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The canopy skimmed over their helms as they worked their way through the forest, scanning the ground.
It was routine, mundane. A task to fulfil the degree of thoroughness that the stakes at hand required. The area was littered with small, scattered energon deposits about 20 metres below the earth. Nothing worth the trouble of digging up, and certainly nothing the Decepticons would concern themselves with, but the interference of the energon had the potential to obscure signals from more important Cybertronian artifacts. To say they were certain of no Cybertronian history here, they had to search on foot.
And so, here Optimus was, accompanied by Smokescreen as they trudged onwards with some degree of aimlessness. It was hardly a two man job, the risk of ambush low thanks to the sheer mundanity of the task, but Optimus had yet to have the chance to prove his competence in a mission and thus small jobs like this were the most he could convince Prime to deploy him on. It wasn't what he'd call… stimulating, but being outside helped to shake off some of the stir crazy feeling clouding his processor.
“It must feel good to get out,” Smokescreen mentioned with startling accuracy to his thoughts.
Optimus smiled. “I'm not used to being so idle, if I'm honest.” With the rate of Megatron’s scheming in Detroit, the methodical chess game in Nevada felt like slamming the brakes on a sudden red light, his frame stilled but his processor and spark still ready to launch across the city.
“Right, like, I've gotta tell Prime to take you on walks more often.” Smokescreen added cheerfully. “It’s like- inhumane. Or something.”
Smokescreen always did have such a way with words. A lesser mech might've found his canine anecdote insulting. Thankfully Optimus' own team was wealthy in eloquence and he was well versed in ‘helpful’ comments.
Though, if he was being frank with himself, he really was being taken on a walk. He didn't even have a scanner, the only functioning one currently chiming away in Smokescreen’s hand as it points out every micron of energon under their feet.
The conversation died after that, Optimus too lost in his own thoughts to concern himself with small talk, simply grateful to be outside. That was until they crossed a stream. The blur of his reflection caught his eye, and he stepped back once to realign himself with the water, staring down. It was only when Optimus made a displeased hum that Smokescreen stopped and turned. “Find something?”
Optimus glanced up to reply to Smokescreen.“It's nothing.” But Optimus couldn't help himself and stared back into the water, touching his face.
He kind of looked like shit. Or perhaps just unfamiliar. Maybe both. His eye paint had almost entirely chipped off, leaving desaturated smears around his optics and nose. It was strange how his eyes looked so much smaller like this. That fact didn't concern him much, though it had been a very long time since he last saw himself so behind on personal maintenance. The uneven stains, however, made him look dull and sickly in a way that scratched his pride.
Intrigued by the proclaimed nothing Optimus was so intently staring at, Smokescreen joined him at his side, looking at him through the distorted reflection in the water. Drawing a digit under his eye, Optimus examined the black flakes of paint that stuck to his finger. Smokescreen followed the action and seemed to gather what Optimus was thinking.
“You need better paint for a desert bro. Whatever you had on didn't stand a chance,” Smokescreen supplies helpfully.
“I'd usually just redo the sealant, but…” Optimus trailed off, the rest of the story self explanatory.
“Y’know, you could've just asked for some. It's not as good as the stuff back home but it's not hard to get ahold of,” Smokescreen offered. Through the reflection Optimus watched Smokescreen cross his arms, looking up as he scanned the area, not as interested in his face as he was.
“I look after myself but. Hm.” He paused, unsure how to describe the car crash-like subtlety of Bumblebee. “I usually know it's time to redo it when Bee starts making comments.”
Smokescreen snorts. “We'll figure something out back at the base, I promise. We’ve just gotta get moving, I want to be done before we need our headlights.”
Despite the reflection, Optimus gives a startled look upwards, seeing that the sky had started to turn orange.
“Ah- sorry-” Optimus jolted, stuck between walking on and a stray impulse. Halted by the thought, he conceded. “Let me just-” he explained articulately, dropping to one knee and cupping his hands in the water. He briefly scrubbed at his face before stopping to admire his work. It did nothing for the stains, as the pigment was too robust. But the water did well to lift the bulk of the flaking paint, finally separating it from his face, the freckled flecks being whisked away downstream.
He'd contemplate the environmental consequences of introducing the north China ecosystem to highly processed alien compounds later. Right now, he was busy feeling fresher and satisfied. A clean-ish slate to work with when he could return to base later. And no more shit in his eye.
He pulled himself to his feet and crossed the stream, signalling to Smokescreen the dissipation of his unusual bout of vanity. Seemingly unsure of what to make of the whole event, Smokescreen threw an arm over Optimus' shoulder in comradery.
“You look great, bro,” Smokescreen said with a pat to Optimus' pauldron. He laughed at that.
