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You never would have expected it from an ex-tyrant. Then again, who would have?
Megatron apparently had a weak spot for poetry.
Your discovery of this fact was completely by accident, of course. A simple request on his behalf to fetch a datapad for Rodimus that he had left in his quarters. The blue one in the left pile on his desk, he had instructed. Nothing overly complicated. Except there were seven in that single stack. So, naturally, you had to peruse. It was either that or come stumbling back with a stack of datapads only to be told that you should have just looked for it.
So, without thought, you had grabbed the first, scanning the text that flashed onto the screen. First came confusion when you weren't met with dull, tedious report data. Confusion was quickly replaced with surprise, soon followed by awe. You were blindsided by the beautiful words that would probably never see the light of day, easily flowing across the pages without a hitch. They were written so carefully, the focus and dedication almost rolling off the pad.
It struck you odd that a mech known through out the galaxy (hell, through several galaxies) as a fierce, brooding monster could craft such finely worded pieces. How could hands that had slain hundreds, even thousands, have such mastery over a delicate art? It seemed impossible but as you passed into the second and third, three pages deep on the fourth, you couldn't stop the swells of emotion dragging through you. Each piece radiated varying moods and forced you along on the rollercoaster of passion that was in each. The first had been a rant, carefully hidden in a collection of haikus, lamenting his part in the war. The second grieved for energon spilled, lives torn asunder at his will and hand, in a trickling freeverse. The third and fourth were self-loathing, sarcastically tearing into their author with carefully crafted sonnets. But it was the fifth that truly stole your attention.
Limericks in nature, they started almost hesitant, almost as if being forced into creation. But as they wore on, the rough edges smoothed, and the focus become readily apparent. Love poems. Simple as they were, they spoke volumes, as if to their very muse in genuine, earnest affection. It wasn't until the third limerick that you figured out the muse.
You.
The later ones spoke of your kindness to him, your acceptance, your strength, your everything. Everything written about you was with such carefully scripted reverence, it was hard to believe how tentative the first few had been. And they brought with them an image that set your heart off beat: Megatron, by the dull light of these datapads and the force of his own will, pouring hours of labour and care into these poems. All for you, though you were most likely never intended to read them. He had made them for you. Out of everyone that could have been his muse, of everyone who could have inspired such written passion, it was you.
You swallowed down the sudden tightness in your throat, heat and moisture pricking at your eyes as you read the final one, dated yesterday. You couldn't let this go on. You couldn't let him sit in his bubble of distant pining. He deserved more, no matter what he or the others thought. Megatron deserved a chance at happiness. And maybe you could be the one to give him that chance.
Gripping the datapad firmly, you made a copy and mailed it to your own personal one before hastily scrabbling for the one you had originally been sent for. You had to show him how much his words meant to you; to show him that you felt the same. The only trick was how.
It wasn't until you passed Swerve, giddily humming a tune under his breath as he headed to the bar, on your way to the bridge that an idea hit you like a freight train.
A song. Make him a song.
Smiling contently, you ignored Rodimus's passing joke about falling asleep on the job and set about getting your plan into motion.
After far too many adjustments to your work and a few not so subtle pleas to the ex-con commander, himself, you managed to convince Megatron to join you for a drink or two on the terms that he'd review a piece you had been working on.
It was a flawless plan, really. Get him to relax over a cube of high-grade, chat it up like friends, then catch him off guard by having him 'review' your song for him. Easy as pie, right?
Except for the small factor of absolute terror threading through your every being. Every possible thing that could potentially go wrong rattled inside your head as you neatened your quarters. What if it was all just a big misunderstanding? What if he had written those poems as a test of his meddle as an artist? What if your singing voice actually grated on his nerves? What if, what if, what if? By the time your comm-link beeped, you had worked yourself up to the point you nearly jumped out of your skin at the cheery tone that a visitor was requesting entry. Taking a few steadying breaths and smoothing down your shirt, you forced yourself to open the door.
Expecting to greet a 50 foot towering hunk of mech, you were startled by the presence of a silver haired man in a leather jacket and dress shirt. He offered a small, amused smile to your confused expression. "I apologize for the shock but I thought that everything might go smoother if we were of similar stature," intoned the familiar voice of Megatron from the very human figure before you.
Shit. So much for surprising him. He'd gotten a leg up on you, in that department. You had forgotten about holoforms. "Fair enough," you replied much smoother than what you thought you were capable of, considering everything. "Come on in. I have some pretty decent High Grade from Swerve." It had cost you a fair chunk of credits but you were pretty sure Megatron, of all mechs, would appreciate the effort.
Offering his thanks, the new Autobot entered your quarters with a cursory glance at your living conditions, smoothly removing the gloves adorning his hands and tucking them under his arm. "I never took you for a musician," he said rather bluntly, though the tone was far from insinuating an insult. His face, much to your amusement and relief, hid very little and his intense curiosity, even eagerness, was quite evident. It gave you a spark of pride in yourself for intriguing this bot before you.
You politely offer him a seat at your couch, which he graciously takes, and you quickly set about getting his energon. Pouring it into a minibot-sized glass, you carry his and your own drink back and sit beside him, passing off the vibrant violet liquid. "There's a lot of things you don't know about me." Crossing your legs, you take a slow sip of your cocktail, eyes hesitantly flicking to meet his steady crimson gaze every few seconds.
Megatron takes a drink of his own before setting down his glass, levelling an expectant expression in your direction.
He's waiting. Play the song, genius! You mentally reprimand yourself, offering an awkward smile as you grab the remote to your sound system. "It's still a rough copy so nothing's final. I'd really appreciate your genuine thoughts on this." Alright. Here goes nothing. Biting down the nervous flutter in your gut, you quickly press play before you have a second to reconsider.
The expression on the holoform beside you is deathly intent, as if you had given him a duty most dire. His chin dips down, a single strand of grey sliding free from its crisp comb-back, as he listens carefully. The music is slow to build, before your voice begins filling the room. You're no professional but the on-point notes do fill you with a deep sense of pride. The older mech's face, after a few moments of wide eyed wonder, relaxes, almost serene as he listens to the fruits of your labours. The music swells, violins and woodwinds dancing around each other to accentuate your voice.
But as the chorus rolled in, you watch the soft, content look on his features shift to stiff shock and deep-set confusion.
Lost are words to show how I feel
Thought I a lord, yet to you I kneel
I surrender to this fate
I pray love never wait
Only to you, shall my will ever keel
Heat floods your face as he pins you with a stare so intense, you feel like melting on the spot in mortification. Oh Primus, you knew this would happen. You knew it, you knew it, and still you did it! He hates it. He hates it, he hates you, he--
Tastes like wood smoke and ozone.
Caught up in your own mental tirade, you had failed to notice the ever so slight glint of moisture in the eyes of the mech beside you, the spark of adoration and love in those lovely red depths. You had missed it all but now it was blatantly evident as firm, but hesitant scruff-framed lips danced against your own. They offered what words would flounder with, expressing his gratitude, his frustration, his affection, and his marvel that you had done this for him. You could feel it all in that simple, warm, loving kiss. As you both slowly broke apart, foreheads gently pressed together, you basked in the soft gaze he levelled you with and could fully appreciate the tenderness that he so clearly had reserved solely for you.
"You're talents are wasted on my paltry words," he murmured lowly.
You smile, pecking him lightly on the nose. "No more than your beautiful poems are wasted on me."