Title: Man the Bunkers
Author/Artist: albydarned
Rating: PG
Warnings: fluff (?), slashy
Word count: 3,600
Summary: Optimus Prime and Bluestreak find themselves locked in a closet together.
A/N: For the Sprinking 2010 prompt "Transformers (G1), Prime/Anybody: tight spaces/locked in a closet – Well, it was good to know that he wasn't the only one who looked for the first hiding place whenever Wheeljack said "Oops."


Optimus wasn't quite sure how Prowl could stand it, being locked up in his office hour after hour without taking a single break to stretch out his joints. Of all the mechs on the Ark, Optimus knew exactly just how much work his second-in-command was required to do on a daily basis, and while it wasn't a small amount by any stretch of the imagination, that still didn't mean he couldn't take a few minutes every now and then for himself.

Which was precisely what the Prime was doing at that very moment; going over all of the reports from the last encounter with the Decepticons had taken longer than Optimus had originally thought, and now that he was done with that task, he was rewarding himself with a well-deserved stroll around the ship. He'd already been by the medbay to inquire about Ratchet's day so far, and to check and see how the medic was doing on supplies, and he was planning on stopping by the monitor room to make sure Red Alert knew that he was appreciated and his work valued before heading back to work himself.

However, all of Prime's plans were scrapped the miliklik he heard Wheeljack, whose lab he was passing that very moment, softly say "Oops." Vorns of experience had taught Optimus that whenever the explosion-prone inventor uttered that very phrase, the smartest tactic was to immediately find shelter … and find shelter Optimus did, practically diving through the closest door to him and waiting for the inevitable explosion.

The explosion didn't come, surprisingly enough; what was surprising, however, was the fact that the room he had sought shelter in—which was, apparently, a storage closet—was already occupied.

"Optimus Prime, sir? You're stepping on my ped." It was the timid voice of one of the Autobot shooters, Bluestreak. "And you're pressing my doorwing into the wall, and that kind of hurts …"

"Bluestreak?" Optimus asked, startled momentarily. A soft hiss of pain made the words register, and with a apologetic smile (which was difficult to see in the near-darkness of the closet), the larger mech moved so that he was no longer stepping the gunner or pressing him against a wall. It was still a tight fit in the room, however, with barely enough space for the two bots to move without brushing against one another. "What are you doing in here?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Bluestreak immediately replied, and Optimus had to force himself from sighing through his vents. One of the disadvantages of being the leader of the Autobots was that he was treated differently by most of the mechs; Prime knew that when Bluestreak was hanging around the rec room with either the twins or Hound the younger mech was lively, upbeat, and rambling constantly about anything and everything. Optimus wished he knew a way to make Bluestreak less nervous around him; he might've been his leader, but he could also be his friend as well. "But when I was walking through the base earlier, I heard Wheeljack working in his lab. I went to ask him if he needed some help, when I heard him say something about an irregularity in a neuron field … or something. He sounded pretty upset about it, so I decided to take cover."

Optimus laughed; it was good to know he wasn't the only one who looked for the first hiding place whenever Wheeljack said oops. "That is exactly why I'm in here as well; I'll need to ask him about what he's working on. If it's dangerous, he probably shouldn't be working on it in the Ark. I don't want to explain to Grapple and Hoist why I need them to rebuild this particular hallway again."

"Sir, there's a slight problem with that," Bluestreak said, shifting slightly. Optimus felt the younger mech's hip against his thigh, his plating warm and slightly damp with condensation, likely the result of being in such a small room and concerned that it might explode at any moment. "The door only opens from the outside. That's why I've been in here all day; I can't get it open, and for some reason, my comm. won't work in here either."

Optimus cocked his head, wondering why he hadn't thought to ask Bluestreak why he had stayed in the closet sooner. A quick check of his own communications array returned several 'error' messages and, not surprisingly, the door refused to budge even when he put all of his considerable strength into it. "Well, this certainly wasn't what I had in mind when I decided to take a break," he said with a soft chuckle, turning back to Bluestreak, his smiling faceplates hidden behind his ever-present battle mask.

