A Group Project

Rodimus leaned against his hand, placed on the desk right over the datapads Megatron had been trying to sort through.

“Hey, so, I’ve got this idea.” The words came with a trademarked, mischievous smirk.

Hardly surprising, Megatron thought. Rodimus usually had several bouncing around in his processor, many ill-advised at best, though more than a few were truly brilliant.

Megatron sighed, crossing his arms to prevent himself from trying to pry the datapads free. He had already lost too many datapads that way. By now, he would say he had learned his lesson. Despite all appearances to the contrary, Rodimus was an excellent hostage taker… if the hostages were reports.

“What is it this time?”

“Take it easy.” Rodimus grinned, practically beaming, a sure sign that Megatron was not going to like what came out of his mouth next. “You’re gonna love this one.”

Doubtful, at best, but Megatron decided to be congenial and say nothing. Instead, he just wordlessly nodded for Rodimus to get on with it.

“Great, so… what if I brought a friend over?”

Megatron squinted at him for a second in confusion.

“Why are you asking my permission to have a friend over?”

Rodimus had never asked that before, not once since Megatron had moved into the captain’s quarters with him. He just brought whomever over whenever it suited him. Drift was often over to play video games or watch holonet reruns. Sometimes Swerve or Tailgate would come over… or both at the same time. Or any number of others that Rodimus enjoyed spending casual time with.

The parade of guests was occasionally aggravating, but the disruption was usually easy to ignore, especially since none of them seemed to really expect Megatron to join in the socializing.

And it wasn’t just Rodimus who filled their quarters with guests.

Megatron too occasionally asked Minimus to come sit with him and read or engage in in-depth discussions about a given text.

“You’ve never asked me that before,” he continued, “Why start now?”

“No, okay, listen though.”

Rodimus extended the index finger of his free hand and held it out in front, a melodramatic gesture to request patience.

Sure, fine; he would wait to see where Rodimus was going with this.

“This time is special.”

How nonspecific.

“Special how exactly?”

Rodimus stood up straight and clapped his hands before rubbing his palms together.

“So get this, right? I’m talking about having a friend over for a super special, extra fun time.”

He winked with each emphasized word. While Megatron knew it was for some effect, the back of his processor briefly wondered if Rodimus was perhaps developing a twitch or if one of his facial nerves was getting pinched, the beginnings of some sort of unfortunate palsy. He didn’t relish the thought of having to hold Rodimus still—a mythical feat in its own right—to fix whatever was wrong with his wiring.

Megatron tilted his head to the side, not comprehending whatever subtext Rodimus was avoiding making explicit. There was something to be said for the value of subtlety, but Rodimus had overshot it straight into obtuse vagary.

With a sigh, Rodimus clapped his hands again, though this time with disappointment rather than enthusiasm. He gestured with his hands pressed together like he was dousing for water for reasons unknowable.

“For someone so smart, sometimes you’re as dense as lead, babe. I’m talking about having a threesome. C’mon.”

Oh.

“I see.”

While waiting for Rodimus to return from an “errand”—Rodimus had refused to elaborate on its nature—Megatron sat on the worn couch after clearing away the clutter from the floor.

Trash and belongings tended to accumulate whenever Megatron was on duty and away from the habsuite. Rodimus tried his best, of course, but that best was usually piles of things. It was still an improvement over an even spread of debris—empty snack tins, discarded packaging, moist mesh towels from the washracks, crumbs from those snack tins, and empty cubes—across their quarters’ limited floorspace. Piles were also easier for Megatron to tidy all at once, so he would take the small victory.

Small steps, but for now they had reached an amicable equilibrium.

Megatron expected Rodimus back from his “errand” before their “guest” was due to arrive.

At least the place would be presentable whenever they showed up.

Ever since Rodimus had mentioned the idea, Megatron had been trying to figure out just whom his “roommate” had had in mind. There weren’t many that seemed plausible, either because Rodimus had shown no interest in them and/or the other way around.

