Archive of Our Own ^beta

                As a Prime, and as a leader, Optimus had a lot on his plate. The weight of it was insurmountable, and most mechs would crumple under such weight. He did not have the luxury of crumpling. Mechs were relying on him, femmes were relying on him, worlds were relying on him. Still, it wasn’t all bad. Not all the time.

                Optimus walked towards his quarters, struts aching after a long day of surveying the planet they had landed on for the time being. Curiously, his door was cracked open. Immediately, he drew his plasma pistol and cautiously approached, all senses heightened. His systems were ready to strike, to pounce, to throw, to do whatever was necessary to neutralize the threat. Optimus pushed the door open quietly and flicked the lights on, ready to shoot at the sight of a purple badge.

                Instead, a tiny sparkling scrambled underneath his berth with a terrified flutter of his doorwings. Immediately, Optimus subspaced his pistol and relaxed his frame. Poor thing was probably terrified of him. He knelt down next to his oversized berth and looked underneath.

                Bluestreak, Prowl and Jazz’s sparkling (if he remembered correctly), was barely two stellar cycles. He was pressed against the wall on the far side of his berth, shaking and trembling as he fixed Optimus with his terrified, teary optics. Optimus felt his spark shatter at the sight.

                “Oh, it is okay, little one. I will not harm you.” It came out louder than he’d intended, and Bluestreak jumped and scrambled further away from him. The tiny mech had been through so much, after witnessing the fall of Praxus, having been left wandering the destroyed streets for weeks, calling out for his parents, to suddenly being thrust into a ship full of loud, boisterous mechs. How Bluestreak had gotten into his quarters, Optimus had no idea. He would have to review the security tapes with Red Alert later.

                Still, he needed to know that Optimus was safe. After considering for a moment, Optimus retracted his mask with a soft hiss. It felt unusual to have it off. It felt like it was more a part of him now than it had been before, that he needed to keep it to prove to himself that Megatron was not coming back to him.

                Optimus shook his helm. No time for thoughts like that. In a voice he had not used in a very long time, Optimus reached out to the tiny sparkling.

                “Bluestreak, it is okay. I am Optimus. I will not hurt you. You are safe here,” His deep voice was soft and sweet as he coaxed the little mech forward, his hand outstretched. Though there was no hope of Optimus fitting under his berth, even laid flat, Bluestreak was able to fully stand underneath it. He barely came up to the middle of Optimus’ calf when he stood fully, and was able to freely walk around underneath the berth.

                Slowly, Bluestreak stumbled on his unsteady pedes towards Optimus’ hand, where he grasped his first digit with his tiny, tiny servo. Optimus slowly led him out, though once he was out, Optimus wasn’t quite sure what to do after that. He had to hunch over nearly completely for Bluestreak to keep his grasp on his digit, and it was not the most comfortable position.

                Bluestreak looked up at him with his round optics and flared his minute doorwings. They were tiny and rounded, still forming. It was good that he was trying to communicate with them, Optimus supposed, though it did not help either of them in this situation.

                “I am sorry, little one. I do not speak doorwing.” Optimus kept his voice soft and sweet but allowed Bluestreak to guide him around his room. He took one, maybe two steps for every ten that Bluestreak took, and they were barely shuffles if he was truly honest with himself. Finally, Bluestreak pulled Optimus around to the end of his berth, where he pulled on his digit with all of his force, though it barely moved his knuckle joint.

                Amused, Optimus got the hint and sat himself on the floor crisscross. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt right. Bluestreak nodded approvingly and hobbled over to what appeared to be a tiny stash of things the sparkling had compiled, tucked behind a discarded tire that Optimus really needed to clean up.

                Bluestreak pulled out a small stuffed bear that First Aid had prepared for him upon his arrival to the ship, which was nearly as big as he was. He dragged it over to Optimus and rested it against his shin. Optimus watched, entranced. The tiny sparkling pulled out two cups and a mug. He set the cup before Optimus, and the other in front of the bear. He hefted the mug with both of his hands and pretended to fill both of the cups. Satisfied, he sat down across from Optimus with a little huff and stared up at him expectantly.

                “Oh,” Optimus’s optic ridges shot up. “Is this for me? You are too kind, little one. Thank you.” Optimus felt his spark soar with glee as he picked up the very small cup. He held it out in front of his mouth and pretended to take an overexaggerated sip. At once, Bluestreak’s face lit up as he beamed at him, his doorwings waggling in excitement.

                It was easily the single greatest source of morale Optimus had experienced in a long time. To see the little sparkling playing pretend and smiling was the perfect reminder of what he was fighting for.

                “What are you doing in here, little one? Do your parents know you are not where you are meant to be?” Optimus mused as he watched Bluestreak, who was helping his bear companion to sip his own tea. Bluestreak, satisfied with his tea party, clambered up and onto one of Optimus’ shins and onto his lap. At least he seemed brave, Optimus noted with a smile.