"I'm sorry, sir!" Bluestreak quickly said, placing a warm servo on Prime's arm. "I should have warned you not to close the door, but everything happened so fast—one klik I was alone, and then bam! There you were, and the door was already shut and—" Bluestreak realized suddenly that he was touching his leader without permission, and removed his hand as though Optimus's plating had suddenly become scorching hot.

Perhaps this accidental confinement will be more useful than a break from paperwork, Optimus thought amusedly, remembering his earlier musings regarding how Bluestreak, and many of his younger soldiers, acted around him. Perhaps if he was able to show to the younger 'bot that he was really no different from him, Bluestreak would be able to act normally around him. Maybe he might even come to consider Optimus as his friend, and not just his superior. "You have no reason to apologize, Bluestreak. This was no one's fault." After a quick moment, Optimus added, "Except, maybe Wheeljack's. Remind me to see if we can spare some materials to simply build him his own work bunker outside of the Ark."

"Y-yes, sir," Bluestreak replied, sounding surprised that Optimus had casually charged him with such a task, insinuating that they were likely to hold informal conversations with one another in the future. Usually, Bluestreak was the one mech that anybot could count on to come up with a conversation topic, but upon finding himself locked in a storage closet with his leader, a mech he had admired for a good portion of his life, his processor stalled and his vocalizer glitched. He's going to think you're a stupid gun-mech, Bluestreak harshly thought, a frown marring his features.

Although the lighting was dim, Optimus was able to see Bluestreak's anxious expression turn into a frown. Even though Optimus hated the very thought of any of his soldiers being unhappy for any reason, he especially didn't like seeing the enthusiastic gunner look so upset. "Have you been to Portland recently, Bluestreak?" Optimus asked, deciding that it would probably be easier for him to begin a conversation; hopefully, Bluestreak would overcome his reservations and open up a little more to him.

The gunner only shook his helm, not speaking, so Optimus decided to continue the largely one-sided conversation, hoping that sooner or later, the other mech would join in. "You should really consider doing so on your next off-shift, then. The humans are celebrating Christmas again, and they're put up differently-colored lights on most of their structures and domiciles. It looks a little like Iacon right before the Solar Cycle Celebration."

"Really?" Bluestreak suddenly blurted out, sounding a little suspicious. Before the younger mech could second-guess himself, or regret his decision to speak, Optimus laughed, resting a warm and comforting servo on Bluestreak's shoulder.

"Well, perhaps only a little," he said, because there were few things in the universe that Optimus had laid optics on which could compare to the capital city of his home world. "But some of the displays are impressive, especially when a 'bot considers how quickly they are constructed and then taken back down."

"I'm still getting used to how quickly time moves here," Bluestreak admitted, his optics meeting Optimus' shyly before focusing on the floor once more. However, he didn't stop speaking, and Prime found himself smiling behind his battlemask as Bluestreak continued. "It seems like they were just celebrating Christmas, or Spike's creation anniversary … the seasons change so fast too, just when I get used to it being cold it's suddenly too hot again, or it's raining and raining and really, what sort of organic vegetation requires so much water to sustain itself?"

Chuckling, Optimus shrugged. "These are the sorts of questions which I believe only Primus has the answer to. Although, I believe that the humans refer to their creation anniversaries as 'birthdays.'" Prime noticed then that his hand was still resting on Bluestreak's frame, and although it felt rather comfortable, he didn't want to make the soldier feel uncomfortable, so he let his servo slide off of the grey mech. "I believe that there are many things we can learn from the humans. We take for granted our own long life spans; to watch a species that ages and dies so quickly in comparison to ourselves almost forces us to reconsider our own perceptions of time."

Bluestreak paused, and for a second, his gaze moved up to where Optimus' hand was now resting at his hip. Before he could really think about it much longer, however, Bluestreak's optics were meeting his own again, an unreadable expression present within the light blue crystals. "Do you think we'll be here long enough to watch Spike and the others die? I don't really think I want to see that happen."