“Thanks, Smokescreen.”
The first problem, when Optimus had the chance to think about his mask again, was finding something to remove the old smears. Yes, he could've just painted directly over the stains, but then he'd spend every quiet moment thinking about the gross deteriorating gunk right next to his optics.
Now, two different paint strippers later, Optimus felt positively close to discovering Cybertronian conjunctivitis.
“Was this even sealed?” he asked accusingly, turning the can over in his hands. Humans obviously didn't consider paint remover to be a dermatological product and thus didn't bother to put any kind of useful expiry date for concerned alien robots.
“Uhhh I don't know. I think it's from June's garage? I mean-” Bulkhead leaned closer from his seat across the room, wincing a bit after his examination. “It looks like it's working to me. What's the problem?”
Bulkhead wasn't wrong. In fact, the problem was he was right. It was removing the paint, and the nanites underneath, and from the feel of it, probably a couple millimetres of his faceplate.
“It-” Optimus bit his lip, hesitant to admit that a little bit of Earth chemical was hurting. But there was no use in hiding it. “It kind of stings. A little bit.”
Bulkhead raised a brow at that.“Give it here.” He made a swiping motion with his hand. Optimus threw the can over with a flick. “Huh. I've used this stuff before.”
“And it hurt?”
“No…” Bulkhead drawled out. “Maybe we should get that off you.”
“Yeah. Yeah, let's do that.” Optimus got up to stand, but dropped back down Bulkhead got up at the same time.
Bulkhead pulled a tired looking rag out of his subspace and approached Optimus quickly. Despite dropping to one knee, Bulkhead still loomed over a sitting Optimus and he had to tilt upwards to face Bulkhead. The wrecker kept his head still with a grip to his helmet crest, just a pinch in Bulkhead’s large servo. The other hand dwarfed the rag as Bulkhead delicately began to work at Optimus' face. His entire frame was stiff, each tether and joint pulled taut as Optimus tried not to look as every bit uncomfortable as he felt. He trusted Bulkhead, he supposed, but in the rare glimpses he could see past Bulkhead's massive hand waving around his face he could only see Bulkhead’s, well, bulk. It was claustrophobic in the mech’s shadow, and the burning solution being worked deeper into his mesh didn't exactly soothe the spark, but all went awry when Bulkhead’s best efforts at delicacy fell short.
“Ow!” Optimus couldn't fight the flinch as his optic was poked. His battle mask came up instinctively, and he could feel the burning spread through the seams of his lenses. “It's in my eye!” He bowed over, hands held in a clawed position as he warred with the urge to rub at his optic.
“Oh oops, sorry, er-” Bulkhead flung himself back, hands up in surrender like he was the one burnt. His helmet swiveled back and forth, looking for something. His search must've locked in on something Optimus obviously couldn't see, because he darted off to the side. “Water!” He declared, barely managing to grip a tiny, half drank human water bottle. Without further warning, Bulkhead grabbed at his chin and forced Optimus out of his shrimped posture. It was only then, through one unharmed optic, did Optimus see Bulkhead's line of reasoning.
“I don't think-!” was all he could get out before Bulkhead dumped the contents of the bottle directly on his burning optic.
There was a brief moment of stillness where actually, for a moment, his eye and face did hurt a little bit less. He stared up at Bulkhead and Bulkhead stared directly into the one optic. Then, with a faint trickling sensation, the burn began again. Deeper, and more painful this time. Lubricated by the water the irritant simply travelled deeper, and with a twang of panic he realised he could now feel it directly on his delicate optical mechanisms.
His eye began to twitch in aborted shutters. He dropped his shoulders in an embarrassed slump as he watched patches of his vision bloom into a blur. Bulkhead continued to stare, a nervous fist covering his mouth in contemplation.
“That make it worse?” Bulkhead asked hesitantly.
Optimus nodded, his irritated optic beginning to stream. Well, the murky droplet on his chassis showed that, at the very least, the paint had been lifted. Their shared defeated silence only lasted a moment before anarchy herself wandered in.
“BULKHEAD! I've been looking for you everywhere! You said, like, 5 hours ago that you'd-” Miko stopped as she took in the scene before her. “Is he crying?”
Optimus, as he often did, found himself seated in Ratchet's office. Office was a strong word for it, really,- the majority of the heavy duty medical equipment was out in the primary silo, ready for dying mechs thrown through the ground bridge.
Ratchet's office was more or less just a tucked away room where he could find some peace and quiet while tending to non life threatening duties. The walls were primarily lined with shelves, a couple of dollies filled with carefully organised instruments had been pulled out for Optimus' examination. Thankfully, it also made for a relatively discreet place for the talking to Ratchet was giving Optimus and Bulkhead.
