anything larger to himself. No one, outside of the mechs closest to him, had even known Sunstreaker was his lover.
“It's not fair, you know,” Sideswipe says, his vocals soft but echoing in the mausoleum. “You get your second chance. Frag, you get a third chance.” His hands fist at his sides. “We only had the one.”
Megatron ventilates harshly. “Don't speak to me of second chances,” he hisses. “I would have traded Optimus' spark for Sunstreaker's without second thought.”
He says it without truly thinking through his response and startles himself with the realization that it's true. It's not bravado or a lie to save face.
He would have traded Optimus for Sunstreaker in a sparkbeat.
He is the mech I chose as opposed to the one thrust upon me.
And Megatron almost laughs because Optimus is fragging right and it burns as much as it relieves.
Sideswipe turns, looking at him over a shoulder. “You loved him.” He sounds surprised. And why wouldn't he be?
Megatron is the lord of the Decepticons, the destroyer of his own planet and murderer to millions of the people he swore to protect. There's no possibility of him being capable of such an emotion.
Pah.
He shows Sideswipe his back. “The door will lock behind you,” Megatron says, utilizing the most civil tone he knows. “I trust you can see yourself out.”
He has nothing to prove. And he's done defending himself or his actions.
“Megatron.”
He pauses, but he doesn't turn. That he lingers is invitation enough for Sideswipe to speak.
“Thank you,” the silver mech says after a moment.
“It was not for your sake,” Megatron retorts, his vocals edging toward a growl. “But you are welcome all the same.”
He takes his leave, giving Sideswipe no chance to argue further. He does not think he will ever like Sideswipe, but for Optimus' sake, he will tolerate him.
0o0o0
Anxiety is not an emotion to which Megatron is accustomed. Yet he feels it twisting at his spark as he stands outside the door to Optimus' quarters.
This must be done. He owes it to himself as much as he owes it to Optimus, but he finds it hard to lift his hand and press that button.
The choice is made for him when the door slides open and Optimus stands in the entryway, looking at him. “Can I help you?” he asks, his tone not quite frosty, but perfectly flat.
Anxious he might be, but Megatron is Lord High Protector. He refuses to squirm. “What I have to say can't be spoken in the hallway,” he says.
Optimus looks at him, his field flashing out in a quick probe before he inclines his helm and steps aside. “The meeting is tomorrow,” he says. “Could this not have waited?”
“It is a personal matter.”
Megatron searches for Sideswipe with both optics and field, but can't see the mech anywhere. Either he is not here or he is in another room, which is fortunate, because this would be hard enough without having an audience to complicate matters.
Optimus ventilates a sigh. “Megatron, we are working together and behaving in a civilized matter. That is not enough to undo millennia of resentment. I am not--”
He shakes his helm, cutting Optimus off. “No. I don't want that. I don't want... you.”
Optimus' field bursts with surprise before he can reign it in. “Very well,” he says. “I'm listening.”
Megatron cycles his ventilations and straightens his shoulders. He is Lord High Protector, proud and strong.
“We will never be what we were,” Megatron begins, and despite himself, he starts to pace. “And I'm glad for it. I don't want it, neither do you. I don't love you. I don't know that I ever did.”
Optimus dares step closer and Megatron pauses mid-step. “Perhaps not the way we were meant to, no,” he agrees. “But there was a time you meant something to me. And I don't hate you now. I have never hated you.”
Megatron's lip curls into a parody of a smile. Hate and love are not as disparate as the poets might think. “I know.”
He has to pause now because this, right here, is the hardest part. He clasps his hands behind his back to keep from betraying his disquiet.
“I do not regret that we have come to this,” Megatron says. “I still believe that the Cybertron of old was broken. But I do regret the course I took. I could have found another way but I let my anger guide me. And for that, I am sorry.”
Optimus cycles his optics, staring at Megatron. “You are apologizing?”
“I am accepting the blame, yes.”
It's oddly freeing, as though a massive weight has lifted from his chestplate and shoulders. His old, old spark spins a new rhythm that leaves him feeling rejuvenated. Whole.
“And we will never again be lovers. That time has passed, if it was ever meant to be.” Megatron allows his field to extend outward, the smallest wisp of invitation. “But it is my hope that one day, we may yet be friends.”
“Friends,” Optimus repeats and his optics brighten as a small smile takes over his lip plating. “I think I would like that.” He offers his hand to Megatron, field extended to brush against Megatron's own. “I, too, am sorry. For not being more aware. For not listening. We both failed.”