"That is a feeling I believe we all share, Bluestreak. However, it is not so simple; humans are born accepting their own mortality, and I think it would hurt our friend's feelings if we suddenly left them and never returned. And we have a duty to protect this world as long as the Decepticon threat remains." Optimus fought the urge to sigh. He hadn't meant to mention the Decepticons in what he had hoped would be a light-hearted conversation with his soldier. I've been fighting this war for too slagging long, he thought with no small amount of resignation.

"Sir?" Bluestreak asked, and, for a moment, Optimus felt the younger mech's hand brushing against his own before it dropped back to Bluestreak's side. "Are you all right? We don't have to keep talking if you'd rather not …"

Optimus shook his head, and—in a rather impulsive move—grasped Bluestreak's hand, hoping to provide a measure of comfort to the other. "No, I'm enjoying our discussion, Bluestreak. I regret that I don't have the opportunity to speak with the other Autobots on a more regular basis. I wish I knew more about you, as well as the others." Letting his battlemask retract, Optimus ignored the shocked look on Bluestreak's faceplates; he wanted the younger mech to be able to see his expressions. "I apologize for not being very skilled in the art of conversation. That is an ability that I believe you have in spades, however."

If transformers could blush, Prime was certain that Bluestreak's cheek plates would be just as red as his cherry-colored legs. "It is how I got my designation, after all," the gunner admitted sheepishly. "Or, at least, that's the rumor that's circulated around the base."

"Is there an element of truth to that rumor?" Optimus asked, cocking his head to the side. Finally, the 'bot was opening up! However, this exact scenario was not as he had always imagined having a friendly conversation with one of his subordinates; the cozy setting combined with the fact that he was still holding Bluestreak's hand (and since the other mech didn't seem to mind that much, Optimus didn't see the point of letting go) were unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. However, as Prime allowed his thoughts to travel down that very path, his processor informed him whenever he held a general Autobot assembly, his optics spent, on average, 29 percent of the meeting's duration focused on the gunner. His processor also informed him that Bluestreak, like Prowl, was a very attractive mech, but unlike Prowl, he didn't hold himself so rigidly as to appear completely unapproachable. Prime thanked his processors for being absolutely no help at all, and forced his attention back on the mech he was currently confined with.

If Bluestreak noticed Optimus' wandering attention, or the fact that his core temperature had increased slightly, he made no mention of it. "Not really … my creators named me for my speed. I used to be the fastest mech in my entire town, my job when I was a youngling was carrying written messages back-and-forth between people living in our town, like well-wishes or bond-promises. Things that needed to be a little more personal or more r-romantic than a databurst or a standard transmission."

Optimus heard the hitch in Bluestreak's vocalizer at the same time as he felt the gunner's cooling fans kick in on their lowest setting. Proximity warnings began to light up in his CPU, and even though he knew that he had suddenly began driving down a dangerous road, all his traitorous processor was doing was reminding him that it had been precisely three megacycles, twenty-seven decacycles, nineteen breems, and several billion astroseconds since his last interface.

Unconsciously, Optimus began sliding his thumb along the pliable metal of Bluestreak's servo, the soft slick slick of their plating only barely audible over the whirling of their cooling fans. "Um," Bluestreak started, his optics flickering back and forth nervously, refusing to settle on Optimus's exposed lower face, "It really heats up in these rooms when there's two 'bots, don't you think?" The sudden, shocked widening of his optics revealed that Bluestreak hadn't exactly thought of how his words would sound, because suddenly he was shaking his head and looking absolutely terrified. "I mean, because it's a small space, and those always make me nervous and two 'bots are going to put out twice as much heat as just one 'bot and you're a lot bigger than I am so there's probably a reason in physics why that is, but I'm not really all that smart which is why when I'm out of here I'll definitely ask Perceptor why that is and then we'll never mention this conversation again …" Even as he continued to ramble, Optimus noticed that the younger mech never pulled his hand away from the Prime's grip.