Rather than just tell Megatron the person’s identity upfront so he could decide without the person present, Rodimus had promised it would be a “surprise.”

Unfortunately, that meant that if Megatron backed out or didn’t approve of the choice in partner, he would now have to say to that person’s face rather than obfuscating with a general lack of interest in the event.

Most of the crew were complete nonstarters.

Out of the handful that remained anywhere in the realm of plausibility, Drift was the most likely, given his closeness with Rodimus. That was the most obvious answer. Maybe Rodimus had assumed Megatron would just deduce the new mystery lover’s identity and that he wouldn’t have any objections.

He sighed, leaning back against the plush upholstery of the sofa. No wonder Rodimus liked to nap on this stupid thing. It was surprisingly comfortable.

Drift, however ideal on the surface, would be an… awkward choice, partially because they had been… close before they had both thrown down their prior allegiances and partially because ever since they had both returned from their respective exiles, they had silently agreed to avoid each other outside of work.

It wasn’t as though Drift wasn’t appealing; he did have his charms, after all. Megatron could appreciate that—and had in another life. When he and Deadlock had both worn another badge, sometimes they had kept each other’s nights warm.

Even though Drift had discarded Deadlock’s heavy armor and gloomier color palette for lighter and brighter plating, he was still pleasant to behold. It was no wonder that Ratchet was quite taken with him.

Megatron had long ago, before even seeing Drift again on the Lost Light, decided to leave the old hurts alone so that he and Drift could both move on.

However, there was no way Rodimus hadn’t noticed the just-civil distancing, hadn’t noticed that two of the people he was closest to almost pointedly did not interact with each other.

Or maybe he’d been willfully ignorant.

Or maybe this was some scheme to fix it.

Or maybe Rodimus had picked up some other mech that Megatron hadn’t even considered to bring home for some “adventure.”

Perhaps he’d lucked out against all odds and Rodimus had managed to invite Ratchet. Now that would have been a pleasant surprise, a handsome doctor on a “house call” for a private “tune up.”

A knock sounded at the door, jarring him from his thoughts.

Probably not Rodimus, given that he could usually let himself in when he didn’t forget the code or keep transposing the same digit multiple times in a row.

However, he had assured Megatron that he would return prior to any… liaising.

Megatron got up and answered the door, manually sliding the door just enough to see out. It was hard to break old habits gained from dodging assassination attempts.

Drift stood on the other side, looking a little uneasy as he kept his spinal struts unusually straight.

A cold, conflicted discomfort swirled around Megatron’s spark.

Maybe he could play dumb, take a page right out of Rodimus’s play book.

“Are you looking for Rodimus?” he asked, not even letting Drift have the chance to open his mouth before providing an answer of his own. “He’s not here.”

Drift crossed his arms and squinted.

It wasn’t impossible that Drift had simply shown up to play video games at an inopportune time, without any knowledge of the private “party” that Rodimus had been planning.

“Yeah, I know he’s not.”

Dammit.

“Then why—“

“He told me to wait here for him.”

Of course, Rodimus had told him that. Of course. It should have been no surprise.

“We’re expecting company,” he countered, still leaning on the plausible deniability of not knowing why Drift was at their door. If he verbalized his assumption that Drift was, in fact, here to interface, and he was wrong, well…. Developing a reputation as some sort of lecher was one of the last things he needed.

Drift, however, merely uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on his hips—He didn’t have his swords with him… or at least not any that Megatron could see, not even empty scabbards.

Interesting.

“I should hope so.”

Rodimus had done this on purpose, specifically to make Megatron sit alone with Drift.

Megatron’s instincts on whom his “roommate” would have been invited for some … recreation had been spot on.

With a sigh, Megatron slid the door to the shared quarters fully open.

Megatron and Drift sat on opposite ends of the couch, sitting in purposeful silence as meaningless drama played out on the glowing holonet screen.

