Work Text:
You kept your head bowed low, struggling to carry the unwieldy crate of documents up the sweeping spiral staircase of the Council’s main hall. The polished metal of the railings bit into your fingers with a cold, slick chill, numbing them to the point of pain — but you uttered no complaint. Work in silence, finish without a fuss — that was the unspoken law for survival in this glittering metropolis, where the highborn treated you not as a person but as an elegant piece of furnishing, meant to blend into the background and flatter their superiority
“Careful there," came a voice nearby — smooth, low, and carrying a distinct warmth, as if the speaker found the situation quietly amusing
Startled, you jerked your head up — the crate teetering dangerously in your grasp — and nearly dropped the whole thing then and there
He stood before you, an embodiment of aristocratic perfection. His silver-blue plating gleamed under the holographic lights, each line and joint polished to an almost absurd degree. His posture was the very picture of noble training: straight-backed, poised, exuding the effortless grace of someone born to a higher station. Not a single scratch marred his surface; even the smallest accessories — gleaming trimmings, intricate panel upgrades — whispered of opulence that only the absurdly wealthy could afford.
And, to your horror, he was looking at you — not with disdain, but with an idle sort of curiosity and a mischievous glint in his optics
“Pardon me, your highness" you blurted hastily, bowing with a speed born of panic "I did not intend to obstruct your path"
"Don't call me that" Mirage said with an easy chuckle, stepping forward and taking the crate from your hands without a hint of effort “Name’s Mirage. Just call me that. No one's going to throw you into a jail for it, I promise"
You stood rooted to the spot, staring in disbelief as he — he — casually hoisted the crate as if it weighed nothing
What in Primus’ name was he doing?
"But... that's against protocol" you managed to stammer, every nerve in your frame straining with the need to flee.
Him helping you, speaking to you like an equal, telling you to call him by name without a title — the Council and the caste systems would have a collective meltdown if they knew
Mirage only laughed, a light, melodic sound that was almost musical — the kind of laugh that, by all rights, only bots with far too much wealth and free time should be able to perfect
"Protocols are made to be broken," he said, winking with a roguish air, before turning on his heel and ascending the staircase, carrying your burden as though it was the most natural thing in the world
Helplessly, you hurried after him, trying to shrink yourself into invisibility, heart pounding wildly against your chest.
You could feel every gaze in the hall — watching, judging and you knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that you were committing social suicide by merely existing within Mirage's orbit
You should not be near him
You should not even be seen near him
And yet... here you were
.
.
After that fateful encounter, fate — or perhaps cruel humor — seemed to conspire against you
No matter how often you transferred departments, how many obscure corners of the city you tried to vanish into, Mirage always found you. Whether you were hastily patching a broken scanner behind a warehouse or sneaking a quick recharge break in a deserted hallway, there he would be — appearing as if summoned by sheer mischief
He never did anything overt — a casual greeting, a few teasing words, a glinting smile — and then he would vanish again like a dream. But each time, it became harder to pretend you hadn't seen him, harder to ignore the way your spark seemed determined to leap into your throat at the mere sight of him
"Not again" you whispered under your breath, as a flash of blue armor slipped into the narrow alleyway beside the data archive
Mirage appeared without a care in the world, hands tucked behind his back like he was out for a leisurely stroll through a pleasure garden
"Why do you always look like you've seen a ghost every time you see me?" he asked, amusement dancing in his voice
"I am simply... unused to being addressed by nobility, your highness" you replied stiffly, desperately averting your gaze.
Maybe, if you acted disinterested enough, he'd grow bored of his little game and leave you in peace — without you having to risk a very impolite rebuke
What did he want from you?
"You should start getting used to it," Mirage said smoothly, casually leaning back against the wall with all the lazy grace of a mech who had never in his life worried about the consequences of anything "Because I don't intend to stop anytime soon"
You clenched your jaw and pretended to focus on sorting the parts in your hands, even as your spark hammered against your chestplate in betrayal
Why?
He had no reason to bother with you — someone so far beneath his world it wasn’t even worth mentioning. He should be in some glittering salon, sipping rare energon vintages, reading volumes of incomprehensible philosophy, or attending glamorous gatherings with other bots of equally ridiculous status
Instead... he was here
Haunting you
Probably for no better reason than boredom
Tormenting you might simply be his idea of a charming afternoon pastime
"You know," Mirage said lightly, tilting his head as though musing aloud, "I really think the world would be a better place without all these ridiculous class barriers and stiff old protocols"
You stared at him, mouth slightly agape
"Easy for you to say" you muttered under your breath — and immediately froze, horrified at yourself
You braced for fury, for the cold rebuke you knew was inevitable when one of the highborn was challenged — even slightly.
