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"Well, you'll have a hell of a recommendation letter," says Ratchet. The little communicator pad raises the pitch of his voice until it is reminiscent of a cybermouse. "From me, I mean. Bumblebee's will be slag. But you're a smart kid with leadership experience. I'm sure you'll do fine."
"Yeah," sighs Optimus. "Maybe." He fiddles with his drink and hates himself, the same thing he's been doing for the last week, only now he has a witness.
"Don't give up," Ratchet tells him. "It's a big spaceport. There is a job for you somewhere."
"Sure." Optimus fidgets on the café stool, which rocks back and forth precariously. "It's a big spaceport, and I'm a talented mech."
"Exactly." Ratchet nods, then briefly looks off screen. "Listen, I've got to go. Call me tomorrow?"
Optimus does not have the shanix to be in this café tomorrow, and he can't afford the communications package for his tiny habsuite. He nods anyway. Ratchet's little face disappears from the little screen.
And Optimus is forced back into the terrifying reality that is his current life.
Not for the first time, he wonders where he went wrong. So many little places, he supposes. He hadn't disliked the spacebridge repair team, not really, and they weren't bad at their jobs. But they weren't needed either. He wasn't needed on Cybertron before that, and now he's not needed here, either.
On days when he doesn't want to blame himself, he blames the Decepticons. A half dozen spacebridges are being left to rust rather than allow them to land functioning in Decepticons servos. Disintegrating spacebridges don't need repair crews. So here he is.
He sips at his drink slowly to prolong the time he can monopolize the low table. He scans the café - rickety chairs, a polished bar-counter, a 'Help Needed' sign by the register, a steady whirring from the steamer, a long line of frustrated customers. His last look.
It's not that there aren't jobs on the spaceport, it's only that he's not qualified for any of them, and none of them are desperate enough to take him. He sighs.
A mech steps out from behind the counter with a pen. He unhooks the 'Help Needed' sign from the register and adds the word 'Desperately', caret-ed in-between the two words.
I could have been a Prime, Optimus thinks. What will I tell Ratchet tomorrow? Not that he'll tell Ratchet anything tomorrow, he supposes - he can't afford the café's energon any longer.
He savors his last sip, then walks to the serving counter to return his cup. The mech behind the counter - there are only two employees, one on the register and one making the drinks - takes his cup from him with a quiet "thanks". Then he turns away.
Optimus, feeling the overwhelming urge to stay in this place, this haven of his last few weeks, says: "Hey! I really like the Tungsten-Iron whip."
The mech turns back and looks at Optimus tiredly. "Thanks," he repeats. Then, with a sudden outburst of energy: "Do you want to learn how to make it?"
It's not as if Optimus has anything better to do. He says yes. The mech ushers him back behind the counter and directs him back into a little office. (The femme at the register voices her disapproval, but the line couldn't possibly get any longer, anyway). Optimus signs a datapad for 'legal reasons', and the next thing he knows the barista is teaching him how to make a Tungsten-Iron whip. And then after that a sweetened infuser, and a condensed oil sludge, and a arsenic-topped circuit thriller. They send each completed drink across the counter.
It seems like a decent way to waste a day of being unemployed, Optimus thinks, and maybe they'll let him come back and use their internet tomorrow in exchange for helping out.
Eventually the last customer trickles out, the cashier closes down the register, and the ship lights begin to slowly dim to remind the populace that it is time for artificial night. And it is then that the mech - whose name is Treadburner and who is the manager, Optimus had learned - hands him a chip.
"There is a bank transfer two floors down," he says. "Your shift starts tomorrow at midday."
And Optimus, staring at the coin encoded with Primus knows how much money (but likely not much at all), realizes that he might have just gotten himself employed.
Well, he thinks, at least now he can call Ratchet.
The next day he arrives several hours early, says hello to the two morning-shift mechs behind the counter, goes to his usual table, and calls Ratchet.
"Hey kid!" says Ratchet.
"Hey!" Optimus puts on his biggest smile. "I think I am employed," he tells him, and then he is suddenly overcome with doubt. But they had paid him, had they not? It was probably a job.
"That's great! What do they have you doing? Police training? Guard work? Electrician training."