                Bluestreak set his tiny servos on the glass on Optimus’ chest panels. He stared in awe at the swirling blue of the matrix inside of his chest. He patted Optimus’ faceplate and then patted his panels. Optimus tilted his helm and chuckled at the innocent being using him as a jungle gym.

                “Very well.” Optimus scooped Bluestreak onto one of his servos and opened his chest panels, revealing the matrix in its full glory. Its power thrummed through his body constantly, but when it was exposed to air it made it charged, nearly electric. Bluestreak stared in awe, his mouth agape. He reached out with a little gray servo and touched it. Optimus allowed this, knowing that there would be no way he could remove it, or hurt himself on it.

                “This is the Matrix of Leadership, my little friend. It was given to me by Primus himself, who deemed me worthy to lead our race into the future, to fill the planet with the next generation of life.” Optimus explained as gently as he could, though he wasn’t sure how much of this the tiny Praxian would retain.

                “You may come in, Ratchet.” Optimus had noticed the older mech hovering in the doorway when he had first approached, nearly five minutes prior. In a small, selfish way, Optimus was having a good time, simply watching the curiosity of life in the small Praxian’s eyes as he took in everything around him for the first time.

                Ratchet started, but he knew he’d been caught and so he stepped in anyways.

                “So, here’s where my little helper has run off to.” Ratchet squatted next to them, his servos on his knees. Bluestreak grinned at the sour medic and pointed at the matrix, his servo still squarely on the center of it.

                “Choosing the next Prime, are we Optimus?” Ratchet barked a laugh, and Optimus could not restrain the chuckle that escaped him. As if he had any authority over such a thing. He moved Bluestreak away from the Matrix, before he closed his chest cavity again. Bluestreak pouted and reached for Optimus’ face, making little grabbing motions with his servos.

 Optimus obliged and carried him closer to his face, where Bluestreak grabbed his faceplates a little harder than what was comfortable, but Optimus would not curb the curiosity of one so small. He patted Optimus’ crest, followed the blue of his helm to his audials, which Optimus was very careful to keep the delicate sensors out of reach of the grabby sparkling.

                Suddenly, the thundering of several pedes pounded down the corridor, and an extremely frazzled Prowl and Jazz appeared out of breath in the doorway.

                “Oh, Sweet Primus, you found him.” Jazz rested his servos on his knees and doubled over, his vents hard and fast. Prowl was worse for wear, his field radiating thick, static filled waves of anxiety as he rushed over to Optimus, who rose to his pedes, Bluestreak still balanced in his servo.

                “I apologize, I did not know you were looking so urgently for him. I would have alerted you had I known.” Optimus gazed down at the sparkling, who was, it seemed, trying to pull his windshield wiper off his chest panel. Bluestreak finally noticed Prowl and buzzed his tiny doorwings. Prowl reached up and took the sparkling, who immediately curled into his carrier’s neck. Prowl visibly relaxed, his doorwings drooping back to their usual position.

                Briefly, Optimus wondered what kind of warpath Prowl had left in his wake, his paternal processor steering his normally cool and controlled ship.

                “It’s okay, Optimus. Thank you for keeping him safe. I swear this will not happen again.” Prowl clutched his squirmy sparkling close, despite Bluestreak’s best attempts to wriggle away. Jazz sidestepped Ratchet and took the wriggly baby from his conjunx, and Bluestreak seemed to stop fussing in his sire’s arms.

                “Yeah, thanks, Prime. We owe you big time.” Jazz was usually difficult to read, but he, too, seemed much calmer. Optimus crouched and picked up the things that Bluestreak had stashed in his quarters.

                “You do not owe me anything. It was an enjoyable experience. I am happy to spend time with him so long as I am free.” Optimus offered the small bear to Bluestreak, who flapped his doorwings and took it with a grin. Prowl and Jazz wore matching looks of shock, but Ratchet seemed merely amused. This made sense, Optimus thought. Ratchet had known him before he was Optimus Prime, back when he was still Orion. He had known how much he had longed for a sparkling of his own one day, and though fate had dealt him a different hand than he had wanted, he could still  be involved in this one’s, if they would let him.

                “I- I mean, ‘course, yer welcome to, just… yer really sure? Don’t wanna trouble you, Prime.” Jazz bounced Bluestreak, who was starting to look very sleepy. Optimus shook his helm.

                “I am certain. He is a good reminder of what we are fighting for, the joy and innocence that we are trying to preserve for the next generation.” Optimus nodded solemnly, and then he ruffled the tiny Praxian’s helm, which earned him a small giggle.

                Chaos ensued. The child had not made a single sound since they found him in Praxus, and the tiny giggle he had gifted to Optimus sent his lieutenants over the moons. They cheered and congratulated him, and Prowl even flapped his doorwings, but just once. Optimus watched the joyous family as Jazz’s visor glowed brilliantly and Prowl babbled a string of praise for the tiny sparkling. Ratchet joined him and together they exchanged a glance and he replaced his facemask, a smile still on his lips.