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Ratchet rocked back and forth minutely on his ankle joints, hydraulics hissing in restrained glee. Now this was more like it! He was going to have to comm June and that femme scientist thank you notes to their rather primitive 'voicemail.' Hmph. At least they'd caught humans at the point of civilization where they had developed basic assistive devices.
He was also thankful that their new allies at NASA had enough Cybertronian frame-compatible oil to fill the crude ‘shipping container’ that some rather cathartic time with a welder and a hacksaw had shaped into a rudimentary immersion bath. Oh, this was going to be wonderful!
The tub now occupied most of the northwest corner of the main hangar at the Autobots’ Mesa base. (Gravity still left something to be desired on their future lunar accommodations, though lately Bulkhead could be seen wandering around with stars in his optics clutching blueprints of future crater-domes and lovely magnetized roads.)
Still, in this last guttering stage of the war Ratchet had become quite proficient in cobbling together whatever comforts he could get for his team and, given that he was finally getting a full fuel ration (to his embarrassment, Optimus had been very well aware of Ratchet’s self-shortchanging) he actually had the full wherewithal in his emotional subsystem to feel, dare he say it, rather pleased about the whole thing.
The medic would never admit it, but it felt... odd. Itchy. Hope was really not his forte anymore, but whatever new pitspawned obstacle would come their way next, it would at least find their nanites gleaming healthily and their frames properly relaxed.
RIght, anyway. The tub was ready and filled, the filtering system was humming - (they could get several dozen uses out of the oil if they were careful), the temperature was adjusted to perfection.
"Optimus!” He called out. “Come here, it's ready!"
Optimus came in from the left access tunnel that led to his hab-suite and then, supporting Ratchet’s theory that he ought to have another look at his reward-evaluation function, stood there with a vague air of puzzlement.
"It is splendid.” He said at last. “Do you perhaps require assistance getting in? You are the most senior member of the team, old friend. And you worked hard to put it together. I can attend to the console, no one deserves the first soak more than you.”
Ratchet scoffed.
“It comes with a filtration module so eventually we'll all be taking turns. You're the one who’s still putting his frame on the line for the rest of us!”
(The less said about Megatron’s sudden and pathetically manifested attachment issues the better. Ratchet was sure this bizarre new ‘sparring’ ploy was just a convenient excuse to avenge himself for the battle that he had been full-throttle losing back on Cybertron before kidnapping human younglings- Oh Ratchet had words about the situation, all of them not fit to be said around Smokescreen and Bumblebee, and preferably punctuated by vicious stabs to Megatron’s person.)
“Look, I know you hardly acknowledge your rank anymore, especially now that we’re all the way out here. But the humans insisted! And I, for once, happen to agree with them! She's all yours."
Ratchet knew for a fact that Optimus hadn’t had a proper oil bath since Elita had taken the Ark away for repairs and to spirit the more damaged Autobots to a safer cluster of bases after the bloody battle of Tyger Pax.
Even then, he would usually go during others’ recharge shifts, lying awkwardly in five-fold filtered dregs that would slosh around just above his ankle joints.
Now it satisfied some of Ratchet’s patient-caretaker coding, watching him slowly, almost shyly approach the tub and swing his bulk over into it.
"I hope it’s not too hot." He fretted aloud.
By design, the Prime’s tires were thick and not as sensitive as those of the smaller Autobots. Slowly, gracefully Optimus lowered himself into the oil, and then, since there was no one but Ratchet around, his field bloomed cautiously, with a waver of satisfaction, hope at the promised easing of aches. The forearm wound that Megatron had inflicted and which Ratchet, cursing heartily over comms, had welded closed the week before was probably overgrown with natural plating nanites to keep it sealed but Optimus, a model patient when ceasefires allowed for it, nevertheless kept it out on the rim.
Then he sagged back a little. It was a strange gesture to see: their shining symbol - just another tired soldier who had been running on too little for too long.
Ratchet ruthlessly masked the distress in his own field.
"I-I'm just going to go see if there's anything beneficial I could add to it! I could have sworn I had a container of med-nanites, maybe cleaning fizzes-"
“Thank you, for this."