Optimus fiddles with his digits. "Well..." he starts. "I'm not really qualified for any of that."
"Kid, that's exactly what you're qualified for." Ratchet pauses. His tiny head crooks. "Well then what are you doing?"
"I..." Optimus has the realization that he might be a little ashamed of this. Not that there is anything shameful about being a barista, just that saying it out loud would...solidify just how useless all of his life had been beforehand. Just how much life he has wasted. Just how much he failed at it.
But Ratchet wouldn't care. Ratchet couldn't be anymore disappointed in him than he already must be.
"I am working at the café!" he says, with an overabundance of cheer to defeat any of Ratchet's possible cynicism. Luckily, the datapad is too small and the connection too flimsy to appropriately convey Ratchet's reaction, which is mostly silent.
When Ratchet finally speaks, he is not as disappointed as Optimus had feared. He nods, a movement that Optimus can barely discern through the jolting of the live feed. "Good," he tells Optimus. "I'm glad you are getting back on your pedes. They are giving you enough hours? Something to get your mind moving."
Optimus doesn't know what his hours will be yet, but the hour or so of work yesterday had flown by. "It is kind of like space bridge repair," he says. "New, and kind of weird, but engaging. And maybe I will make friends."
Ratchet nods. "That's good," he says again. "That's really good." Optimus thinks Ratchet might have been more worried than he'd let on.
Treadburner calls him a "good barista" during his first week, a compliment made more exquisite by his usual “exhausted and middle-aged” act. This is the highlight of Optimus's existence for a long 35 seconds, until a customer complains that their jellies aren't cold enough. He checks the back of their package, on which the cashier had scribbled "heat".
"Did you tell the cashier you wanted it heated?" he asks the customer. She stamps her pede. "Yes, but just to make it crispy. I didn't want it hot ."
Optimus's day takes a dramatic dip after that. HighAlert, the cashier, just laughs. "Customers are customers," she says, and prances away to make a double drip oil-energon shake.
But the next day Treadburner tells him he is picking up on everything impressively fast, and Optimus is once again convinced that he might have found the only job in the universe he isn’t miserable at. It helps that HighAlert reassures him that no customer in the universe is correct, ever, and that if they complain it means you are doing very well.
"They see someone doing things like it's second nature and they assume you're daydreaming or something. Makes you an easy target, they think, when actually you just know your stuff." He supposes she knows her stuff - she's worked customer service on a dozen outposts all around the galaxy.
Optimus's ego is the biggest it's ever been. He even brags to Ratchet about it.
"I made a triple shot arsenic whip with my optics shut," he tells him. "And I fixed the heating press. They gave me overtime for it."
Optimus also happens to be richer than he's ever been, though that might not be saying much. The Academy had taken most of his pay away for in-camp rent, and the space-bridge team had gotten only a pittance. He hoards his money like a predacon guards shiny things. He doesn't even buy internet - he gets it from the café for free.
The café becomes his life. He eats there, works there, speaks to Ratchet there. He loves it.
"It's good that you are enjoying yourself," Ratchet says. "Are you going to hitchhike over to Cybertron soon? We have cafés over here."
The purpose of the space station was to help Optimus get experience in some useful field, out where they need anyone they can get. But Optimus doesn't want to go back to Cybertron. He wants to drink his Tungsten-Iron whip and draw the little cartoons on the daily specials board.
"I don't know," Optimus says instead. "I need a little more time."
"I just don't like you way out there alone. The Decepticons are scooping up planets, bridges, anything they can get their hands on. It's not safe."
"Well, they are probably headed for Cybertron," Optimus replies, glumly. "So I'm probably better off here.”
Antiak Station resides in the Antiak cluster, which is located in the middle of nowhere. Quite literally - there is a distinct absence of matter surrounding the cluster for a hundred lightyears. To arrive at the station one must take a space bridge jump or a ship capable of jumping. Its location makes it a stopover for plenty of long-distance travelers, all of whom want something to eat. Many of them happen to be mechanicals. So it's no surprise when HighAlert says:
"I heard there's a huge group of Cybertronians that just arrived. Got themselves a company suite with forty rooms and a big-aft meeting room."