“And it didn't occur to either of you to do a swab test before smearing corrosives around your very vulnerable, and might I add, entirely irreplaceable optical unit? If you had burnt through your wires I wouldn't have been able to fix it- even if I wanted to, and I assure you I would not!” Ratchet blustered with an accusing point. Optimus felt himself cower in his seat just a little, but Bulkhead still seemed to have some fight in him.
“Lay off it, Ratch. When have you ever heard of someone getting a rash from a little bit of tinned stuff?” Bulkhead argued.
“You! I don't want to hear it from you! You're the reason why he's in my office to begin with! You know as well as I do why you're a wrecker and not a- a fixer! And it's not because of your delicate servo!”
Optimus winced. That seemed a bit harsh. At least, he knew his Bulkhead would be hurt by such a comment. The Bulkhead present, however, didn't seem to take much notice. The wrecker opened his mouth to argue back once again, but when Optimus saw Ratchet picking up a wrench from his work bench, it seemed some de-escalation was in order. Putting his hands up meekly, he interrupted.
“I'm sorry for the trouble, Ratchet, I really am. I should've stopped to consider how different compounds may be commercially favoured around here. I wouldn't have taken the risk, otherwise.” Optimus dropped his head slightly, really trying to sell his apology. It seemed to work some, because the wrench was absentmindedly placed back on the table.
“It's- Don- eugh…” Ratchet's sentence trailed off into annoyed grumbling while he found his words. “So long as you learn a lesson from this, I will overlook your recklessness just this once. Once!” Ratchet worked as he spoke, cutting a strip of porous dressing, saturating it with thick clear substance before setting it aside.
“I hardly have the supplies to fix one accident-prone Prime on the battlefield. But it's not just that. I could likely keep you alive, should it come to that, but I couldn't possibly begin to source the materials to rebuild let alone replace your machinery, Optimus. Your structure is logical, but it's by no means common. It would take a small team of specialists to custom build your parts, assuming anything manufactured would even be compatible with your code.”
Optimus nodded enthusiastically. “I understand. Thank you.”
At that, Ratchet beckoned Optimus to lean closer as he applied the dressing over the irritated optic. Ratchet assured him that nothing was seriously damaged, and to expect some flickering for the next hour or two while the minor corrosion healed. It looked worse than it was, the delicate systems equipped with dramatic self-preservation trips, and the worst of stinging remained on the surface of his face. The salve cooled the injury until it was just a slight itch.
“I've done everything I can for you. No more paint stripper, and no paint for at least another solar cycle. The next time you feel like graffitiing yourself for the love of Primus try it on something less vital first. If you come back in here with another injury from your cosmetology I will make sure you walk out hurting more than when you walked in!”
“Yes, got it, thank you Ratchet.” Optimus nodded even more, eager for this ordeal to be over with. Bulkhead was already getting up to leave when Ratchet shooed them out with a wave of his hand.
Walking out the door, Optimus considered the ordeal. His pride was minorly wounded, the wait time was short, Ratchet's advice was sound and only a little threatening. All in all, he'd call that great service. Internally, he mulled over the pros and cons of telling his Ratchet that he had competition. The thought fell flat when he realised Ratchet would tell him to frag off regardless.
Entering the hallway in single file, Optimus felt like he'd walked into a firing squad line up looking at the audience waiting for him. On the floor was Jack, obviously accompanied with his partner in crime and sometimes domestic vehicle Arcee. Miko was swinging her legs with quiet clangs on Arcee’s shoulder. It's the kind of motion that would make Arcee twitch, but the two wheeler seemed too busy looking disrespectfully smug to notice the motion.
“Sooo…” she started with a grin. Optimus could tell from her infuriating raised eyebrow that they were never going to hear the end of this.
“Sorry, Arcee. Were you waiting to see Ratchet?” Was the closest to a defensive jab he could manage. Arcee didn't so much as blink.
“Big bad Bulk and the mighty Optimus Prime, defeated by a little- what did you call it, Miko?”
“Make-up!”
“Miko!” Bulkhead exclaimed.
“What!”
“Make-up. Do you still have an optic under there or did you melt it off?” Arcee carried on.
“My optic-” Optimus started, but was interrupted by Bulkhead.
“Why did you tell her Miko! I thought we were partners!”
“I didn't snitch! Wreckers honour!” Miko said while making what was definitely the scouts honour salute. “I was just waiting for you! And well, Arcee and Jack came by, and Jack asked- let me down-” Arcee wordlessly placed Miko on the floor. “Jack asked what I was waiting for and, well, you know Ratchet isn't very quiet. And they just. Stuck around. And I might've said something about the eyeliner. Since they basically already knew. Because of Ratchet.” Jack nodded along with the story, prompting Miko to give a shining grin. “See? I'm innocent.” She reached out to Bulkhead with her arms, and Optimus had to fight the urge to pick her up on reflex as Bulkhead dutifully scooped her up, depositing her on his pauldron. He missed Sari.