You couldn’t really whisper, with a voice like Optimus’. But sometimes he tried.
Ratchet nodded brusquely and bustled away.
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Optimus lay in the tub alone, the oil lapping slowly over his hip bumpers and up his midsegments. Gradually he let his frame sink down further and further until he felt the sensory data of it flowing into his neck and shoulder assembly, letting a deep sigh emerge from his vocalizer. This seemed like the most excessive sort of luxury, he ought to set a timer and then disembark before too long, to let the others on his team enjoy the structure as they deserved. But for now…
Oh, it was good.
He could stretch out his legs and still not reach the end of the tub. The sheer scale of it made a window into a brief fantasy where Orion Pax sat in his scuffed steel bathtub with a good novel. It hadn’t happened often. Even on an Archivist’s pay the cost of filling it had been hard to justify…
Then the seams on his battle-grade shoulder armor widened with a telling creak. An air bubble drifted out of his knee joint, as if it had been waiting for privacy. Healing scars bubbled and ached.
Optimus chuckled internally. Well, that had been brief.
Ratchet seemed to think that he was unusually distressed after last week’s events and he had been… melancholy at first, weary of their predictable pattern. But upon reflection the 'spar' with Megatron had left only the sort of predictable, easily-treatable injuries that had become a background constant of the war.
Well, aside from that rather impassioned forearm cut. It had looked bad, and had obviously distressed Agent Fowler and Doctor Greenberg, but Optimus did not know how to explain in context that even that was the sort of showy body blow that sprayed energon everywhere to the delight of Arena audiences, but was still easy for one’s opponent to heal from. By Megatron’s old standards, the fight had been downright chivalrous.
Then again, there was a new paradigm in place, a lull that was solidifying by the day into a ceasefire. Of the sort they hadn’t gotten since just after Tyger Pax. Megatron had called it that himself: ‘our quaint little ceasefire.’ Would that it were so.
Again, the stubborn hope persisted that this time, somewhere underneath the rubble of their revived planet, there was a road to peace. Megatron had behaved erratically, but perhaps a trifle saner than he had been for some time. Was that accurate? Optimus was self-aware enough to know that his own evaluation function as far as Megatron was concerned was... skewed (By the past, by his recent sojourn of the Nemesis which he had put aside fully processing). He ought to run the memory by someone else, get a second opinion. Unfortunately, Ratchet was also uniquely biased. Perhaps Arcee-
Though it seemed as though Megatron had taken all of the Dark Energon in his possession to build his twisted version of the Star Saber. Logically, this left him with none left to consume. Without it, would Megatron himself, his vital personality components, return to some earlier backup? Would the fierce intelligence under his feral mien be capable of recognizing the course of his own alteration?
What would it be like, to witness his former friend without Unicron’s influence bubbling through his systems? Was somewhere on Cybertron, yet-to-awaken, a version of Megatron that would just be willing to talk-
Optimus let his processor spread across these possibilities, driving atop gossamer-frayed threads of hope. He was therefore lost, in what in human terms, could be called a pleasant daydream, when he sensed someone else's weary pede-falls in the hanger.
"Ratchet, have you returned?" He inquired.
There was some thudding and then Wheeljack's helm popped up over the rim of the tub. The Wrecker’s side-fins perked up and wiggled.
"Sorry, bossbot. I think Doc Sunshine's still out by storage. Wowza! Team Prime’s really hit the big time, huh?! I haven't seen one of those since the last time the Wreckers got bunked on the Arc! Yannow I've been helping Bulk scout craters all day and those rock ridges are rough on the ol' suspension. Mind if I hop in?"
Optimus nodded amiably.
"Of course, Wheeljack. There is plenty of room."
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Wheeljack's frame was boldly climbing up the access notches down the side of the vast container tub before his processor caught up to his mouth.
It had been running a simple equation of 'tired sore shocks -> heat = good times’ - the kind of greedy algorithm that had a Wrecker smoking his last pack of cygars or dross right before a battle, on account of how dead mechs couldn’t ventilate. If something nice was in front of you, you had to grab it with both servos and maybe get a pede on, too.