"Passing through?" asks Treadburner, sounding very much in his state of perpetual put-upon-ness.
"I don't know. Maybe we can ask them."
Optimus tunes this out as he tunes most workplace gossip out - he has no desire to interact with anyone he might have once known from Cybertron. All his processor hears is that they might be having a rush later.
He keeps his head down and daydreams about nothing at all. That's the issue with his daydreams lately - he can't imagine returning to the Academy, or regaining his previous stature; Optimus cannot even be a spacebridge repair crew captain again. He imagines staying in this café for the rest of his life. It's not terrible. He enjoys it. But it is depressingly limiting, it feels like. Constrained to this station and this café.
He is making a sludge split when HighAlert beside him inhales deeply, sputtering her engine. The hanging bell on the door rings.
"Optimus," hisses HighAlert. "Switch with me."
He looks up from his half-made sludge. "I'm making-"
"Yeah. Switch." HighAlert does not wait for his response; she sneaks around him, shoves him towards the register, and sweeps his sludge off to another counter.
Optimus blinks in surprise, and watches his sludge disappear down the counter. He feels mildly piqued by this behavior, especially since he is less than comfortable with the register. But he knows to log her out, which he does, and how to log himself in, which he starts. Halfway through this process he realizes that there is a very large customer standing in front of him. A large gray customer.
"One second," he apologizes, "I have to log into the system."
"Of course," says the customer. His voice is deep, and a little raspy, and sounds quite a bit like a movie star back home who played a wonderful variety of sexy action-movie heroes. Optimus slips and hits a 9 instead of a 7, and begins to get quite nervous about his fumbling. He hasn't seen a good movie in a long time.
"Alright," he says a moment later, having successfully logged himself in. "What can I get for you?" He finally looks up from the screen, to the mech's very recognizable face. "Oh," he says.
"I have a large order," says Megatron, leader of the Decepticons, destroyer of worlds. "I have it written down. Would you prefer I read it off, or give you the pad?"
"Uh," mumbles Optimus, hating HighAlert's metal guts. "You can, uh, read it?"
It comes out more like a question, which is perfectly understandable because standing before him is Megatron, eater of Autobot children, and he is quite tall. Very tall.
"It is a total of 16 drinks," begins Megatron. Optimus might have internally groaned, if only he weren't suddenly living in an alternate universe. He must have been poisoned. "It starts with an Ethylene glycol freeze, I assume this shop has some odd name for it."
Optimus nods stiffly, but the response comes out practiced and steady. "Eth-blaster. Small, medium, or large?"
"Make everything a large," replies Megatron, black-hole of the Autobot solar system. "These tend to be civilian sizes."
Optimus clicks the little eth-blaster graphic on the screen, then selects large. "What else?" This is the most surreal experience of his life, he thinks.
"Two selenide shots in a large hot energon," says Megatron. Optimus grimaces, and Megatron emits a laugh which Optimus could never believe, by sheer nature of its originator. "Yes, I know. My second has disgusting taste. But you sell them."
"We do sell them," admits Optimus unhappily.
"Three crystal arsenic blends, but not too well mixed," Megatron continues. "And a fourth but very well mixed." He looks up from his pad (or rather, down further at Optimus). "Primus, it's like I don't know these people at all."
Optimus, despite himself, snickers. He will call it his customer service laugh. He inputs the overly sweet drinks into the computer, adding four crystal arsenic blends, only...
"And, for the more sane, three infusors." Megatron sighs, "Of course they all want different flavors..."
"One second," Optimus says. A moment later, he realizes he has just shushed Megatron, king of all things evil. He grimaces and looks up apologetically, hoping his large eyes will signal that murdering him would ruin all chance at getting his terribly long order. "The computer is having problems," he explains.
Megatron nods, which is a much better reaction than murder. Optimus returns to the screen and cancels the four drinks. Then he inputs the first three together, then the last one, and does so with extraordinary speed. He is practically shaking on his treads, and it takes him a moment to realize that the idea of Megatron thinking he is a blushing newbie (though realistically he is) is what has him so embarrassed. The embarrassment, naturally, worsens the reality of his blushing new-ness. He pulls his field in tight.