“So you two waited around for thirty minutes to make fun of us?” Optimus teased, though he kept his tone deadpan as he looked between Arcee and Jack. His Primely glare was lost on Arcee, who snorted in his face, but Jack had the courtesy to look ashamed.
“No, Optimus! I wouldn't-” Jack waved his hands around.
“I waited for twenty minutes to make fun of you. The kid wanted to make sure you were alright. Be grateful.” Arcee shrugged.
“Right.” Jack scratched his head, bashful.
Optimus smiled at Jack, pointedly angled so that none of his gratitude could be directed at Arcee. “Thank you Jack, I'll be like new by tomorrow. Seeing Ratchet was more of a precaution, because, you know.”
“Interdimensional shenaniganry?” Miko helpfully supplied.
Wouldn't have been his choice of words, but Optimus didn't fight it. “Well put.”
“All’s well that ends well, or whatever. It worked right! Your eyes are totally naked. It's kind of weird. I don't know if I like it.” Miko said, and Bulkhead nodded along in agreement.
“You almost look normal now!” Bulkhead added. His words caught up to him a moment later and he stumbled on his words trying to cover himself. “Well, not normal. No, yes, normal! But not because- I've just never seen anyone do that, not unless you're on a really long stakeout.”
“I understand, Bulkhead,” Optimus assured. Just to be safe, he added, “You can stop now.” Bulkhead grinned, pleased to be relieved of talking duty. But when he caught the questioning looks of the others, he felt he owed some explanation.
“It's, um, traditional, I suppose. But I'm fine without it. Have you two eaten?” Optimus redirected the conversation to the kids. Arcee didn't care enough to object to the diversion and fell in stride with Optimus as he attempted to guide the interrogation team away from the hallway. Miko didn't look satisfied at all, but her hunger took the bait.
“Not since breakfast.”
“We've got cold pizza?” Jack suggested. Optimus bit down a complaint about that and let the group wander towards the silo.
It had been two days since the paint stripper ordeal. He still occasionally felt an itch under the lens of his optic but otherwise the problem had entirely resolved itself. The colour had fully returned to his face, even and clean, so Optimus was just about willing to indulge when Miko brought up the matter when she found him reading some of Prime's logs.
“Why?” Optimus parroted.
“Yeah, why? Not even Knockout wears makeup and he's totally obsessed with how he looks. Do you just like it?” Miko pushed, and Optimus didn't see why he shouldn't indulge her.
“It's not just me. Everyone I know paints on a mask, even the Cons.” Optimus invited Miko to sit on his hand, and she happily scrambled up, tucking herself into the crook of his digits. “Even when it's ‘day’ Cybertron doesn't get very bright, which means we have lights everywhere all the time, and that includes driving and flying with our headlights on. And with all those lights, especially when you're on your feet, there's a lot of glare. The mask helps with some of that glare so you don't have to strain your optics so much.” Miko listened very patiently, hanging on Optimus' every word as he talked about Cybertron.
“So it's practical! That makes sense, Cybertron probably did have a lotta lights when it wasn't all messed up.” Optimus nodded when she looked for acknowledgement. “I wonder why our bots don't wear eyeliner too? That would be totally cool, I should see if I can convince Bulkhead.” She paused, thoughtful for a moment, before frowning. “Oh, but I guess you don't need it on Earth. But if you don't need it, why do you want it back?”
Optimus didn't immediately have an answer for that. He hadn't considered it really. It was true he didn't need it, given his reasoning. In the day Earth was conveniently well lit, having picked a very nice star to orbit, and at night the lumens of the average streetlight couldn't even compare to his own headlights. But he was certain he wanted his mask back.
“I don't need it, I guess.” Optimus thoughtfully tapped his chin with his Mikoless hand. “But, it's just a part of my life now, I think.” He began thinking out loud. “When you're so far from home, I think you can't help but be protective of the rituals you can keep the same.”
Miko hummed thoughtfully.
“Everyone on Cybertron has a painted mask. And my team misses Cybertron.”
“And everyone on your team has eyeliner, and you miss your team?” Miko connected.
“I think that's it, yeah.”
“Huh.” Optimus watched as Miko turned their conversation over in her mind, her hands pulling at the frayed edges of her shorts. In any other situation he might've chastised her for damaging her clothes, but right now Optimus didn't feel it was right to interrupt her focus. When he thought it was increasingly likely Miko didn't have anything more to say, he set his helm against the wall to his back.