The unfortunate conclusion of this, (a few klicks later after he’d got done grokking that the heat was blissful and the human oil, while a little thinner than he'd like, wasn't something to complain about) was 1) that he was getting moon dust into the nice, pristine oil and Doc would be sure to give him both audial-fins worth of trouble for it, and 2) that he was now sharing a strut-melting, decadent oil-bath with Optimus Prime.
Oh no.
The thing was, he hadn't wanted to believe the hype. But his temporary CO had pulled off some wild stuff since he’d gotten vaguely attached to Outpost Omega One. Not to mention, like, literal miracles. Not only had he volunteered to get blown up right along with Bulk that one time in the shipyard, he’d punched out Unicron! (And, even crazier, tried to talk to him first.)
And now Wheeljack found himself resting between the legendary Autobot leader's gently spread shins, feeling all sorts of tiny, up to his neck in silky hot oil with his back kibble resting on the Prime's warm and sturdy ribbed tires, all eight of them, frag it. That was a lot of mech! And a lot of tires! And if his Pit-bound processor decided to turn his neck assembly about 40 degrees south-west he’d be getting a real centerfold view.
Of course, it did just that.
Oh no. He thought. Jackie. Don’t do it. Don’t make it weird.
Wheeljack did that newbuild glance-and-stretch move, wrenching his gaze up to the ceiling. For what must have been the thousandth time he was thankful he'd gotten protective steel casings installed over his colorful and very sensitive audial fins. Because they were probably putting on a real light show under there.
Because he’d still caught an eyeful.
All the while his processor was like: ‘Eyyy, midsegments! I always did like pretty midsegments on a top-stacked mech and whoaaa mamma! Never noticed how he’s got one bio-light there. Just one. Like a sexy chick’s bellybutton piercing. Why, Primus? Why’d you build him like that? Why is every Iaconian heavy convoy hauler I’ve ever met a stoic weirdo who’s also hot as frag?’
Yes, even though he was probably fiercely scowling at paperwork galaxies away, Wheeljack was still convinced this incipient semi fetish was somehow all Ultra Magnus’ fault. Stupid sexy Ultra Magnus. Though hey, his own deeply obvious authority kink didn’t help. Heck, even Bulk outranked him now and that only spiced things up...
Speaking of spicy, unfortunately the oil wasn’t so opaque that he couldn’t see how Optimus’ thighs were still scratched up a little from his punch out with ol’ Lord Buckethead. Those shiny sliver marks, just pulling the optics upward-
‘I mean those are modesty panels, he’s got em’. Guess it would be weirder if he didn’t. Did Primes even have a proper array for the sticky stuff or were they all beyond that sorta thing? Doesn’t seem like there’s space...’
Meanwhile, totally unaware, his ancient, kindly-old-sire-vibes CO with the pretty midsegments let out another one of those soft vulnerable sighs and Wheeljack vaguely wanted to drown himself.
Over them reigned a silence that was currently companionable but (and he knew this for a fact, ferrying bossbot around in the Jackhammer) any moment now could turn awkward as slag. Wheeljack resolutely turned his helm to the wall, started fake-scrubbing at his elbow joints in a last-ditch attempt to act normal, and desperately commed Bulkhead for help.
//Bulk! Bulky, buddy, pal. You gotta come save me. There’s, like, a bathtub. And it’s great but I did kinda hop in with Prime and there ain’t space to be five feet apart like the humans say you gotta- Anyway, I think I made it weird.//
//Jackie, you did what?!//
Wheeljack winced.
//Hey, you’re the one who ran me ragged mapping elevations of that Copernicus crater or whatever they call it! My aft springs were all twingy… If I get zapped by Primus, say a nice prayer for my spark!//
//Allright, sit tight. I’ll round up the others. I guess if it’s everybody it won’t look bad.//
He could hear Bulky stomping around in that cute way he got when he got flustered. Thank big P a whack with the Forge had fixed up the tox-en damage in his leg. Though now that he had him on comms, Wheeljack couldn’t resist tweaking his wires a little.
//Hey, am I doin’ a heresy right now?//
//Kinda?//
He had a (thankfully non-horny) thought.