Over an hour and a half had passed since Drift had arrived and Rodimus still had not shown up. Not even a comm message or ping.

If not for the fact that Rodimus was easily distracted, Megatron would have been concerned rather than aggravated. It still, however, seemed rather a long time for Rodimus to force Drift and Megatron to sit in each other’s presence.

The holonet displayed some rerun that Rodimus had left in earlier, the poorly mixed audio track blaring in a tinny sound shift. Megatron had neglected to unplug the dataslug earlier, so when Drift had turned the screen back on, in lieu of having a conversation, the ancient programming just resumed playing from wherever it had stopped.

Some mech had just been fired from their job and needed to woo their boss into giving them their job back, that they’re really the best worker for that position and no one else could make their boss happy like they could. It was either that or the obvious alternative of starving and having their employer-sponsored alt-mode exemption revoked. From what Megatron could tell, it was supposed to be a comedy series, with job-related mishaps each episode. The previous conflict had been the main protagonist being accused of employment infidelity after a case of mistaken identity.

Absolutely ridiculous, but even “mindless” entertainment had a purpose, he supposed.

In this case, the purpose was avoiding an awkward conversation with Drift.

Unfortunately, this stalemate had to end.

Not just because the dataslug had just finished playing the final episode, given the sudden dark screen after the ending credits, but also because they had to sort something out before Rodimus returned.

Even if what they would tell him might be “no, this won’t work.”

Despite being “dark,” the holoscreen hummed softly and still threw off the smallest amount of gray light, a signal that it was still on.

Megatron turned the appliance off with the remote that had been left on the low table in front of the couch before tossing the remote back onto the table.

“So, I assume you know why Rodimus asked you to come over.”

Drift gave a curt nod.

“And that reason is… what exactly?”

“Did he not tell you?” Drift had a clueless look on his face.

Clever.

It seemed Drift was also hesitant to acknowledge the situation. Either that, or he truly didn’t know, which was a possibility, that Rodimus had arranged a prank of some kind.

The prank idea, however, lacked veracity; the twitch at the corner of Drift’s mouth a tell that this innocence was merely a mask, a veneer.

“He might have, but he might not have.” Megatron shrugged, not quite willing to show his proverbial hand just yet. “For the sake of argument, let’s presume he didn’t.”

“Then he’ll have some explaining to do when he gets here, won’t he?”

Drift smiled broadly, further playing up the act. Megatron could see the points of his fangs, just barely visible like he was restraining himself from flashing them.

Come to think of it, since seeing Drift again, Megatron couldn’t recall him baring his teeth often.

Autobots tended to find fangs an unsettling fashion statement, the modification having been common—though not ubiquitous—among Decepticons, a sign of weaponized independence and that, even if disarmed, they remained some manner of threat.

Megatron had encountered some Autobots and non-aligned mechs with them as well, but they were a rarity.

He had also heard of defectors having their fangs removed, replaced with more factory standard teeth by medics either to more properly assimilate or for any number of personal reasons.

On the other hand, Drift hadn’t done that, even with his significant frame changes after throwing off the guise of Deadlock.

Nor had Megatron for that matter. There had been some things he had been unwilling to lose, though he had filed them back a little—just enough to blunt the points—for ease of maintenance, something Rodimus occasionally bemoaned as he, in stark contrast to the faction’s aesthetic norms, found fangs attractive.

It looked like Drift hadn’t altered his fangs in the slightest, the warm pseudo-incandescent “mood” light of the habsuite—one of Rodimus’s dubious decor decisions—glinting off the sharp points. No matter how long Drift had been with the Autobots, that was still a Decepticon’s grin.

“Yes, yes, of course, but I’m asking you.”

“Maybe he didn’t tell me either.”

A blatant lie; Drift had already admitted to knowing.

“I find that highly doubtful.”

Megatron huffed.