Megatron takes Optimus' hand and a sharp zap travels up his arm, across his shoulder, to his very spark. He stiffens, field flaring, and then he sees--
--he and Optimus, side by side, facing a common foe--
--himself, smiling as he stands next to someone, their fields intimately intertwined--
--a dedication ceremony, Optimus speechifying as Megatron cuts the ribbon--
--a celebration, dancing and singing and laughing--
--the sun rising over Cybertron, gleaming off proudly rebuilt spires...
Megatron's optics widen and he jerks back, shaking his helm. The flashing images fade from his optics as he steps out of the embrace of his brother's field.
“What in Primus' name...?” There's static in his vocalizer.
Optimus looks at him, as stunned as Megatron had been. “Approval, I think.” He presses his hand to his chestplate, over his spark and that blasted artifact beneath. “And forgiveness.” His smile is both soft and tentative. “For us both.”
And Megatron, despite it all, smiles as well.
It's not the end he would have imagined, or the one he hoped to achieve, but it is one he can accept. It is one he can live with.
We are one, Optimus had said, and finally, Megatron believes.
****
a/n: And so ends part two of a three part series now titled Interwoven. I think the third part might be called "Inseparable" or "Inseverable" not sure which. It'll continue with Megatron's POV and feature a pairing that may or may not be obvious by now. I hope to get started on it soon.
Thanks for reading! As always, feedback is very welcome and appreciated.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/290793.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Title: Insoluble VII
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM
Characters: Megatron, Ratchet, Sideswipe, Optimus
Rating: T
Warning: refs past character death, refs twincest
Description: All are truly one as Megatron learns that forgiveness is in the eye of the beholder.
The Autobots return to Cybertron, fewer than Megatron expects, but more than he is comfortable with.
There is no talk of separate barracks or slow integration.
“We are one people,” Optimus declares to the gathered crowd and those watching the broadcast. “It is time we behave as such.”
Megatron stands beside him, a show of support and agreement. He is without a badge and now, even Optimus has removed his. They are not Autobots or Decepticons.
They are one.
Optimus, as talented with words as ever, draws applause and cheers. Even the former Decepticons show few signs of bitterness. Peace, while initially difficult to accept, had become addictive to them all. And the survivors fill the planet's energy with relief.
Megatron himself finds it hard to hold to his disdain.
Ratchet's words, though spoken in anger, have become a comfort. He had, if not by plan, accomplished his goal.
They are all equal, perhaps in misery, but still, one and the same. It brings Megatron a sense of closure. He feels that much less like a complete failure. Though the chains of obligation yet prove their weight.
And then the celebrations begin. They were Thundercracker's idea and Optimus had supported him with cheer. Even Ratchet had put in his agreement and Skyquake had reluctantly agreed to the importance.
What better way to cement alliances than a party? High grade is the perfect lubricant, so to speak. And when Megatron suspends the rebuilding for a cycle so that everyone can attends, spirits are at their zenith.
The cheer is almost infectious, but Megatron removes himself of it. He chooses to observe from afar instead, watching for potential trouble. High grade makes friends but it can also cause old hurts to resurface. Someone needs to be paying attention and it's certainly not his co-ruler, Megatron notices with distaste.
No. Optimus is barely visible in the thickest of the crowd, politicking with the same cube of high grade in one hand and Sideswipe at his other. Their behavior is perfectly appropriate, chaste even to the casual observer, but a trained optic can detect all the subtleties.
He is the one I chose as opposed to the one forced upon me.
Megatron sneers.
It is not jealousy that overcomes him. But there is a faint longing and a lingering resentment.
Primus certainly shows his favor at times like these.
Behind him, Megatron hears the door slide open. He suspects it is one of his subordinates but a quick scan informs him otherwise.
“Shouldn't you be enjoying the festivities?” Megatron asks without turning.
“Since when have you known me to enjoy anything?” Ratchet retorts as he sidles up beside Megatron, holding out a cube of mid-grade.
Megatron takes it, grunting out a thanks.
“Besides,” Ratchet continues, sipping at his own cube of midgrade. No overindulgence for him apparently. “I could ask the same of you.”
Megatron leans against the railing, cradling his cube with both hands. “I am in no mood for revelry.”
“You're brooding.”