"Alright," he says when he's finished, with forced cheer. "What's next?"
Having discovered the register's propensity for being annoying, Optimus begins to input each drink separately, just to be safe. It makes the process take longer, but the shame of failing at his tiny little job in front of Megatron, ruler of worlds, keeps him cautious. Behind him, Treadburner and HighAlert have begun to make the drinks they’ve overheard.
Despite the time, no line forms behind Megatron.
"Alright," Optimus says after the 15th drink has been inputted. "Last but not least?"
Megatron subspaces his datapad. "The last one is for me." He looks past Optimus at the menu boards that line the back wall. He deliberates for a few moments, his face clearly showing...something. Not confusion, but not displeasure. It is almost...cute, actually. He is clearly working his lower lip inside his mouth.
Eventually, he says: "What would you recommend?"
Optimus has, in his week and a bit working here, been asked that question four times. He always responds the same way, and has never once felt any nervousness with his answer. "The Tungsten-Iron Whip," he replies.
Megatron smiles. His dentae are not nearly as sharp as Optimus had imagined, but he does have decently large incisors. "One of those, then," he says, and that is when Optimus realizes the terrible, terrible mistake he had just made.
Primus, he's just recommended a Tungsten-Iron whip to Megatron, seducer of good mecha to the side of evil. He could have gone for something safe. A nice warm energon cube with flavored toppings. An oil mix. Primus help him.
Megatron looks at him expectantly. Optimus adds the Tungsten-Iron whip and considers his own death. "That's uh, 96 credits," he says.
Megatron emits a whistling sound.
"Yeah," says Optimus, sympathetic. "The station is in the middle of nowhere, so the prices get kinda..."
Megatron waves a servo. "I am intimately aware of the difficulties of deep-space supply chains," he says. He brings his wrist to the pay-meter, and it clicks and pulses green.
"It's going to take us..." Optius runs a frantic mental calculation in which he tries to determine which is less likely to get him slagged by a warbuild - to begin with an upsettingly large amount of time, or underestimate and be late.
"A while?" Megatron finishes for him. Optimus nods, thankful.
"We will be as quick as we can."
Megatron shrugs. "Better to take your time than mess up Starscream's order," he warns. "I will be in the corner reading."
"Great!" says Optimus, stupidly. Megatron smiles at him as he turns towards the corner booth. Optimus, caught in a state of...something, probably terror, watches this, frozen. Halfway to the table Megatron turns about, waves his datapad, and winks. Optimus blushes and, like a startled deer, bolts to the side and behind the sludge distiller.
Treadburner snickers. "You're gonna make him your special drink?"
"I always suggest the Tungsten-Iron whip," Optimus hisses back, feeling jarred and irate.
"Not while shaking like that you don't."
HighAlert, making a sweetened infusion, sidles up next to them, shaking as she goes. "You were stuttering."
"I was not."
"I mean, he's handsome," she says. “Terrifying - thanks for taking that for me - but kind of handsome.”
"He is not."
"I was just concerned about all the planet-conquering. But if that's your thing."
"It's not! I was entirely concerned about not being murdered," retorts Optimus. Their conversation has made him defensive and angry enough to forget his terror, and he grabs a to-go cup with more force than the act requires. His evil colleagues titter at him, but go back to making their 'Decepticon world-destroyer drinks'. Optimus sets about making a drink for the Decepticon world-destroyer.
Two pumps Tungsten, three pump Iron, a little sweetener, energon base, whip it. Easy-peasy. It's over before it's begun. He places it delicately on the counter, then peers around the corner to glimpse Megatron. He is reading, one elbow propped on the back of the too-small booth.
He glances back down at his drink and it looks inadequate. He has to carry it with both servos and he imagines it weighs almost as much as his helm, but...
They have stickers to identify special orders. He picks a few of the sparkly ones and decorates the domed lid. HighAlert, still emboldened by her secure place not handing Megatron, killer of millions, his drink, snickers.
"It's perfect," she says. "Make some of these damn crystal arsenic blends."