“Yeah, well, I also doubt he didn’t tell you.”

Drift finally let his teeth show fully, unaltered fangs on shameless display.

An involuntary thought of letting Drift sink those in between the narrow seams of metal plating or in the vulnerable separations between delicate cables popped up in his processor.

Rodimus, perhaps, had figured out that Megatron too found such weaponized anatomy appealing. That would explain the time Rodimus had offered to get the mod, only to give up after a few days when he kept cutting his tongue on the test, glue-on pair. It would also explain Rodimus’s choice of third participant, though… that could have just been an amusing coincidence.

Maybe.

Megatron doubted the coincidence more the longer Drift smiled.

“I mean, you’re his boyfriend, after all.”

“Roommate,” Megatron inaccurately corrected.

“Sure, sure.” Drift lifted his hands, wiggling the first two fingers on each hand in an “air quotes” gesture. Insufferable. “‘Roommate.’”

“There’s no need to insinuate—" But having sensed an opening in the argument, a place to poke and prod, Drift was quick to move, to pounce on it like cybercat on a glitchmouse. He scooted across the couch towards Megatron, taking the center seat before any explanation of just what was being insinuated could occur.

At some point since the conversation had started, a shift occurred that Megatron hadn’t initially noticed, a shift from avoiding having to interact to seeing if they could bait each other into admitting that they knew what Rodimus had asked of them.

And now, yet another shift: this one to Drift taking the opportunity to tease, by falling into the easy familiarity of presumably good-natured antagonism to sidestep the awkward questions, an answer without actually answering. When he had been Deadlock, he had always enjoyed opportunities to bully those around him. Drift hadn’t lost that as an Autobot, just like he hadn’t lost that sharp bite.

The discomfort of not having talked about the metaphorical behemoth in the room was not resolved, however, simply set aside. Perhaps Drift hoped to bury it by skipping to something else, something distracting to not bother unpacking until later.

On the center seat of the couch, Drift took care to avoid actually touching Megatron, as though he were still pretending he wasn't here to engage in any licentious activity.

He would likely to try lure Megatron into making the first move.

"I'm not insinuating anything."

Or maybe Drift was punishing him, getting his revenge for how they had parted ways before, sending bounty hunters to retrieve a wayward Deadlock.

Drift leaned forward, carefully maintaining that minimal distance between their bodies. He kept his smile wide, the fangs catching the light and a spark of mischief in his blue optics.

"Look," he said, gesturing with his upturned palms spread wide, just inside Megatron's personal space, "we all know about your long-term relationship with Rodimus."

The roommate facade was a pretense borne of habit.

While he had rarely had intimate or even close relationships during the war, Megatron had never been willing to publicly acknowledge any of them. It would have made the loved one a target, someone who could be hurt or killed in an attempt to manipulate him.

Rodimus probably thought it was funny since he had never openly objected to Megatron’s flimsy cover story.

"Drift, you’re crossing the line," he growled, even if there was no danger behind it, a toothless threat. There wasn’t really anything he could or would do to Drift about it, short of maybe kicking him out of the room.

Maybe he wouldn’t even do that.

There had always been something thrilling about being defied. It was one of the unspoken reasons that Starscream’s treachery had been tolerated for so long. Harnessing defiance had a certain appeal.

Drift, however, ignored the the warning.

Instead, he shook his head and pointed over the back of the couch to the recharge slab nestled in an alcove off the sitting area.

Piled with blankets that Megatron had meticulously folded that morning, the slab was large enough for two mechs; it even had a cable splitter adapter to allow sharing the same recharging unit.

“It’s simply a matter of resource conservation.”

A fragile lie, one Drift would see through instantly, not that it mattered. It was part of the game.

Beyond the game they had fallen into, there wasn’t even any reason to lie, not really. No one onboard, not after they left their home universe behind, was going to target Rodimus to get at Megatron nor the reverse. The threat was functionally nonexistent. No one cared.