He tosses the medic a glare from his periphery. “I am doing my duty.” He gestures with one hand to the merrymaking getting louder by the nanoklik. “The slightest spark could set off a fire.”
Ratchet leans against the rail, optics skimming the helms of all the mechs beneath them. They are close enough to pick out familiar faces, but far enough that conversation is a dull roar.
“I see.” He tips his helm, lips curving into a grin. “And you think Optimus is the most likely culprit?”
Megatron doesn't dignify that with an answer. He sips at his cube, and raises his orbital ridges in surprise. The flavor is actually quite pleasant. It's something Sunstreaker would have enjoyed anyway. He had an appreciation for the darker brews.
“They're going to bond,” Ratchet says.
Something crawls down Megatron's backstrut and settles in his engine with a growl. “Yes, I know.”
“Optimus told you?”
“As a courtesy.” And hadn't that been a joyous conversation to have?
“Terms of the truce?”
Megatron laughs with more static than he intended. “Something like that.”
He stares at the mass of seething Cybertronians, easily picking out his co-ruler despite the larger warframes cloistered around him. Sideswipe is even more difficult to see, especially since he's reframed himself again. Gone is the heavy, bulky warrior's armor, placed by something more aesthetic, a civilian’s build. The matching blades are completely gone.
Sunstreaker would have been appalled.
Ratchet makes a noncommittal noise. “Well, at least someone gets a happy ending.”
Megatron tilts his helm toward the medic, not that Ratchet is at all looking at him. “Why are you here?” It's a curious thing, he has to admit. Of anyone he would expect to seek his company this evening, Ratchet is not on the list.
Ratchet arches an orbital ridge at him. “Staying on Earth wasn't an option.”
“Not what I meant and you know it.”
His fingers drum an off-rhythm on the railing as he sighs a ventilation. “I figured if there was one other mech who was left with nothing else, it would be you,” Ratchet admits.
But since you ripped my best friend in half and Sentinel rusted my partner, I don't have many options.
Oh.
Megatron bows his helm, something a lot like shame passing through his spark. He tosses back the last of the midgrade and sets the cube aside.
Silence settles between them, but it's not entirely awkward. Not with all the noise beneath them, the loud music and the laughter and in the corner, someone's set up an impromptu stage with invitations to dance. There's a lot of Earth culture influencing the moves.
Ratchet is the first to break the silence.
“He never hated you. Not once,” Ratchet says, tone conversational and his optics focused on the joyful crowd below. “He'd say, Ratch, why? And I couldn't give him an answer. It tore him apart to turn his back on his vow. He kept saying he could save you.”
Megatron snorts a ventilation. “I didn't need to be saved.”
“Yes, you did. But not for the reasons you think.” Ratchet sighs. “I wish he could see this.”
Megatron clenches his hands into fists. “There are many who should be here.”
A small noise of agreement rumbles through Ratchet's chassis before he pushes away from the balcony railing.
“It's late,” the medic says, his tone carefully bland. “I should go.”
Megatron watches him finish off the last of the midgrade and tuck the empty cube into his subspace.
“Don't stay here observing all evening,” Ratchet continues, his armor ruffling in a light stretch before it settled.
“I know my limits.”
“Of course you do.” Ratchet offers a crooked smile and makes his way to the doorway, taking with him the comforting press of a field given in companionship.
Megatron returns his attention to the crowd beneath him and tracks the sound of the medic leaving. For a moment, he almost asks Ratchet to linger, but then the moment passes, Ratchet is gone, and Megatron is left with his solitary contemplation.
It is not as welcome as it had been.
0o0o0
The memorial had been a side project, one of great importance, but set aside while worrying first about accommodations and energon production. In the end, it became Megatron's personal task and he designed and constructed it himself, with the occasional volunteer putting in overtime to lend a hand.
It's the best punishment he could have given himself, he realizes, to see what his own hands have done to his planet. The lists of the dead go on and on. The frames recovered are ravaged by war, stripped of useful parts, given no dignity.
Their history is gone, their progress limited in all but the art of battle. And with every wall he raises, the dead become more than frames to him. They are not faceless enemies that stood in his way. They are mechs who once had dreams of their own.
More than seeing the ruin Cybertron had become, this is the ultimate in humility.
So many names. So many faces. And there are thousands, millions more out there, that will be forgotten entirely. The war had spread across the universe, the battles taking place all over the galaxy.