In your world, even daring to suggest such a thing would see you branded a danger to society. If they could ration air based on status, you were certain they would
But Mirage only laughed — a real laugh this time, rich and easy, and smiled wider
"Fair point" he said with a shrug, entirely unbothered "But I wasn’t joking"
He turned to you fully, his gaze suddenly piercing and serious in a way that made you instinctively look away, heart hammering harder still
"I just want to know you" he said simply
"Not as a worker. Not as someone who has to bow and scrape. Just... you"
You opened your mouth, instinctively ready to refuse, to retreat back into the safe walls of caution and habit — but his voice, warm and earnest, slipped through those walls far too easily
You let out a shaky breath and almost against your own better judgment, gave the smallest nod
For the first time in longer than you could remember — You weren't just surviving
You were living
.
.
You told yourself — with the solemnity of a mech signing a lifetime contract to a junkyard — that today, today, you would, under no circumstance whatsoever, allow yourself to encounter him
Mirage
The walking, talking embodiment of trouble dressed in gleaming blue and silver armor, who, despite all logic and reason, appeared to have developed a sixth sense solely for locating your sorry existence in the crowded, clanking labyrinth that was Cybertron
You didn’t hate him. No, Primus help you, you hated yourself more — hated the way your spark fizzled and flared like a faulty energon line whenever he so much as smirked in your direction. It was mortifying. Absolutely tragic. Worse, you knew — deep down where the pitiful remains of your self-preservation instincts still lingered — that nothing, absolutely nothing that began with a smile like that could possibly end anywhere other than with you flat on your face, dignity shattered into a thousand unrecognizable pieces
Class differences, social stratifications, political entanglements — pick your poison. They were all stacked against you like a towering, rickety pile of scrap just waiting for the lightest touch to come crashing down
And so, with all the determination of a low-ranking mechanic who knew full well that the universe hated them on a deeply personal level, you embarked on your noble quest: avoid Mirage at all costs
And for the first fifteen minutes of the day, you thought — naively, laughably — that you had succeeded
Until—
“There you are,” came that insufferably cheerful voice, so close to your audials that you nearly threw the crate you were carrying straight into the stratosphere
You spun around, crate wobbling precariously, mouth already working faster than your processor
“B-boss! I swear I wasn’t slacking! I was just — I was just relocating essential supplies!” you barked out, almost impressively pathetic
Mirage, because he was a menace to polite society and the concept of personal space in general, simply leaned against the nearest wall with the relaxed grace of someone who had never once been told "no" in his entire spark-drifting life, one eyebrow raised in lazy amusement
“Boss?” he repeated, voice so dripping with amusement it could've shorted out a lesser mech's systems “That’s a new one. Should I start carrying a clipboard around? Maybe a whistle?”
You stared at him, horrified by the mental image alone
“That would be... extremely inappropriate” you managed to choke out, edging back toward your workbench like he was a wild animal that might pounce at any moment
Mirage, undeterred as ever, merely chuckled — a sound so maddeningly warm you had to physically restrain yourself from launching the crate at his stupidly handsome face
“Inappropriate?” he echoed innocently “I’ll have you know, inappropriate is my middle name”
(You strongly suspected that it actually was)
“Besides" he added, leaning in with the infuriating confidence of a mech who had clearly decided you were going to be part of his daily entertainment schedule whether you liked it or not "you’re way cuter when you’re flustered"
You made a noise — something between a strangled protest and a dying servo squeal — and turned back to your work with the kind of frantic intensity normally reserved for bomb defusal units
But, of course, Mirage wasn't done
“Tell you what" he said, tapping your crate lightly with a single finger "next time you want to see me, just flash your headlights twice”
You froze
Very, very slowly, you turned to glare at him
“I do not have external headlights” you said, with the precise, strangled dignity of someone who had been forced to explain far too many obvious facts today already
Mirage simply winked “Then just smile at me instead. I’ll take it as a beacon of hope”
And with that — the absolute madmech — he strolled off, whistling a tune that no doubt signaled the impending collapse of your carefully ordered existence
.
.