The drinks tally rises and rises as they work, until the countertop is a mess of cups. Then Optimus fetches the holders and loads the drinks into them. This seems to summon Megatron who, despite his large side, manages to arrive before the counter with an incredible stealth.
"Done?" he asks.
Optimus jolts. "Almost," he says. The last drink is being made by Treadburner. Optimus shifts from leg to leg. "Are you going to be able to carry these?"
"Strika is next door," replies Megatron. "Which one is mine?"
Optimus pushes the whip forward. "Um," he says, and nothing else.
Megatron extracts the whip from the carrying container, takes the straw that Optimus nervously passes him, and takes a sip. Optimus watches this in an abstract terror. Looking back on their previous interactions, he is now fairly confident this won't end in his death. Maybe. But he is overcome with a horrible, shaking anxiety, and his processor is quick to imagine Megatron's disappointed or upset face when the Tungsten kicks in.
Megatron's face betrays nothing at first. He sets the drink back down on the table, gaze distant and thoughtful. Then he says, "It's sweet. I get why a sweet-sparked thing like you would recommend it."
"Mhm," Optimus is waiting for the drop, and he does not properly recognize Megatron's words until it is too late. At that point, Megatron's face has morphed into curiosity, mild alarm, and finally understanding.
"Oh," Megatron says. Optimus wants to hide under the countertop and die.
Instead he smiles nervously. "It's not 'blow your mind out' spicy, but there is a kick."
"Hmmm." Megatron lifts his drink, takes another long sip, and looks Optimus up and down as if deciding whether or not to be impressed. Optimus preens just a little bit, which is to say that he lifts his chest and stands his tallest, which is only to about the bottom of Megatron's chassis.
"I revise my former statement," Megatron says. "I hope the kick represents the recommender as much as the initial sweetness."
HighAlert giggles. Optimus has the worrisome thought that perhaps Megatron, the actual bogeyman, has charmed Optimus’s colleagues. The teasing will increase with their confidence, he fears.
"I'm glad you like it," Optimus replies, feeling a bit unsteady. His faceplate is tight and his servos are too warm behind his back. He brings them forward and plays with the cup-holders. Treadburner swoops forward and places the final drink in the last open holder.
It is also at that moment that the café door jingles, letting in a femme the size of a town square, or maybe a small moon. Megatron turns and waves.
"Strika," he calls. "Did you find anything that suits your fancy?"
Strika appears to be the sort of mecha who never smiles. "No," she says. She approaches the counter. The café had become a near ghost town at Megatron's arrival, but now the door clatters as even the last few brave souls flee.
She collects two of the carrying containers. "Let's go. Lugnut says Blitzwing has already destroyed the table."
Megatron sighs. "He wanted an energy booster in his infuser. I didn't order it."
"Good." With that, Strika turns about and leaves the café. Optimus stares after her in the sort of shock that must affect everyone she encounters.
"She means 'thank you'." Megatron says.
"Huh?"
"She is gruff, but it's a facade." Megatron's voice has lowered to become a fake whisper, telling fake secrets. "You should see her around her conjunx. She's a cuddler." He pauses, and grins. "So am I."
And with that Megatron follows in his subordinates example, picks up the two remaining drink holders, and leaves Optimus in a stunned silence.
"Wow," says Treadburner, which feels like an understatement. He looks around the room. "I guess we have a little free time. Anyone want anything to drink?"
"Do you think he's rich?" HighAlert pokes Optimus in the side. "He must be."
"He has conquered many, many planets," says Optimus, feeling distant from the sound of his own voice. He repeats the words in his head like a mantra, because it hasn't quite settled in. Universe-conqueror, universe-conqueror, very very deadly, big bad.
HighAlert shrugs. "He didn't win. "
This pulls the most horrendous laughter of Optimus's existence from his mouth. When he has finally calmed down, he in-vents deeply and says: "Can I take my break? I need to call Ratchet."
"Huh," says Ratchet.
"Yeah," replies Optimus. "I think they've got a spacebridge working."
"To get all the way out there? Probably."
Optimus places his face gently in his hands, where he is determined to keep them until Treadburner calls the end of his break.
"Well," says Ratchet. "I'm not gonna tell any of the slaggers over here. Don't even think they'd listen. Don't antagonize the Decepticons. And don't tell them you used to be in the Academy. And don't talk to them."