Megatron may never know the full tally of the damage he has done. It is easy to stand in front of Optimus and claim that he has no regrets, but not so easy to do it here. Building this mausoleum has done what Optimus would have never succeeded with his speeches and his words.
The millions of names stare back at him, judging in silence, and Megatron can't ignore the shame of it.
He owes and the tattered remnants of his Protectorate coding drive him to reparation, but even without it, Megatron would have done so. By his own choice, rather than order of the Prime, and that makes it so much easier.
His field prickles. He is no longer alone.
“Is my brother here?”
It takes great effort not to cringe at the unwelcome presence. Megatron has grown accustomed to not having visitors here.
Sideswipe will be the first.
He rises to his pedes and turns. His brother's lover is within reach, but far enough that he displays a touch of wariness. Considering their last encounter, Megatron is not surprised.
“Yes,” Megatron answers. After all, it's in his best interest to be civil. “How kind of you to remember that he existed.”
Sideswipe's optics narrow. “I was not the one who walked away.”
“Perhaps not. But you did not leave him any other choice. A trait you and my brother share.” Megatron shifts away from Sideswipe, heading toward a nearby corridor.
He hears a shift in weight as Sideswipe falls in step behind him. “You still call him that?”
“Disowning me does not make the link between us nonexistent,” Megatron growls, his armor clamping tight to his frame. If he still had his cannon, it would be powering up now, but alas, he goes unarmed most of the time now. “As you well know.”
Sideswipe makes a noncommittal sound and Megatron allows the conversation to lapse. Spending quality time with his brother's lover is not something that holds any appeal. And he is glad that the next room bears what he seeks.
There's nothing special here, nothing that would make it stand out from any of the others. It's another series of names and plaques and labeled drawers, for lack of a better word, containing the memories and remnants of the millions of sparks lost in the war. Megatron doesn't have to search to know that on the far wall, six rows down and twelve plaques over is Sunstreaker.
“There,” he says, pointing. If Sideswipe can't find his own twin's name amongst the others, he has no right to view it.
Sideswipe's optics narrow, but he follows direction well enough. A soldier to the spark, even if he's reconstructed himself for a civilian's life. For Optimus' sake or his own? Megatron's not about to ask.
Megatron hangs back, watching as Sideswipe is unerringly drawn to the plaque, as though there's some connection between himself and Sunstreaker's empty frame. Sideswipe pauses, staring, his hands at rest at his side.
And then Sideswipe reaches for the plaque and Megatron growls before he can stop himself. He's not even sure if it's warning or jealousy. He only knows that he doesn't want Sideswipe touching even so much as the memory of Sunstreaker.
He lost that right when his sword pierced Sunstreaker's spark.
Sideswipe, wisely, does not push his luck. He retracts his hand, tucking it at his side. He stares at the small plaque, no larger than any of the others, a name amongst millions.
Megatron hadn't been able to justify anything larger to himself. No one, outside of the mechs closest to him, had even known Sunstreaker was his lover.
“It's not fair, you know,” Sideswipe says, his vocals soft but echoing in the mausoleum. “You get your second chance. Frag, you get a third chance.” His hands fist at his sides. “We only had the one.”
Megatron ventilates harshly. “Don't speak to me of second chances,” he hisses. “I would have traded Optimus' spark for Sunstreaker's without second thought.”
He says it without truly thinking through his response and startles himself with the realization that it's true. It's not bravado or a lie to save face.
He would have traded Optimus for Sunstreaker in a sparkbeat.
He is the mech I chose as opposed to the one thrust upon me.
And Megatron almost laughs because Optimus is fragging right and it burns as much as it relieves.
Sideswipe turns, looking at him over a shoulder. “You loved him.” He sounds surprised. And why wouldn't he be?
Megatron is the lord of the Decepticons, the destroyer of his own planet and murderer to millions of the people he swore to protect. There's no possibility of him being capable of such an emotion.
Pah.
He shows Sideswipe his back. “The door will lock behind you,” Megatron says, utilizing the most civil tone he knows. “I trust you can see yourself out.”
He has nothing to prove. And he's done defending himself or his actions.
“Megatron.”
He pauses, but he doesn't turn. That he lingers is invitation enough for Sideswipe to speak.
“Thank you,” the silver mech says after a moment.
“It was not for your sake,” Megatron retorts, his vocals edging toward a growl. “But you are welcome all the same.”