Yet he had already put up the front. He couldn’t just walk it back.

Drift would have to tear the facade down.

“You’re still so bad at little fibs after all this time.” Drift tsked at him, leaning closer. “That’s not what Rodimus says.”

Megatron tensed, refusing to cower even though he knew it would be only a matter of time before he let himself buckle.

At this range, he could feel Drift throwing off heat, grinning like a predator cornering prey. Even with his new, lighter armor, Drift still moved like a hunter.

Megatron’s own internal thermostat started ticking higher.

“And what does he allegedly say then?”

“Oh, just how much fun he has between your legs.”

Megatron raised an eyebrow at the blatantly crude remark.

“That’s not necessarily indicative of anything,” he protested, “Casual interfacing is—”

Drift held up a finger, telling him to wait.

“And how you tell him you love him when you think he’s asleep at night.”

“Hearsay.” Megatron scoffed. “Rodimus likes to talk. We all know that. He says whatever comes to mind without thinking it through.”

That was a little disingenuous. Rodimus had become far more careful about his word choices in recent years, sometimes to the point of unhelpful, such as when trying to ask Megatron if he wanted to have a third person join their berth for a casual romp.

Drift continued to smirk, as though he knew he was rapidly depleting Megatron’s stock of canned excuses. The pull of Drift’s mouth charmingly crinkled the red paint under his eyes, revealing some of the endearing, well-hidden microfractures that he had earned with age and experience.

Maybe… running out of hollow excuses was alright.

“Sure, he does but he doesn’t like to talk about his feelings much.” Drift finally crossed fully into Megatron’s personal space, just barely managing to not touch by strategically placing his palms on the couch on either side of Megatron’s middle. “Neither of you do.”

The thermostat flashed a warning on Megatron’s HUD, along with a notification that his cooling fans were automatically cycling on, an embarrassing whir that Drift was certain to hear.

“That’s fine though,” Drift continued, “we don’t have to talk about it at all.”

It was funny, almost. Megatron knew that Drift’s current optics were Autobot blue, bright and friendly. Deadlock’s had been red, fiery and dangerous. Yet he could have sworn that Drift was looking at him the way he had before defecting, with a threat that was a promise.

“No,” Megatron agreed, Drift and his teeth inching closer to the delicate cabling in his throat. “No, we don’t.”

His own fans now weren’t the only ones he could hear, Drift having allowed his to roar on as he bit down, fangs pushing into the narrow spaces between the cabling.

The flood of error messages from the sensors in his throat tingled in his processor as he let them dominate his HUD, relaxing back against the plush upholstery of the couch.

Drift could have his stupid win.

Megatron shifted his posture, grabbing Drift by the hips and guiding him between his thighs. Warm breath on his neck as those fangs stuck fast spurred him to open some of his modesty paneling. The ruse had already been all but destroyed anyway.

The cold air on his freshly bared valve was banished immediately by the crush of Drift’s pelvic plating.

He heard a quiet click and something hot and firm brushed his anterior node, a soft burst of pleasure. He inadvertently ground up against the spike only to feel Drift shudder in response.

Their plating scraped together awkwardly as they adjusted their angles to better line up, wasting no time.

Soon the tip of Drift’s spike lightly pressed against the entrance of his valve.

A horrifying thought occurred to him.

What if, by some phenomenal odds, Drift might not have been who Rodimus had invited over?

In that case, rather than accommodating Rodimus’s wishes, Megatron was, in fact, betraying his trust.

Before that thought could take root, however, the door to the habsuite slid open, Rodimus standing in the doorway with an open-topped crate in his hands, probably borrowed from the cargo bay and full of some pilfered, salt-laden snack food.

"Aw, you started without me!"

The door slid shut behind him as he tossed the crate in his arms to the floor in favor of eagerly scrambling up the couch behind Drift. Several tins, most likely bismuth chips by the sound of them, rattled around inside the crate on impact.