"If they come back I'll have to talk to them," Optimus moans. "I'll have to. Was it not enough to embarrass myself in front of all of Cybertron? Now I have to do it in front of the slagging Decepticons too?"
"Better a fool than dead," says Ratchet. "Let's just hope they hate your café's drinks and never come back."
Megatron comes back the next day.
"Oh!" exclaims HighAlert when the doorbell jingles. "Here Optimus, you can trade."
Optimus eyes the register and avoids glancing at the large hunk of murder-metal walking towards the counter. "I don't want to trade."
"Trade."
"No."
"Hello Optimus," says Megatron. Optimus trades.
"It's almost the same order as yesterday," Megatron tells him. "With minor alterations. Blitzwing is allowed the energy-booster today."
Optimus smiles at the familiarity in his tone. Then he frowns, because he could not remember anything about the previous day's order except the Tungsten-Iron whip. "I didn't save the order," he admits.
"That's alright, I still have it written down." Megatron pulls a datapad from his subspace, and together they input a slightly modified order.
When they get to the infuser, Optimus speaks before he can think better of it. "Why does Blitzwing get the added booster today?" he asks. Megatron snorts.
"He stayed sane all morning," he says, as if that is a sensible explanation. "We are rewarding the insane personalities for good behavior.”
"Ah," says Optimus. He inputs the booster.
This time, instead of running off to the corner booth, Megatron positions himself by the counter where the finished drinks pile up. He makes himself more of a nuisance than Optimus would expect, until he realizes that Megatron's job is to be a nuisance to all those space bridge repair and security folks getting overrun, and then he becomes rather irate and turns his back.
Megatron doesn't seem to care in the slightest about this rejection. He chats with Treadburner while Optimus gives him the cold shoulder. But he is loud in a way that makes the more foolish parts of Optimus suspect he is trying to get his attention.
"It's all about finding good employees," Megatron is saying. "Ambitious, with spunk. And you need a few that are adorable, too, just to confuse the enemy. You've caught one of those, it seems."
"He fell from the sky," Treadburner tells him. "I guess he can work the cute angle, if you squint. I dunno about spunk though. Seems ambitious enough; learned nearly the entire menu the first day."
Optimus huffs very loudly to show his displeasure. HighAlert snickers.
Huff as he does, though, the displeasure is overshadowed by something else. Optimus hides his smile in the Tungsten-Iron whip.
When he delivers it to the counter, he places it directly in Megatron's waiting servos. He does not look at Megatron's grin, which probably looks very nice on his stupid, planet-conquering face. But then Optimus does anyway, despite himself, and stutters out a pointless question in response to its full concentrated force being directed upon him.
"Ummm, how long are you planning on being on the station?" he asks.
Megatron's optics narrow, and his smile falters. "Why?"
It is then that Megatron's position and history truly hit Optimus. He had known it, and felt it, but now it strikes him. The station is not only in danger because of the Decepticon presence (which had become far less frightening after the first drink order), but because of Megatron's enemies. Of which Optimus is one.
"Just...to know if I should save the order," Optimus stutters out. He'd already copied it onto the system.
Megatron's demeanor returns to flirtatious quickly enough to give Optimus whiplash. "Save it," he says. He pauses, then: "I will be here for seven more days."
After he leaves, HighAlert leans over (Optimus is not watching Megatron's aft as he exits, but it's a close thing.)
"Aww, shouldn't have saved it," she says. "Now you’ll have less time to flirt."
"That mech," Optimus replies, pointing to where the door is jingling closed. "Has conquered more planets than you have ever seen. There are history books about him."
HighAlert considers this deeply, which is to say she nods sagely for a moment and then replies: "Well, I bet he'd be fun for a couple nights, at least. Warframes come through here often enough for me to know they come in two flavors: crazy with a knife or crazy with a spike." HighAlert, Optimus thinks, is certainly an outpost-raised civilian.
“I think he is likely the former,” he tells her.
Megatron returns the day after that. Most of the drinks have already been made, but Optimus saves the Tungsten-Iron whip for last. Megatron leans over the counter and watches him make it, a crime that goes unpunished because his grin is quite attractive.