“Can I do it?” Miko broke the silence.
“Hm?” Optimus leaned a little forward from his reclined position.
“Your eyeliner- uh- mask I mean. I could, like, draw it on for you. If you let me.” Miko looked up at Optimus expectantly.
The idea immediately struck Optimus as a bad one, frankly. He'd literally just healed from letting someone else poke around his eyes and while she was a lot smaller, Optimus wasn't certain the human was any more careful than Bulkhead.
“I'm not sure that's a good idea, Miko.”
“Whaddya mean? It's a great idea!” Optimus watched as the thoughtful spell Miko was under dissipated before his eyes, her reckless enthusiasm returning once more. She clambered onto her feet to plead her case, and Optimus did his best not to jolt to catch her when she wobbled on the way up. “I'm a totally rad artist, you've seen my work. And like, wouldn't it just be so much easier to let me do it? I could use a big paintbrush. We probably don't have whatever brush you use at home, so you would have to like, use a mop. And we definitely don't have any clean mops. Or unbroken ones.”
Optimus caught the guilty lilt in her voice with a barely restrained smirk.
“Oh? And why don't we have any usable mops? You wouldn't happen to know what happened to them, would you Miko?” He stared her down, but to the kid’s credit, she didn't falter for a moment.
“Wrecker business, Oppy. Top secret.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Back off.” She folded her arms and put on a haughty face. “So are we gonna do this or what?”
He let himself grin as he rolled his eyes in mock surrender. This definitely was a bad idea, but Miko did have some good points. There's no way he'd be able to hold a human scale brush, but sourcing anything bigger may be a hassle more troublesome than he's comfortable asking for. And, well. He glanced at Miko, who's nonchalant facade was beginning to crack under the sheer force of the hopeful excitement bubbling under the surface. He definitely could say no to Miko, but when she's so excited to spend time with him, what good reason did he have to?
His mind was already made up, but he could see a way to use this… not against Miko, it was definitely in her favour, but there was no way she'd agree with that.
“Well, I guess you could help me, but it's not very important, and I couldn't possibly come before your English homework.”
“What? Dude. No way, come on. It can totally come before homework.”
“No, no, I'm sure you mentioned Mrs Stuart wanting to read your short story entry. And isn't that due on Monday? I'd hate for her to be disappointed.”
“Mrs Stua- what the heck, why do you even know my English teacher's name!” She flailed her arms around in a vaguely accusing motion.
Optimus paused in genuine confusion.“Why wouldn't I? You told me about her.”
“Yeah, once!”
“And?”
“That's a weird thing to remember! How many of my teachers can you name?” Miko pointed at him with a look of judgement. Sensing it was not strategic to reveal his cards at this time (the Jasper highschool staff email list), Optimus dodged the question.
“...No comment. No, wait, you're trying to distract me, aren't you? I'm making my stipulations clear to you, Miko. Finish your English homework.” Miko huffed and folded her arms. “ Properly , I'd like to clarify, and I'll let you do my make-up. If you start writing today, I'll be able to get the paint ready by tomorrow.” Because if Optimus had learnt anything, it was that he should really test-run what substances he puts on his face.
“Damn right you'll let me do your make-up,” Miko grumbled, and Optimus’ face lit up in glee.
“So you agree?” He asked hopefully.
“Yeah, whateva, I'll do my stupid homework. Let me down Short- Shortimus Prime.” Optimus scrunched his face in mostly feigned offence.
“Hey, my conditions are very fair, there's no need for name calling.” Still, he released the child onto the floor, where she didn't even look back when she made another jab.
“I said, what eva Short stack!”
“Miko!” He scolded, now on the other side of the room as Miko. But the arguing was just for show, as he was already reclining back against the wall ready to return to the Prime’s logbook he'd not long ago abandoned.
Optimus was conferring with Prime when Miko brought it up again, slapping a thin stack of paper onto his foot with a deliberate clang.
“It's done,” She said with the world-weariness of a soldier returning from war. Optimus’ confusion only lasted for a moment before recognition crossed his face, followed by genuine surprise. He had honestly thought it was more likely Miko would give up on her artistic endeavours to avoid her responsibilities.
Her drama had drawn the attention of the lingering bots in the base, Bumblebee and Smokescreen posted themselves comfortably to watch whatever was about to unfold, familiar with Miko's antics. Bulkhead and Ultra Magnus at least had the courtesy to pretend they weren't watching from the corner of their vision.
Recognition flashed across Optimus' face and he reached down to pick up the papers, beginning to scan through. Prime watched in interest as he inspected the papers closer.