“I got distracted when picking up snacks and—Don’t worry about it, guys; I’ll catch up.“

The couch had proved to be too small for the three of them, despite Rodimus’s bold insistence that he could simply climb on top of or squeeze behind someone. After Rodimus had accidentally hurled himself to the floor after placing his knee in a precarious place on the cushions, they had had to admit defeat.

The berth, despite being large, barely had enough room for everyone, meaning Megatron had to let his legs dangle off the side of the padded recharge slab. And by “dangle,” it was more akin to resting his feet directly on the floor.

Rodimus had just crudely described it as the “huge bastard tax” right before kissing his nose and clambering elsewhere on the berth, presumably to rearrange the cushions and tarpaulins.

The display of affection was a strange thing to do right in front of Drift but given that Drift was buried comfortably to the hilt in Megatron’s valve, maybe it didn’t really matter at this point what sort of embarrassing intimacies he saw.

He could hear Rodimus scuttling around just out of sight, like he was trying to sculpt a more comfortable landscape out of the covers.

Drift, on the other hand, was doing a valiant job of trying to distract him with slow, lazy thrusts. They escalated nothing but did hold his attention while Drift rested his weight against heavier armor. A warm, unhurried pleasure with no expectations.

The occasional contracting of his valve was a comfortable background thrum while they waited for Rodimus to find a way to slot himself into the tangle somewhere.

While Megatron certainly had some ideas about how this could go, Rodimus had previously made him promise to not to treat it like a constantly shifting battlefield. Despite Megatron’s objections to giving up that much control, it was up to Rodimus to finagle everything.

Drift had, Megatron assumed, also been made to make the same promise.

Threesomes always sounded so good on paper, but in practice they were tricky to coordinate. Angles and positions were tedious to negotiate. That was, he presumed, what Rodimus’s hold up was.

“Are you just watching or are you planning on joining some time before we’re finished?” he asked, throwing an arm around Drift’s back to keep him close. With where Megatron had had to relocate on the berth, Drift’s legs were in near constant danger of slipping right off the padding.

Surely this wasn’t the best way. Maybe he could be permitted a bit more space to accommodate Drift.

Without warning, his head was lifted up and a wadded-up tarpaulin stuffed underneath to support his neck and shoulders.

Drift unfortunately stopped moving, probably a safety precaution.

“Don’t be impatient,” Rodimus said, coming back into view as he adjusted the lump. A pillow would have been simpler, but Rodimus had never been known to do things the easy way, at least not the first time around.

Megatron scoffed, turning his head sideways to better see.

“That’s rich coming from you—“ He was cut off by the sight of a familiar red-orange spike bobbing excitedly right in front of his face.

So that was how Rodimus anticipated this going.

Not the worst configuration.

“And it took you all that time to prepare?”

He glanced up to watch Rodimus’s face.

Rodimus, however, just idly scratched his nose and shrugged.

“No, not really. I was also watching. I can do both. It’s called ‘multitasking.’”

Before any retort could be mustered, Rodimus shifted his kneeling posture, bouncing his spike on purpose.

Megatron grumbled before just opening his mouth to let the spike in as Drift started moving again.

Within a few vigorous thrusts, however, Drift’s precarious stance, huddled on his knees between Megatron’s thighs on the edge of the berth, finally faltered. His hands scrabbled in vain for purchase on Megatron’s armor. With a surprised yelp, he slipped out of the valve, landing on his aft on the floor.

“Okay, fellas, so… new plan.”

Rodimus’s spike halfway down his throat, Megatron groaned.

“Not the plan I had in mind, babe, but thanks.”

“Rodimus, your new plan is the same plan,” Megatron said, Rodimus getting tentatively settled between his knees.

The two racers had merely switched places.

Drift sat off to the side, hand on Megatron’s shoulder in case they needed to suddenly move again.