"Highlight of my day," he is telling HighAlert as she packs the drinks into the to-go holders. "The only break I get from the yelling of my subordinates."
She snickers, and Optimus watches in the reflection of the heating press as she turns to follow Megatron's gaze. "None of your Decepticons have fine afts?" she asks.
Optimus spins around and sends her a withering glare, but Megatron is laughing. "I will make no comment on the afts of baristas," he says, like a true fake gentleman. Optimus extends the newly-whipped drink and slowly turns it, threatening to upend it on the floor.
"Don't make a mess," calls Treadburner, who is taking the order of a customer now brave enough to enter the store with the laughing Lord of Destruction. Opitmus rights the cup and switches tactics, miming licking the top of the cone.
"Well, that's more a reward than a threat," Megatron tells him. Optimus's frame heats up against his will. He slams the drink on the counter before it can melt.
Megatron comes back the day after that, too.
"Wouldn't it make more sense to be buying stimulants in the morning?" Optimus asks him. "You know, before your meetings?"
"But then you wouldn't be on shift," is Megatron's reply. A pause, then "and we consider this an afternoon present. They only get it if they don't misbehave."
"Your high-ranking generals misbehave?"
Megatron grins. "Like sparklings," he says. "But not me. When I misbehave it is entirely adult."
And the day after that, he comes back again.
Optimus makes the Tungsten-Iron whip and briefly wonders if Megatron even likes it.
"No," Treadburner tells him. "It probably isn't his favorite. He's just flirting with you."
Despite everything, Optimus is not an idiot. He knows Megatron has been flirting. He just doesn't think a few days is enough time for it to matter. And, he reminds himself, Megatron remains a warlord. One who buys his subordinates treats when they don't throw conference tables into walls, but a warlord nonetheless.
But it feels good, Megatron's attention on him. Embarrassing, but good all the same. It won't last, it never could, because Optimus is a barista on a random space station, running away from his planet and past, and Megatron wants to conquer the universe. Optimus couldn't conquer a universe, even if he wanted to. He would be miserable at it.
Optimus is mentally counting down the days until Megatron leaves. He is ashamed to admit he is saddened by each passing day.
He doesn't tell Ratchet that, of course. "He's been fine," is what he says. "The station hasn't had any trouble. They are good customers. He watches us make the drinks and chats."
"Chats?" comes the question from the tiny, blurry head.
Optimus shrugs. "Yeah," he says. "He just talks with us."
And then there are two days left. Optimus makes the same drinks slowly, as if that might extend the Decepticon's stay. It doesn't, but it means they have more drinks left to prepare when Megatron arrives, which is close enough.
When Megatron enters, there is no scattering of patrons. The room, filled with adventurers, has adjusted to the latest disturbance with surprising ease, considering that most of the Cybertronians there are Autobots or Autobot-adjacent. Of course, so are the staff.
Optimus begins to make Megatron's Tungsten-Iron whip. Megatron finds his place at the bar-counter with a sigh.
"Tell me, how is business on this station?" he asks. Optimus, pouring in the sweetener, looks to Treadburner.
"Fine," Treadburner says. "Pretty good. No competition, lots of travelers."
Megatron hums. "And you source your energon from...?"
"Tilian. They have long-haulers that stop here on the way to Cybertronian outposts."
Megatron nods. "Who owns the long-haulers? The Tilians, Cybertron, or a third party?"
"Third party. Some Entilli company, I think. Organic, handles shipping of all kinds of things."
"Good." Optimus watches Megatron tap the bar-counter with his digits, and then sees as he abruptly changes. His voice softens into something friendlier. He leans across the counter in time for Optimus, done whipping, to set the drink by his servo.
"Optimus," Megatron says, smiling. Optimus looks for his sharp incisors, half-hidden. "How are you today?"
"You are leaving in two days," Optimus says.
Megatron nods. "Very possibly."
"Possibly?"
Megatron does not answer. He does, however, change the conversation in such a way that Optimus forgets this.
"I was wondering if you might join me for dinner," Megatron asks. "I have not been on the station long, so I would appreciate your opinions on suitable restaurants, as well as any other amenities."
