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Optimus casually recalls teasing Megatron about marriage, unknowingly triggering Megatron’s long-buried crush—leading to flustered punches, dramatic exits, and a room full of exasperated friends finally explaining to Optimus that Megatron likes him, you glorious idiot.
The following is a very, very short/incomplete draft.
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“Okay,” she said, arms crossed. “We’re doing this now.”
“Doing what?” Optimus asked.
“The conversation,” Ratchet added, rubbing his optics with one hand. “The one we should have had years ago but didn’t because your processor runs on honor and dense titanium.”
“I—thank you?” Optimus said uncertainly.
Ultra Magnus cleared his throat, which meant he was about to say something uncomfortable. “Optimus… Megatron was not enraged. Not truly. That—was not anger.”
Bumblebee leaned over and helpfully translated: “He was blushing. And flailing. And screaming. You don’t do that when you’re mad. You do that when someone tells you they want to marry you and your internal fans fail trying to keep up.”
Optimus blinked. “He punched me.”
“Because he didn’t know how to handle it!” Elita said, exasperated. “Primus, he probably dreamt about that moment for a megacycle afterward and screamed into his berth-pillow about it!”
Soundwave made a soft clicking noise. When everyone turned to him, he shrugged—a clear “She’s right.”
Optimus frowned. “But his face turned red from rage—”
“Nope,” Ratchet cut in. “That was embarrassment. Full energon-flushed facial plating. Textbook flustered warlord.”
“I—what?” Optimus looked genuinely baffled. “But… I joked about marrying him. That’s—surely that’s not something that would make him—”
“Elita,” Ratchet said dryly. “Please tell your noble idiot what flirting is.”
Elita said. “You basically fake-proposed to your secret crush and flirted without knowing it.”
“He’s not my crush!” Optimus blurted.
The entire room fell silent.
Even Soundwave tilted his head, as if questioning the very fabric of reality.
Optimus cleared his throat. “I mean—I didn’t think he’d take it seriously.”
Bee clutched his helm. “Optimus. He punched you twice and ran away screaming both times. That is the universal Cybertronian symbol for ‘I can’t handle how much I like you.’”
Elita sighed, stepping forward and placing both hands on Optimus’s shoulders. “You are the smartest mech I know. You’ve led armies. Taken down tyrants. Been chosen by the Matrix itself. But for the love of Primus, you are the densest mech on Cybertron when it comes to love.”
Optimus opened his mouth.
Then slowly closed it.
And very quietly said, “...He likes me?”
Soundwave made a series of chirps, translated loosely as, "He has liked you since before the war, you chrome-plated romance novel."
Optimus staggered back half a step and sat down heavily in his chair.
A beat of silence passed.
Then:
“...Should I apologize for not realizing sooner?”
“No,” Elita said. “You should go find him before he explodes from mutual pining and throws a chair through a window.”
Bumblebee grinned. “And maybe bring flowers.”
Ratchet muttered, “And wear extra armor. Just in case punch number three’s a knockout.”
Optimus buried his face in his hands.
“Primus help me.”
“No,” Elita said, already pushing him toward the door. “Go help yourself. Preferably by knocking on his door and asking if the proposal still stands.”
“Or if he wants to propose this time,” Bumblebee added.
Ratchet snorted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Soundwave hummed a quiet tone that sounded suspiciously like a wedding song. "Here Comes The Bride", Richard Wagner's opera Lohengrin.