Some things, Optimus supposes, will never change.
Elita-One is chronically early. Optimus arrives as close to on time as he can manage, and Sentinel, well, he takes pre-arranged meeting times as a suggestion rather than a requirement.
Optimus isn’t surprised to find Elita near-dozing as she waits at their favorite bench in the park, sprawled across the surface in a claim no one seems fit to challenge. She’s aware enough to sense Optimus’ field, however, and her optics slit open, her mouth curving in a smile.
“Right on time,” she teases.
“Always early,” Optimus counters playfully. “Any word from Sentinel?”
Elita rolls her optics. “He’s going to be late.”
“Then he’s responsible for the oil tonight.” Optimus sets his crate down with a groan, rolling his fingers into the tense cables of his right shoulder. He sits on Elita’s left, leaving the bigger gap on the right for Sentinel.
“Like he is every night. I think he does it on purpose.” Elita vents a sigh, but there’s affection in her field. A fond exasperation. “How was your day?”
Optimus nudges the crate at his feet. “I brought that home with me, if that gives you a clue.”
She wrinkles her nasal ridge. “Eww.”
“Yes.” Optimus stares hard at the crate, half-wishing he could toss it into the smelter. “I think you’ve both got the right end of it. I need to get out of archiving and go into something else.”
“What? Like the military?”
“About time you realized I’m right!” Sentinel’s voice doesn’t startle them nearly as much as his hands clapping down on their shoulders, rattling them with the force of his grip. “I told you, Optimus. True glory is on the path to Magnus.”
“I don’t want to be Magnus,” Optimus says as Sentinel leans over the back of the bench to steal a kiss from Elita-One.
“Good. Less competition for me.” Sentinel grins, rakish and charming. “You can be one of my Primes instead.”
“A dream come true,” Elita drawls. She winks at Optimus who is wise enough to hide his grin behind his hand. “You’re late, Sentinel. Fuel’s on you tonight.”
Sentinel makes a face. “This is getting unfair,” he grumps.
“Then start making an effort to be on time,” Optimus says, hefting up his crate once more. “Come on, let’s go home.”
Home is an apartment the three of them share, a short walk from the complex where they spend most of their days, toiling away as cogs in the Autobot machine like most of their batchmates. Sentinel, well on his way to making a name for himself as he trains the newest recruits to the military. Elita, outshining all of her peers as she claws and fights her way to the top of the special operations program.
And Optimus. A data-clerk. Who is even now thinking he should throw aside his stacks of dusty archives and sign up with the next round of cadets.
Sentinel walks with his arm slung over Elita’s shoulders, tucking her against his side. Once she might have protested the public display of affection. Now, she endures it with a sort of fond resignation, their fields knitting together in soft braids.
They’re stupidly adorable, and Optimus has no problem telling them so. “If you two get any more soppy, I’m going to start getting rust in my gears.” He switches the crate from under one arm to the other, easing the cramp in his cables.
“You keep saying that, and I’ve yet to see any evidence of rust,” Elita says, sharp as a tack.
“Shut up,” Sentinel grumbles, his face pinking with embarrassment. But he keeps his arm over Elita’s shoulders, unwilling to sacrifice their closeness for his pride.
“Our walls are very thin,” Optimus says, because there’s little he enjoys more than causing the red to rise beneath Sentinel’s derma, for him to splutter and get indignant while Elita laughs. “You should try shutting up.”
Elita-One bursts into laughter.
Sentinel’s jaw drops. “You– You–”
“Oh, there’s our apartment,” Optimus says, grinning.
He palms the door open for them as Elita pushes Sentinel in ahead of her, Sentinel still muttering something that’s either a complete denial of how very loud he and Elita have a tendency to be, or a rebuttal involving Optimus being jealous.
Which he’s not, by the way, and never has been. Sentinel knows it, too. He just runs out of ammunition sometimes, and floundering for a retort, falls back to schoolyard insults.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing you do that,” Elita says as she sweeps the crate out of Optimus’ hand and rises up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Please go assemble our fuel for us. I know Sentinel is supposed to but–”
“–none of us want tank rot?” Optimus finishes for her.
Elita grins. “You know me so well.” She hefts the crate with an ease that belies her smaller frame. “I promise to make him order out tomorrow, since he’s Mr. Bigshot Cadet Trainer with the salary to match.”