Megatron's chest is very, very large, Optimus thinks. Aloud he says: "I haven't been here long either. You should take Treadburner, if you have questions about the station."
Behind him, HighAlert sighs.
Megatron, clearly amused, says "I would prefer your unique perspective."
Optimus stares up at Megatron, whose frame would take up the entire page of a history book no matter how small the picture. "Sure," he says, stupidly. "My shift ends at 8. You can meet me here, if you like."
Megatron nods triumphantly, then reaches over and extracts the Tungsten-Iron whip from Optimus's hands. "Good," he says. "I will see you then."
Naturally, a date with the greatest enemy to the Autobot cause is a terrible idea. So, also naturally, Optimus immediately takes his break and calls Ratchet.
Ratchet pauses for a long time upon hearing the news. And then, carefully, he says: "Well, the Autobot cause hasn't given you anything but trouble. It's not a brilliant idea, but as long as you don't go running away with him, and as long as you don't tell him you were at the Academy....it's still a bad idea. Decepticons are…well, they’re Decepticons."
Optimus nods in understanding, certain that he is going to do it anyway. He'll take Ratchet's advice though: no running away, and no telling him about his past. That, he thinks, is basic self-preservation.
But the moment Megatron appears back at the café door, presenting an arm for Optimus to take, he realizes that this all will be a terrible, dangerous mistake. He is in over his helm, almost literally, what with Megatron twice his height, and he has the sudden and overwhelming need to warn Megatron about how terrible a dinner date he would be.
"I have something to tell you," he announces, loudly. Treadburner is in the process of closing, and HighAlert has stuck around to see them off. They couldn't defend him against Megatron, but they could at least call security. Maybe Optimus will have time to hide.
Megatron looks him over. "Yes?"
"I..." Optimus invents. "Was previously in the Autobot Academy. My name was Optimus Prime."
Megatron blinks. Optimus wonders if Ratchet will hold a funeral.
"Are you an Autobot now?" Megatron asks, eventually. He makes no move to shoot Optimus through the chest.
"They kicked me out," admits Optimus. It is almost worse than admitting he had been a Prime - admitting he had failed. He tries to explain himself, but it comes out stumbling. "I had...I was leading, and I made a judgment call that wasn't proper procedure. To save a life, but my friend died. And the mech I saved sort of, threw me under the bus. And I think Ultra Magnus wanted to get rid of me anyway? He never liked me, I think."
The grin that grows on Megatron's face is beautiful. "What a wonderful thing to fail at!" he announces. "And there is the spunk. Hints of the Tungsten, now kicked in entirely. And now you are a barista? What an upgrade!" He is speaking to himself and the universe more than Optimus, which is fine because Optimus has lost the ability to understand a word of it.
In fact, Optimus can't quite get a grip on the situation. The un-realness of the first day Megatron had walked through the door, the flirtation, the date, it is nothing to the un-realness of Megatron's current enthusiasm.
And he is enthusiastic.
"Strika will be pleased with me," Megatron says. "It was she who insisted I get 'back in the game', as it were. And now I will bring back a mech kicked out by Ultra Magnus? I knew there was something about you. Let's find Strika!"
"Uh," says Optimus. And then he gets a little mad. "You promised me dinner. I'm not going around Decepticon quarters so you can show me off as an Autobot failure. If you've decided to be done with me, fine, but I'm not-"
"Done with you?" Megatron exclaims. "I am just getting started with you. In fact, you've pushed me off the fence! My decision is made. We are conquering Antiak spaceport. I won't be leaving tomorrow after all."
Somewhere behind them, HighAlert gasps. Treadburner sighs and whispers "I knew it."
"What?!" Optimus cries. And then, embarrassingly, "Why do you keep conquering my workplaces!?"
"Let's have dinner and discuss your future role." Megatron says, re-extending his arm. "Would you consider reducing your hours in the café?"
"Frag," mutters Treadburner.
Optimus eyes the arm. Then he remembers Ratchet's advice. Then he throws Ratchet's advice away again.
"I am not qualified for anything," he warns Megatron. "But I'll give you my resume."