He takes his leave, giving Sideswipe no chance to argue further. He does not think he will ever like Sideswipe, but for Optimus' sake, he will tolerate him.
0o0o0
Anxiety is not an emotion to which Megatron is accustomed. Yet he feels it twisting at his spark as he stands outside the door to Optimus' quarters.
This must be done. He owes it to himself as much as he owes it to Optimus, but he finds it hard to lift his hand and press that button.
The choice is made for him when the door slides open and Optimus stands in the entryway, looking at him. “Can I help you?” he asks, his tone not quite frosty, but perfectly flat.
Anxious he might be, but Megatron is Lord High Protector. He refuses to squirm. “What I have to say can't be spoken in the hallway,” he says.
Optimus looks at him, his field flashing out in a quick probe before he inclines his helm and steps aside. “The meeting is tomorrow,” he says. “Could this not have waited?”
“It is a personal matter.”
Megatron searches for Sideswipe with both optics and field, but can't see the mech anywhere. Either he is not here or he is in another room, which is fortunate, because this would be hard enough without having an audience to complicate matters.
Optimus ventilates a sigh. “Megatron, we are working together and behaving in a civilized matter. That is not enough to undo millennia of resentment. I am not--”
He shakes his helm, cutting Optimus off. “No. I don't want that. I don't want... you.”
Optimus' field bursts with surprise before he can reign it in. “Very well,” he says. “I'm listening.”
Megatron cycles his ventilations and straightens his shoulders. He is Lord High Protector, proud and strong.
“We will never be what we were,” Megatron begins, and despite himself, he starts to pace. “And I'm glad for it. I don't want it, neither do you. I don't love you. I don't know that I ever did.”
Optimus dares step closer and Megatron pauses mid-step. “Perhaps not the way we were meant to, no,” he agrees. “But there was a time you meant something to me. And I don't hate you now. I have never hated you.”
Megatron's lip curls into a parody of a smile. Hate and love are not as disparate as the poets might think. “I know.”
He has to pause now because this, right here, is the hardest part. He clasps his hands behind his back to keep from betraying his disquiet.
“I do not regret that we have come to this,” Megatron says. “I still believe that the Cybertron of old was broken. But I do regret the course I took. I could have found another way but I let my anger guide me. And for that, I am sorry.”
Optimus cycles his optics, staring at Megatron. “You are apologizing?”
“I am accepting the blame, yes.”
It's oddly freeing, as though a massive weight has lifted from his chestplate and shoulders. His old, old spark spins a new rhythm that leaves him feeling rejuvenated. Whole.
“And we will never again be lovers. That time has passed, if it was ever meant to be.” Megatron allows his field to extend outward, the smallest wisp of invitation. “But it is my hope that one day, we may yet be friends.”
“Friends,” Optimus repeats and his optics brighten as a small smile takes over his lip plating. “I think I would like that.” He offers his hand to Megatron, field extended to brush against Megatron's own. “I, too, am sorry. For not being more aware. For not listening. We both failed.”
Megatron takes Optimus' hand and a sharp zap travels up his arm, across his shoulder, to his very spark. He stiffens, field flaring, and then he sees--
--he and Optimus, side by side, facing a common foe--
--himself, smiling as he stands next to someone, their fields intimately intertwined--
--a dedication ceremony, Optimus speechifying as Megatron cuts the ribbon--
--a celebration, dancing and singing and laughing--
--the sun rising over Cybertron, gleaming off proudly rebuilt spires...
Megatron's optics widen and he jerks back, shaking his helm. The flashing images fade from his optics as he steps out of the embrace of his brother's field.
“What in Primus' name...?” There's static in his vocalizer.
Optimus looks at him, as stunned as Megatron had been. “Approval, I think.” He presses his hand to his chestplate, over his spark and that blasted artifact beneath. “And forgiveness.” His smile is both soft and tentative. “For us both.”
And Megatron, despite it all, smiles as well.
It's not the end he would have imagined, or the one he hoped to achieve, but it is one he can accept. It is one he can live with.
We are one, Optimus had said, and finally, Megatron believes.
****
a/n: And so ends part two of a three part series now titled Interwoven. I think the third part might be called "Inseparable" or "Inseverable" not sure which. It'll continue with Megatron's POV and feature a pairing that may or may not be obvious by now. I hope to get started on it soon.
Thanks for reading! As always, feedback is very welcome and appreciated.
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