“This looks great, Miko!” At least, it looked great to Optimus. For all his insistence on homework, he didn't actually know much about what went into a writing project. His understanding of English was reliable but lacking in depth, as if he knew all the answers but couldn't understand the questions. And so Prowl and Bulkhead typically helped Sari with her English homework instead, the former confident in his eloquence with the latter supplying creativity when their combined knowledge fell short.
But, at a glance, this appeared to be a short story. There were paragraphs, full stops, and the spelling was passable. He was aware he didn't know what more he could ask for. Though, unfortunately, if Miko had held her end of the bargain, that meant he was due to deliver on his. Free time was painfully abundant to Optimus, but he knew Miko only had a couple more hours of her weekend before Bulkhead would shuttle her off from whence she came.
Cursed with a proactive mindset, he gently returned the papers to Miko. But his pride for Miko won out over exacerbation, and he smiled down at the teenager. “Well done. That wasn't so bad now, was it?” He said diplomatically.
“It was the worst! I almost died. I've been shot at by Decepticons, dangled in space, thrown around in a sick ass mech suit, but I've never nearly died more than I nearly died of boredom writing this,” Miko exclaimed with a wave of her papers for emphasis.
“I-” Optimus was no small bit stunned by, well, everything Miko just said. He glanced up at Prime to see if he had any reaction, but the leader was as stoic as ever. Miko was clearly unbothered by her… trauma? Surely trauma- and took Optimus' silence as a cue to keep talking.
“But at least my story is the coolest one Mrs Stuart will read, I made sure of that.” Her bluster almost concealed a gleam of pride in her eye. Optimus didn't want to rain on Miko’s parade by addressing the circus of elephants that just entered the room, and made a mental note to try and address the importance of Miko's safety before he, hopefully, left this universe.
Slinging her backpack off her shoulders, Miko shuffled the papers haphazardly into the bag. A devious grin grew on her face as she looked up at Optimus, now blindly digging around deeper in her rucksack. Producing two brushes from her bag, both appearing large in her small hands, she held them up to Optimus in show. One even still had the price sticker attached, and he wondered if Miko had paid for the brush herself. He hoped she hadn't, but the thought still touched his spark.
“Now for the fun bit!” She exclaimed. Optimus looked up at Prime, who still stood and watched their interaction, and dramatically rolled his optics. Well, technically, Optimus didn't roll them at all, as he didn't have any eyeballs to roll. But after many months of practice the final effect was the same. Unexpectedly, however, Prime smiled ever so slightly in response.
“Optimus was just informing me of your bargain, Miko. I expect you'll be eager to get painting,” Prime rumbled warmly. Prime glanced across the room and opened his mouth to speak.
“Smo-”
“We got the paint you wanted, don't worry. Er- at least I'm pretty sure.” Bumblebee narrowed his optics, the effect dramatic on his bug-like optics. “Smokescreen kept on insisting that Op meant to get gloss-”
“BeCAUSE, no offence Op, why would anyone want matte paint? I think at least a satin finish would suit you much better. But, like, Bumblebee was like, why would Optimus want shiny eyeliner? I don't follow that logic, to be honest, because why not? But Raf agreed and he's the only one who can fit in the Home Depot. Through the front doors, anyway.” Smokescreen crossed his arms and rolled his optics. Optimus tried to school his expression, but let himself look quizzically between Prime and the racer pair.
“You sent Smokescreen and Bumblebee to buy the paint?” Optimus had had a brief conversation with the Prime the evening prior, but he hadn't expected so much community involvement. His selection was plain, but the base already had the remnants of a can he could swatch the night before. A fresh tin was just a further precaution. It wasn't as dark as he'd like, but it fared well against his testing abrasions and scuffs. It was a suitable alternative until he figured out how to acquire his own resources, and most importantly it didn't peel his faceplates off. What more could he ask for, really?
“Bumblebee and Rafael are quite reliable at navigating human-side requests. Smokescreen was unoccupied at the point of their departure.” Prime explained with a neutral tone. From the corner of his vision, Bumblebee silently translated a shit eating grin entirely through his eyes, which Smokescreen met with offence.
“Huh,” was all Optimus thought to say until his processor caught up. “Thanks guys. You did get matte, right?” Bumblebee produced two small cans from his subspace and walked towards Op, playfully shoving Smokescreen as he passed.
“Yeah we did!” Bee passed the cans over to Optimus’ waiting hand and offered a thumbs up to Miko. Across the room, Smokescreen scoffed.
“Whatever! You can't buy taste, that much is obvious.” Smokescreen folded his arms, then rapidly unfolded them when he realised what he'd said. “Not that you don't have taste Op!” Smokescreen waved his hands in a placating motion. Optimus allowed his face to remain blank, letting Smokescreen simmer in mild discomfort. “You're just… different!” the racer tried with a weak smile.