The next day, armed with a new plan — namely, avoiding him harder — you managed to dodge Mirage’s very existence for a record-shattering twenty minutes
You were elbow-deep in a tangled mess of scanner circuits when you heard the unmistakable sound of someone tossing a wrench in your general direction
You caught it — barely — without so much as looking up
“You’re welcome, best mechanic in the city” came Mirage’s oh-so-innocent voice
You exhaled through your vents, counted to five (because ten would have been excessive), and said without looking at him:
“Flattery will get you nowhere”
“Who’s flattering?” Mirage said, affronted. “I’m being brutally honest. I’ve never seen anyone make a scanner explode into confetti quite like you did yesterday”
You bit back a pained groan
(He wasn't even wrong. The poor scanner had gone up like a cheap fireworks display)
“Thank you” you muttered through gritted teeth, knowing full well that any further conversation would only dig you deeper into whatever pit Mirage was determined to drag you into
.
.
It became a pattern after that
No matter how many corners you ducked behind, how many crates you hid behind, how many cleverly-worded maintenance logs you buried yourself under — Mirage always, always found you
Sometimes with absurd excuses: "I got lost. Again. Can you believe it? I swear this place moves when I'm not looking"
Sometimes without any excuses at all (He would simply sit nearby, sipping Energon, watching you work with infuriating patience)
And slowly — painfully, inevitably — you realized something terrible
You didn't... entirely hate it
Worse: sometimes, on the rare occasions when he was just quiet, no teasing, no flirting — just there — you almost felt...
Safe
.
.
Climbing the social ranks on Cybertron was never meant for bot like you
Not the sleek-forged, high-born, polished frame types. No, you came from the grit — the grind of factory belts, of oil-stained servos and rationed energon. Every title you earned, every reluctant nod of respect, had to be torn from the rusted machinery of a society that only recognized one kind of worth: the kind you weren't born with. It wasn’t enough to be competent. You had to be exceptional. Tireless. Unbreakable. Just to stand where others were placed the moment they came online
And yet, for all the strength it took to keep climbing — to stay standing, it took even more effort to keep one mech out of your carefully guarded life
Mirage
Primus help you, Mirage
Charming, relentless, and so very, very noble-born. He was everything you’d spent your life resenting — wrapped in a frame that moved with the ease of someone who had never been told no. His smile could disarm a whole battalion, and his words — so light, so infuriatingly sincere — chipped away at you like waves carving stone
You tried. You tried
You met every attempt with curt professionalism, your tone cold and clipped like a datapad report. You gave him silence when he joked, distance when he lingered. You stacked walls made of protocol and hard-earned cynicism, taller with every shift
But Mirage remained... Mirage
Bright and shameless and full of audacious warmth. He had that annoying kind of optimism that refused to be snuffed out — not even by your glares, your silences, your stubborn refusal to let him in and worst of all, he never gave up
Never walked away
Not even when it would’ve been easier
One evening, after a long shift, you were behind the Senate warehouse — sorting crates under the fading glow of overhead lights, trying to shake off exhaustion that lived deeper than your fuel lines — when you turned around... and there he was
Perched atop a stack of cargo, lounging like he owned the place. Legs swinging lazily over the edge, posture relaxed and catlike, optics glittering with amusement
"Tired?" he asked, voice as casual as if he hadn’t been stalking your downtime for weeks
"No" you replied flatly, your tone sharp as unsharpened steel — hoping that would be enough to send him off into the shadows he came from
Of course, it wasn’t
"Then take it anyway" he said with a smile, tossing an Energon cube toward you without warning
You caught it out of instinct — like everything else around Mirage, you couldn’t help reacting
Still tense, still wary, you sipped the energon in silence. It was good. Frustratingly so
While you drank, he sprawled across the crates like a cat sunning itself, utterly unbothered by your attempts to ignore him. The silence between you shifted — softened — despite your best efforts to keep it cold
"You know" he murmured, his gaze drifting upward toward the dust-dim ceiling, "I like it when you frown"
You nearly choked
"I.. I do not frown!" you snapped, scandalized and caught completely off guard
He chuckled — a low, rich sound that felt warm in your chest even as you forced yourself to look away. You hated how easily he got under your plating
"You do" he insisted, still grinning "When you frown, you look like you're ready to take on the whole world with your bare servos"
A pause "I think it’s... kind of adorable"
And just like that — you froze
No one had ever said anything like that to you before. No one had dared
Not in admiration. Not in affection. And certainly not with that kind of raw, unguarded honesty
Most mechs either looked through you or down at you. You were a tool, a worker, a statistic that climbed too high too fast. You were used to being tolerated, not seen. Feared, perhaps. Respected, at best. But never... never cherished
Yet Mirage — that idiot, brilliant, impossible mech. he wasn’t looking at your rank or your origin. He wasn’t reading you like a file or sizing you up like a rival. He looked at you and saw someone worth smiling at. Someone worth knowing
And in that fragile, stolen moment between the crates and the neon glow — you let yourself believe it
Just a little
Just for now
.