“No, it isn’t!” Rodimus grabbed his spike, starting to nose it against Megatron’s valve as though that would solve the “no space at the end of the bed” problem. “This is a totally different plan. It’s fine!”

“You’re going to hit the floor again,” Drift added.

“No, I’m—“ A look of understanding dawned on Rodimus’s face, like he’d just been given a vision from Primus himself. “I’ve got it!”

Megatron raised a skeptical optical ridge as Rodimus excitedly spread his now-lubricant-covered hands wide.

“Guys, I’ve got a new new plan!”

The floor.

Bolstered by pillow and covers.

It wasn’t the most comfortable surface but the risk of someone falling off the bed had been nullified by obviating using the bed in the first place. Space was also no longer an issue.

Rodimus’s “new” new plan seemed to have actually paid off.

Moaning around Rodimus’s spike, Megatron silently congratulated himself on having tidied up the floor before Drift had even arrived.

Drift, meanwhile, was speeding up the motion of his hips, the lewd noises between Megatron’s legs where they met growing louder.

After a several more firm thrusts, he felt Drift finally go stiff over him in overload, at long last after all of the interruptions.

A shame, he thought, gently patting Drift’s back, since he himself was really only just starting to get anywhere, his valve clenching in vain at the softening spike inside. His frame tended to require a lot of attention compared to those of sleek racers.

Drift fell limp against Megatron’s body, still catching his breath.

“My turn!” Rodimus yanked his spike out of Megatron’s throat before scrambling down to bully Drift out of place. Drift whined but obeyed, leaving the now unoccupied valve open for Rodimus to take position.

Megatron sighed, wondering quietly when it would be his turn.

Eventually, of course. Rodimus and Drift would almost certainly be taking multiple turns and—a warm burst of charge, growing rapidly and radiating out from the touch of a hand that suddenly appeared between his legs.

Drift had crawled up alongside him and reached down, massaging the exposed anterior node as Rodimus settled in.

His valve started to clench down on Rodimus’s spike as soon as he was properly seated.

Maybe this wouldn’t take as long as he had thought.

“You planned that, didn’t you?” Megatron asked, closing the door to the hallway after Drift had finally left.

It had taken nearly an hour to the get the paint transfers off his bright white finish. White tended to show even the slightest flaw, which meant that color required additional upkeep compared to others.

Rodimus shrugged from where he had flopped across the couch, still covered in transfers with his exhausted array still on full display.

“I mean, I did plan the threesome, yeah.” Rodimus tilted his head to the side. “Is your memory starting to go, babe?”

Megatron sighed and took his seat next to Rodimus on the sofa. He had cleaned himself up some and closed his panels, but the paint transfers remained. He would need Rodimus’s assistance to reach some. Likewise, Rodimus would need his assistance in return. It was a favor they did for each other after intimate encounters, affectionately wiping away the evidence.

“No, I mean, you planned to have Drift show up while you were out.”

“Oh.” Rodimus thought for a moment. “Yeah, yeah, I did plan that.”

The couch shifted as Rodimus rolled over before crawling into Megatron’s lap, straddling his hips. He slipped his arms around to pull the larger mech into a comforting embrace.

“Why—“

“Well, I wanted you guys to have some time to get the weird out.”

“Get… the weird out?”

Rodimus shrugged again, grinning up at Megatron.

“Yeah, you guys have some weird thing you needed to work out and I thought that would be a great time. Get whatever it is out so the banging could go off without a hitch.”

Somehow Megatron felt that they hadn’t actually worked anything out but had simply side-stepped it in favor of falling into old patterns, but before he could protest, Rodimus interrupted.

“It must have worked since you guys got started without me.”

“I… suppose it must have, yes.”

Perhaps not to the extent Rodimus had envisioned, but perhaps the door to his friendship with Drift had, at the minimum, reopened after all.

“Great, because I want to invite him back for another few rounds next week.”