“Well I'm going to make you look rad as hell, just you wait!” Miko announced, impatience showing through the rapid fire tapping of a foot.
“I always look ‘rad as hell’ Miko, but the paint ties it together,” Optimus teased and took a slow, telegraphed step towards the halls where his storage closet-turned-accommodation resided, encouraging Miko to walk ahead of him in that direction. He hadn't quite figured out the logistics of getting Miko level with his face, but he figured anything was possible without the teasing and poking of Prime's soldiers in the privacy of his quarters.
After some awkward rearrangements, a briefly spilled can of paint and Miko losing her balance twice, Optimus eventually decided the safest option was keeping Miko as close to a stable surface as possible. And thus he kneeled on the floor of his designated storage closet, knees tucked beneath his cot with his head resting in the crook of his arm atop his undecorated bed. His head was tilted, and he was unfortunately painfully aware this would lead to a crooked result, but even when Miko clambered the height of his gauntlet she barely stood a metre above the expanse of his bed, minimising risk of accident. And so that is how he sat, a crick in the neck well on the way and a posture not dissimilar to Sari when she was particularly bored at her desk.
“Remember what I said Miko. Nothing crazy, I'm trusting you,” Optimus reasserted as Miko approached with the first brushful of black paint. He was hesitant to turn off his optics and let the kid out of his sight, but watching the approaching brush was pulling his optics cross eyed. Try as he might, he couldn't help but painfully stare at the small dark pokey thing headed right towards his optic.
“Brother relax, you look stupid.” Miko pointed out in a flat voice. “I'm not gonna get your eye unless you flinch.” Optimus scowled.
“I was not going to fli-” he started, which elicited a frustrated motion from Miko that definitely did make him flinch. He couldn't help it when she was swinging that brush so close to his face!
“I said no flinching! And no angry looking or scrunching up your face or anything!” Miko yelled. Then her face went stoic. “Turn off your eyes or you're getting a mustache.” Her tone was dead serious.
“What.” Optimus stared back at her in disbelief.
“Turn off your eyeballs or I'm going to give you a mustache,” she repeated, this time slowly bringing the brush towards the centre of his face.
“Miko! Okay, I'm offlining my optics!” And he did, hoping it would cease the paintbrush's march. Optimus did his absolute best not to tense, but it was still somehow a relief when the first strokes of cool paint swept close to what could be most simply described as the upper bridge of his nose. The surface area covered by the brush was minimal and Miko's hand was light and thankfully controlled, so much so it was almost ticklish.
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Miko muttered. From the sounds of it she was deep in focus and Optimus felt endearment bloom in his spark. It was as sweet as it was eternally frustrating that such deep concentration seemed to take children with an unpredictable assortment of tasks. He was pleased that, despite what his initial reservations may have feared, Miko was putting significant effort into this. The brush continued across his face, contouring the structure of his optics into what certainly felt like the beginnings of an accurate tribute to his typical mask.
“How'd you get so good at art, Miko?” he asked idly. Sari liked to draw, occasionally on his dash if he wasn't paying attention to what she brought into his cab, but oftentimes her visions seemed too grand for what a piece of paper could hold, resulting in irritation. Optimus wasn't quite sure how Miko's firecracker personality meshed with the humble practice of illustration.
“Hmm. Had a lot of time to practice I guess. On planes, at stupid fancy dinners, waiting for my tutors to arrive. There was never anything interesting going on, so I just came up with the cool stuff myself.” Miko slowed her brush as she approached his lower waterline, but his trust in her was well earned as she carefully lined his eye without falter. “That's why I came to Jasper, you know? It was supposed to be more exciting than Tokyo. Now I know how stupid that sounds, but I was a dumb kid back then,” she continued.
“Tokyo, huh?” That was a city, right? Optimus knew that Jasper definitely didn't qualify as a city by human standards, so he could imagine how she'd be disappointed. “You were right in the end though. I think you've had more excitement here than is medically advised.” Optimus smiled. Miko snorted.
Conversation flowed freely from there. Optimus allowed himself to bask in the warmth of simple company. Of course Miko, like any human child, pounced on any stutter, mistake or misunderstanding Optimus may have revealed in conversation with the ferocity of a rabid dog, poking and mocking always just a smidgen further than socially acceptable for anyone else. But he didn’t have to worry about toeing the careful line between faking all the pride of a prime and finding his place at the end of the new rank and file he lived amongst. Miko didn’t care about the hierarchy of the Autobot military and what transgressions he might accidentally make against it. And when she asked about his universe, he didn’t have to skirt around hard truths like telling her she’d died horrifically or fallen short of her every dream. Instead, he told the same stories that Sari liked to listen to, how he fought Megatron and awoke in Detroit, meeting a little girl and making contact with the local government not long after. Miko got a kick out of imagining him on live television attempting PR for Cybertron, and Optimus indulged by confessing it was satisfying showing up the ‘businessmen’ and politicians when they could hardly lift their heads high enough to look down their noses at his crew.