.
After that night, you found yourself noticing things
The way you laughed — genuinely — when Mirage told another ridiculous story. The way you teased him back, lightly, without fear of being deemed "insubordinate" The way you no longer felt you had to force your smiles around him
Maybe — maybe this was what it felt like to be comfortable with someone
.
.
One quiet night, beneath the heavy hush of the Cybertronian sky, you sat beside Mirage atop the skeletal remains of an old, forgotten tower — a lonely sentinel that had long outlived its purpose. The wind was cool, brushing over your plating with a softness that almost felt like memory. Far below, the city lights flickered like a thousand distant stars, blurred by distance and time, each one a life, a choice, a consequence
Mirage turned his helm toward you, the usual lightness in his optics dimmed to something gentler — something almost reverent. When he spoke, his voice didn’t carry its usual bravado or teasing lilt. It was soft. Careful. As though he were afraid the wrong tone might shatter whatever fragile thing existed between you in that moment
"Have you ever wondered" he began, his words drifting like stardust into the silence between you "if we weren’t born into all... this — the funtionist, the factions, the names they gave us before we ever had the chance to decide who we really were. what would you choose?"
For a moment, the question didn’t seem real. You just stared out at the lights, blinking slowly, unsure whether to laugh or fall apart
"I don't know" you murmured, the admission raw and thin, carried away almost entirely by the wind. It felt like standing at the edge of something terrifying and vast
But Mirage... Mirage just smiled. Not his usual cocky smirk, not a half-formed grin made for deflection or show. This was different. This was warm, unguarded, and heartbreakingly genuine — like he wasn’t afraid of being seen, not by you
"I know what I’d choose" he said, so simply, like it was the easiest truth he’d ever spoken "I’d choose this — sitting right here, next to you"
You turned to face him before you could stop yourself, and there it was — the quiet depth in his optics, the kind of sincerity that made your spark twist in your chassis
No teasing, fleeting amusement, calculated charm
Just truth
"Hey," he said again, softer this time — almost like a secret
"If..." he hesitated, his vents drawing in a long, shaky intake, "if one day... the world stops telling you you’re not good enough – if it stops trying to fit you into a mold you never agreed to, would you walk beside me?"
It felt, in that instant, like the universe paused as though the stars themselves held their breath to hear your answer
You wanted to say no. You truly did. Not because you didn’t want him. Primus, you did but because yes felt like a risk too big to survive. Saying yes meant opening a part of yourself you'd spent a lifetime protecting. It meant vulnerability. It meant hope
And yet, when you looked at him, really looked at him, you saw something there — something you’d never dared to believe you deserved
He wasn't asking you to fix yourself. He wasn’t asking you to be someone else. He was asking you to believe — just for a moment — that maybe, just maybe, you were already enough
You swallowed, your voice catching in your throat
"...If that day comes — I’ll think about it," you whispered, and the words felt like a promise. A small one. But a promise all the same
For a heartbeat, Mirage was still — and then his face lit up in the kind of smile that felt like sunlight breaking through centuries of ash
"Guess I better start changing the world a little faster, then," he said, his laugh bright and unburdened, ringing out across the tower like music. And something inside you — something long locked away — stirred. Warmth curled around your spark like the first rays of dawn
And for the first time in a long, long while...
You laughed too
Not because you were supposed to. Not because it was expected of you.
But because in that single, perfect moment — you felt like maybe, just maybe, you were allowed to
And as the stars above flickered quietly in witness, you knew:
The world might not be ready. The walls between you might still stand tall and immovable — class, function, expectation — all of it still loomed like a shadow over your lives
But in the space between heartbeats, something had shifted
You had opened a door to him
more than that — you’d let him see it and for the first time in cycles, you allowed yourself something dangerous. Something terrifying
Hope
That somewhere, beyond the ruins of everything you’d been taught to believe – There might be a place in this world where you both belonged
Together