“Deal.”
“You’re the best.” Elita playfully bumps him with her hip before she saunters out, his crate in hand.
Optimus busies himself with mixing up their evening fuel, drawing their servings from the dispenser and carefully blending the various additives and flavorings they all prefer. Sentinel, with an amount of sweeteners sure to ruin his denta. Elita, wanting hers tart and spicy. Optimus, preferring his thick and with a hint of bold.
He arranges them on a tray for ease of carrying, but that’s when Sentinel swoops in to take the tray out of Optimus’ hands. Honestly, between the two of them, Optimus hardly gets to carry anything in this apartment.
“What would we do without you?” Sentinel asks.
“I ask myself that all the time,” Optimus sighs, trailing after Sentinel to join Elita-One in the sitting room. She’s left enough space on the sofa for the both of them, so long as they don’t mind sitting close.
Optimus has never minded.
It’s Elita’s turn to pick the evening’s entertainment, so Optimus isn’t surprised to find an action broadcast with lots of explosions and shiny-armored warriors on screen. Has a type, their Elita does.
“Not this one again,” Sentinel groans as he flops down, nearly causing the carefully mixed energon to topple.
Elita snags her own, and Optimus rescues his before either can tip over. “If I have to watch those insipid romances of yours, then you have to watch my thrillers.”
“At least it’s not one of Optimus’ documentaries,” Sentinel mutters, but he pats Optimus’ knee, his field thick with apologetic affection. “No offense.”
“You two don’t have any appreciation for the accumulation of knowledge,” Optimus says with a haughty sniff.
“We appreciate you,” Elita purrs as she leans around Sentinel to catch his gaze. She nudges her partner. “Tell him, Sentinel.”
“I appreciate you,” Sentinel says, his voice a monotone, but there’s a glint in his optics that gives hint to his true emotions. That and his field harmonics, layering over Optimus’ with genuine warmth. “Just not your taste in broadcast entertainment.”
Optimus chuckles. “Fair enough.”
“Shh. This is one of my favorite parts,” Elita says, and both Optimus and Sentinel know better than to disobey.
They instantly quiet, Sentinel leaning back to toss his arms along the sofa, over both Optimus and Elita’s shoulders. Optimus sips at his fuel — Sentinel gulped his down like it’s a challenge — and tries to enjoy the film’s plot, such that it is.
Big dumb heroes rule the screen, defeating the villains with highway chases, fairly large explosions, and ill-timed kisses with one another. It’s the rust stick of broadcast entertainment, but Elita loves them. Optimus supposes that in the right circumstances, they can be entertaining.
Now would be one of those circumstances, snuggled up on the couch with his two best friends on the planet, refueling together after a long day in the Autobot machine. True, Optimus is growing weary of his work in the archives, and truer still he’s considering a change of pace.
Certainly Sentinel and Elita-One would be happy. They’ve been eager for him to join them on the military track for ages. They do everything else together, why not this?
“You think there’s room for me in the next round of cadets?” Optimus asks as casually as he can.
“Really?” Elita asks, and when Optimus nods, she grins and launches herself off the couch to throw her arms around him in a big hug. “That’s great!”
“I’ll make room,” Sentinel says, puffing up with his special brand of self-importance.
Elita plants a sloppy kiss on Optimus’ cheek before giving him back his space, choosing instead to sprawl over Sentinel’s lap. “It’s about time, Optimus. You’re going to be amazing.”
“Second only to me,” Sentinel agrees with a pat to Optimus’ knee. “And you’ll be luckier than everyone else because you’ll have me as a resource. You’ll be caught up in no time.”
Optimus chuckles. “I appreciate your faith in me.”
“We just like knowing we’ve seduced you into joining us,” Elita teases. She grabs his hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.
“Seduced. Right.” Sentinel snorts. “Weren’t we watching a movie?”
Elita squirms until she’s laying across both of their laps. “That’s right, we were. So pay attention both of you.”
“Yes, sir,” says Optimus, and chuckles quietly as Sentinel echoes him.
He rests a hand on Elita, soaking in the warm, affectionate fields of his two best friends, and looks forward to turning in his resignation tomorrow.
Working alongside his two best friends to help protect Cybertron?
Optimus can’t think of a better future.
***
Pandora's Box 