//Hey, if Prime sits in the oil long enough is it Holy Oil?//
Bulkhead, who had actually gone to Temple for all the holidays back before the war and had a little shrine to Solas Prime, the Builder in his hab, sent him a emphatic //CONVERSATION-OVER// glyph and closed the channel.
Fifteen minutes later Ratchet's bathtub was near its full capacity.
Bulkhead had made himself a home at the end of the structure, between the bottoms of Optimus' pedes and the back wall. Whellajck was in his prior position but, having turned his back on the Areas of Holy Compromise, was busy hiding his suspiciously heated faceplate in his sergeant’s chest.
Arcee was testing the temperature by sitting primly on Optimus' left pauldron and dipping her ankles in. As a racer-femme with thinner plating she was more suceptible to heat and cold variations and liked to get in slowly.
--------------------------------
Last to wander in, Bumblebee watched the whole thing with bemusement. With the extra weight displacement Wheeljack was clinging to Bulkhead in a bridal carry to keep from being submerged entirely. The oil was even lapping up at the top of Optimus' windshields, his wipers every now and then lazily swiping across.
--::Is there really room?::-- he buzzed before clearing his throat. "Everyone looks pretty cozy already.”
"Of course there is a place for you, Bumblebee." Optimus rumbled.
Bee shyly ducked his helm.
He understood that Optimus would've been uncomfortable taking the whole first soak by himself anyway, even if Ratchet told him to. That and he vaguely remembered baths being awesome. Convinced, the yellow scout clambered up to the top and was peering down dubiously at the assemblage of Cybertron and Earth’s mightiest mostly-submerged heroes until Optimus gently lifted him up and placed him atop his upper torso.
Bumblebee let out an embarrassed beep at first but quickly settled down.
Even though he was a ranked scout and a professional warrior, everyone on the team knew that he was still a young mech who had at least one more upgrade cycle to go to get to his final adult frame. (Dr. Greenberg, the new human, had muttered something about ‘child soldiers’ and looked pretty sad.) True, what humans would have called his 'childhood' had been mostly taken up by the war, but honestly getting assigned a frame-based function and being worked long hours in some factory on the bottom tier of Iacon didn’t sound any better. Quieter maybe, but probably bad in a different way.
Bumblebee had a scary-long medical log file but he also had purpose - an important job, friends. He got to go places, meet interesting Cons, and maybe kill them. Or race them, like Knockout. Knockout hadn’t been the worst. I mean, he was pretty awful but it was probably good that the war might be over soon. With the sorry shape their species was in, it would have sucked to have to shoot a medic.
Pulling his processor away from work and more towards nice stuff, like driving Raf around on the moon in his cute little spacesuit and all the human videogames they could play in the downtime, Bee went limp and settled himself across his mentor's broad chest, doorwings dropping down in subconscious contentment into the hot oil. A scout wasn’t given the luxury of defenceless postures often, but here: in a secure location, surrounded by his very capable combat unit but also his family, he let his plating lift up and the hot oil flow across his protoform letting out a series of helplessly contented buzzes and chirps. HIs vocalizer may have been restored but he couldn't find the words for how good and right this felt.
"There ya go, kid." Bulkhead said gently from further down. "Yannow there used to be public baths like this in Praxis. You'd never find oil this clean though. "
"Hey, is it Holy Oil if Optimus is in it?" Arcee said out loud, a rare teasing smile on her faceplate, flicking some of it off her ankle joint.
"Some traditions would mote it so.” Optimus said, with his usual solemnity. A glimmer of humor appeared in his optics “Though I am afraid, Arcee, that the Matrix holds no particular bath-enhancing properties."
"Shame." She laughed. "Still, good enough for me."
Gracefully she slid down off her commander’s pauldron, slipping into the liquid and coming to rest in the space under one of his arms. At first she stayed still, like a regal sculpture, until hedonism won out and she stretched out her arms and legs, flaring her plating and rotating her tires before letting her helm thunk against Optimus's side.
“Wow, needed that.” she sighed.
Bee raised his helm slightly. --::Ratchet, coming?::--
"Yes, Ratchet has been away too long. I believe he went in search of beneficial additives.”