Miko in turn shared some admittedly interesting information about her world, like how the Autobots have to hide because society ‘isn’t ready for kick ass giant robots yet’. As it turns out, Miko was (and still is) pretty thrilled about the whole Autobot discovery thing, and Optimus inferred Team Prime means more to her than just providers of live-action Saturday morning cartoon entertainment.
“It’s cool being part of something, y’know?” Miko continued. “Like, not just the Autobots. Hanging out with Raf and Jack.” It had been a long moment since Optimus had last felt the brush on his face, and the shift of Miko’s weight suggested that she was now sitting on his gauntlet, well out of arms length of his unpainted side. But he wasn’t in a rush to interrupt her so he kept his optics off and hummed, encouraging Miko to continue her thought.
“...I guess I just got used to going on my own. When I moved to Jasper everyone already knew everyone and their grandmas and their grandma’s grandmas. Which was fine or whatever but it’s just…” Miko trailed off.
“I think everyone needs a team.” He onlined a single optic, the flicker drawing Miko’s attention up from where she’d apparently been swirling the paint in the can. “I don’t know what I’d do without mine, and I’m glad you’ve found yours.” He smiled slightly, in an attempt to offer comfort from his awkward position. Optimus was no stranger to loneliness, and though he wouldn’t point it out it was clear Miko wasn’t either. Despite their wildly different lives, he could sympathize with the weight such a burden could hold, and while he’d never condone Prime’s growing cohort of alien child soldiers, Optimus supposed there were silver linings to everything.
“You must be pretty bummed out without them.” She dropped her head to peer back into the paint can, expression soured.
“I am,” he admitted. “But it’s not so bad. There’s some decent company around here, and maybe a team I could stick with in the meantime, if their leader lets me.”
Miko brightened a little bit. “Prime may not be great at showing it but he already loves you, you’re already on Team Prime.” She scraped the excess off of the brush she’d been saturating in the paint.
“That’s great to hear, but I was wondering where I could hand in my application for Team Miko.” Miko snapped her head up to stare at Optimus’ lit optic so fast she definitely flung some paint with her momentum, but her smile was so wide that from this distance he thinks he can just about see the last of her lunch wedged between beaming teeth.
“Okay well first rule of Team Miko: no paperwork, so you don’t need that application. Second rule is, uh- actually there are no other rules so if you want to be Team Miko you’re already in.”
In a very brief lapse of judgement, Optimus allowed himself to huff a single laugh. A single laugh that jolted Miko and her paint can one foot backwards and then the three feet from his arm to the makeshift floor.
“Crap!” She yelled on her way down. Damage already done, Optimus thankfully didn’t fling Miko any further when he aborted his motion to get up and check on her. Tensing in an attempt to minimise any further risk, he peered down at the gangly lump of human on his bed.
“Miko! Are you alright?” The paint had been flung everywhere, including over himself and Miko, but she appeared to be unharmed.
A tousled mess of hair uprighted itself and Miko’s grinning face peered back at Optimus, paint covered fingers plastering her bangs to her forehead as she attempted to clear her vision.
“We’re good!” She announced to Optimus’ relief, but she stayed on the floor a moment longer, looking vaguely at Optimus in a way that he could only assume means she was inspecting the half-finished work on his face.
“Miko?” he asked again, unnerved by the stillness. His nerves weren’t necessarily settled when she barked a laugh, and then another, before she was writhing on the floor in a fit of giggles.
“If- if only you could see yourself right now, Op. Wait! Wait-wait-wait where’s my phone?” She started frantically palming her sides and the floor around her, searching.
“Or! Or you could finish painting before you spill our last can of paint and leave me like this forever.” He could very vividly picture himself, a single eye blackened with splatters of paint all over himself, and he could even better imagine how it would go if Smokescreen or God forbid Arcee were to see him like this. He didn’t like picturing either of those things or the thought of Miko recording the evidence so he tried his greatest weapon. “Please?” he asked politely.
Between bubbling giggles, Miko began to arrange herself into an upright position to clamber back onto his arms.
“Fine. Just ‘cause I want the paint to dry so I can show Bulkhead before I go home. He feels so bad B T dubs,” she conceded, laughter still simmering.
“That’s great, thanks Miko. …Do you need help opening that can?”