Author's Note:
This little drabble takes place a little while after my EpicTFSagaOfInfiniteLength, (Which I WILL finish!) in which Megs and I have found a way to get along... And this is why poor Prime is about to be very distressed...



--“Just Decepticons”--

“But Prime – they're just Decepticons!” Bumblebee looked up, perplexed. His guileless optics clearly showed his disappointment. “Why are you so upset?” Optimus was able to identify the two broken bodies lying at 'Bee's feet as Skywarp and Thundercracker, just before the shells lost all color in death. He stared in open horror at the yellow Autobot. 'Bee wiped an energon-slicked hand across his brow, and his small frame slumped as his high spirits ebbed away. “I took down two seekers, all by myself,” the little mech grumbled. “I thought you'd be proud,” he added sadly.

Optimus knew that his duty was to take Bumblebee in to the stockade immediately. But the enormity of what his young friend had done overwhelmed him. The peace he'd worked so hard for was broken; there could be no going back from this atrocity. He turned and ran headlong down the corridor.

Rounding a corner, he slipped on a floor unexpectedly wet, skidded, and slammed against a wall. “We got him, Prime!” a triumphant voice crowed behind him. Optimus looked around, and saw that Chromia, Moonracer, and Firestar were gathered around the fallen form of Shockwave. “He bled us dry for so long,” Chromia explained, waggling her fingers mildly at a floor slicked with mech-fluid, “We figured it was fair to let him bleed out in return.” Smiling, she patted the once-fearsome arm-weapon of the fallen mech, whose purple color was rapidly draining. “I didn't expect you to be quite so overwhelmed by our prowess,” she chided, as Prime stood in mute shock. “What's the big problem? He's just a Decepticon!”

When Optimus still could make no response, she said tartly, “Fine. You can thank us later.” Standing, she gestured to the others. “C'mon, girls!” The other two femmes rose, and they all turned to leave, shaking off the energon that dripped from their hands, or wiping it from their chassis as well as they could. “Oh, Prime?” Chromia called over her shoulder. “Elita said to tell you she has a surprise for you.” The blue femme winked. “She said it would be sure to make you feel a whole lot better...” The group of femmes sashayed down the hall away from the gaping Optimus, who turned, shaking, to make his way apprehensively toward the quarters he shared with Elita-One.

Prime braced himself on the door-frame as the gate hissed open. “Elita?” he called desperately. “For Primus' sake, what's going on?”  Then he saw the thing lying on his berth.

“Isn't it wonderful, darling?” Elita asked brightly. “I just knew you'd like it!” She was sitting cross-legged on the headrest of his bunk, her fluid-glistening hand resting lightly on the slack-jawed head of Megatron.

The big mech's limbs dangled awkwardly over the sides of the bunk, black fingers twitching with residual impulses. A gaping, jagged gash had been torn across the old warrior's torso, and from it sprouted a tangle of dripping hoses and twisted wires, some of which still sparked feebly. His spark casing had been ripped from his body, and the mangled remains of it lay forgotten on the floor. As Prime watched in horror, the mostly-gray shell lost its only traces of color.

“Well Optimus, are you surprised?” his beloved lifemate asked cheerfully.

“Elita!” he gasped, backing out of the door. “What have you done?!”

“He's just a Decepticon!” she called after him.

* * * * * * * * *

Optimus came online abruptly, and sat up with a jerk. He looked around his darkened quarters, trying to get his bearings. Elita lay in quiet stasis in her bunk across the little room. For an instant, he half-expected to see the sheen of mech fluid glistening on her well-kept fingers in the moon's light. Then he felt awful for having looked for it. Optimus rubbed a hand over his face, and cursed softly in the night. He rose quietly, and slipped out into the empty corridor.

Walking past the doors of peacefully recharging mechs, he made his way to the nearest exit, keyed the door, and moved through it into a silent night under a clear sky.

He walked out onto the open grounds, to an old bench on which sat a boxy gray shape that greeted his arrival with a grunt. “Fragging nightmare again,” Prime explained, unnecessarily.

“You too, eh?” Megatron replied dispassionately. But as he moved over to make room for Prime, he added with some heat, “Damned programming glitch!

“Although,” the gray mech went on after a thoughtful pause, “I wouldn't put it past the little slagger...”

“Oh? Who was it in yours this time?” asked Prime, as with small clicks and whirs, the tension in his servos began to release.

“Rumble.” Megatron chuffed. “He'd built himself a throne of dead Autobots, and was having the rest brought in one at a time to be crushed under his pile-drivers...” Megatron snorted a dry laugh as he saw the humor of the scene. Like most nightmares, it now seemed ridiculous.

Prime's deep rumbling chuckle joined in. “Speaking of crushed, you should have seen 'Bee's little face in mine! He was sure I'd be so proud of him for taking out two seekers on his own... Pit take all our stubborn reformat-resistant bytes!” he added mildly.

Prime fell silent, and ran a thorough cooling protocol on his overheated systems. He relaxed his frame against the backrest. He wouldn't have admitted it, but the slight pressure of Megatron's shoulder against his was comforting, a solid reminder that no nightmare had tarnished the reality of their miraculous peace. Not yet. He looked up at the dark sky, from which the centuries of storms had cleared.

“I hadn't realized how much I missed seeing the stars,” Megatron mused quietly after a while.

“Me neither,” replied Prime, and he laid his head back to watch them flicker.