"Oh yeah, June said that humans have those too.” Arcee mentioned, surfacing and carefully gripping one of Optimus’ engine blocks for balance. "Citric acid and something called ‘baking soda.’ Not sure how I feel about the name though. A ‘bath bomb’ sounds like something I’d like to give to Starscream.“
Just then Ratchet rounded the corner, stopped, opened his intake, noted the venn diagram of relaxed, enmeshed EM fields giving out an area-of-effect pulse of safety and contentment, put his servos on his hips, and gave up.
"Yo Doc," Wheeljack waved at him "find any bath bombs?" (He actually kind of liked the sound of it.)
Ratchet scowled mightily.
"I've got something for you, you over-hasty lout!"
He flourished and un-capped a canister of med-grade nanites and threw it rather violently at the oil next to Wheeljack's helm, just close enough to let the Wrecker know he definitely could have hit him. On contact with the oil the nanites came to life, dispersing and seeking out hard-to-reach areas of damage in the submerged Autobots’ frames.
"There is still room, old friend." Optimus said, perhaps a trifle too seriously for the absurd scene.
Very carefully, the Prime bent his knees and pulled his legs up so that there was a fresh pocket of space next to Wheeljack. Arcee ended up slightly more wedged against his armpit, Bee resting his chin on the notch of his collar assembly. Ratchet really should have objected more, but since the team soup was already underway his own minutely misaligned hip abductors were ruthlessly overtaking his propriety.
Somehow, by some small miracle of Primus, everyone fit.
Optimus dozed back into his daydreams, now and then stopping to pour fresh oil over Bumblebee’s doorwings, the way you would roll a barely-unfurled sparkling in a nutrient bath to coat it evenly.
Arcee, her natural wariness soothed almost forcibly by the vibrations of the enormous spark, holy artefact, and EM field next to her fell into recharge in an adorable ball.
Ratchet grumbled, his cooling system sucking in air and letting bubbles out through vents and gaps around his frame.
“Doc’s almost as good as a jacuzzi!” Whelejack pronounced, before using the bubbles’ cover to sneak a sly grope around the medic’s waist. Ratchet threatened Wheeljack with bodily harm. Bulkhead sent Ratchet a look of apology mixed with his own earnest appreciation.
Ratchet pulled out a medical-grade cleaning brush and threatened to strip every speck of moon-muck out of Wheeljack's wheel wells. Wheeljack, inhibitory circuits clearly fritzing from the heat, made some shameless flirty comments about what else a ‘foxy’ old medic could be doing with that long cylindrical brush, to the point where Bulkhead and Ratchet exchanged significant looks. Pouncing, the larger Wrecker held the smaller still as Ratchet’s engine gave a nearly sadistic rev. He brandished the brush, transformed a rough-surface rotary buffer out of his other arm and went to work on a wailing Wheeljack’s rims.
"Noooo, quit it Doc! You can’t leave ‘em too shiny I gotta rep to maintain!"
Bee giggled. Arcee smirked in her sleep.
Optimus-who-was-once-Orion oversaw all of it, smiled a private unnoticed smile, and pulled out a book.
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A half-hour or so later Jack, Miko, and Raf tiptoed out onto the catwalk to observe the scene below: Optimus reading a cracked data padd held in his injured arm, Bee and Arcee burbling in recharge, Ratchet still happily scrubbing the stuffing out of Wheeljack while Bulkhead made sympathetic noises and absolutely refused to let his fellow Wrecker out of his vice-like grip.
Miko muffled her high-pitched squeals with her balled-up left hand as she efficiently took a million pictures with her right. Jack, knowing Ratchet’s sensitive audials, tried to shush her further, secretly glad that he had something to do to keep himself from getting too feelsy. Raf asked Miko to take some shots of Bumblebee in particular, and then pulled out his laptop and started tapping out notes on Cybertronian relaxation traditions that he could compare with the anthropologists later.
Eventually the kids crept out the back exit and June, hearing the story of why her usual informal alien daycare was out of commission, cooed over the pictures and took them all out to see a movie instead.
~