How could I have missed that I was attracted to him? Optimus asked himself, torn between amusement at Bluestreak's long-winded explanation and wanting to use his own lip components to quiet the other 'bot down. Even though he's not an officer, I've seen him hundreds of times in the hallways and throughout the ship. There was no denying, however, how charming and adorable Bluestreak was; even Sunstreaker, a mech known for his poor temper and unfriendly attitude, got along with Bluestreak.

"It's all right, Blue," Optimus said, interrupting the long train of words that he had stopped listening to in order to sort out his own thoughts. He hoped that Bluestreak didn't mind that he used a … oh, what did Spike call it again? … a nickname, but it was obvious to Optimus that, for whatever reason, formality had long-since been thrown out. And to celebrate that fact, the Prime decided to informally rest his free hand on Bluestreak's hip, turning the other mech's body slightly so that they were more-or-less facing each other.

"Prime? Sir?" Bluestreak asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. Optimus felt a shiver run up his supports at the softly-spoken questions, at the confusion and hope warring with one another in Bluestreak's expressive optics.

"You have nothing to apologize for," he replied, ducking his head down slightly so that his cheek was pressed against Bluestreak's, his mouth level with the sharpshooter's audio, blowing warm air across the delicate circuitry. Within his embrace, Optimus could feel Bluestreak trembling, but the tell-tale sounds of his cooling vents kicking up to an even higher setting let him know that his touches were not unwelcome. "And please, call me Optimus."

"Optimus," Bluestreak sighed, pulling his hand from Optimus's so that he could rest both of his servos on the taller mech's shoulders as he practically melted into the Prime's embrace. "Why … I don't understand. Please, I just …" It was hard—too hard—to listen to Bluestreak try and fail to put into words all of the questions, emotions, and desires he was obviously experiencing, so Optimus did the only thing he could do in such a situation; turning his head, he caught Bluestreak's lip components with his own, teasing the soft and supple metal. Bluestreak's last attempts at forming a coherent statement ended with a quiet moan as he let his lips fall open, his glossa darting out to brush against his leader's before retreating back into his own oral cavity.

Such a tease! Optimus thought, ecstatically, as he allowed his glossa to catch and tangle with Bluestreak's, their fluids mixing as their mouths practically fused to one another. As they continued to kiss, Optimus allowed his free hand to trace the tempting expanse of Bluestreak's doorwings, the gunner's passionate moan lost somewhere between their mouths. Finding his courage, Bluestreak pulled Optimus down towards him hard, causing the larger—and heavier—mech to crush him hard against the back wall of the closet. However, Bluestreak seemed to enjoy being pinned by Optimus, if the fact that he then wrapped one of his legs around Optimus's thigh was anything to go by.

Prime braced the hand that had been on Bluestreak's hip on the wall behind the gunner just as Bluestreak pulled his leg closer, their hip plating meeting somewhere in the middle of their bodies, leaving scrapes of paint clinging to each other's plating. With a strangled gasp, Bluestreak pulled back from the kiss, panting heavily out of his mouth in a desperate bid to cool his frame down, his optics bright and full of surprise and desire.

Optimus felt his fuel tank sputter deep within his body at the display Bluestreak made, so wanton and loose and why didn't we think of this before? "Bluestreak," Optimus whispered, his voice reverent and thick with lust. Bluestreak's engines revved in response as he yanked Optimus's lips against his own, the force denting their fragile lip materials (although neither of them cared).

Time became meaningless, reports and target practice utterly forgotten as Optimus and Bluestreak lost themselves to the other, hands groping at sensitive plating and glossas exploring and tangling up in each other. Bright lights soon replaced the darkness, and even through the triple-plated iron door that sealed the two in together, the sounds of shared bliss could be heard.


"Wheeljack, just the 'bot I was lookin' for!" Jazz happily said as he peeked into the inventor's lab, the mech in question turning to look at him curiously. It wasn't every day that the third-in-command stopped by for a visit, after all. "You haven't seen the Prime romin' 'round the halls near here lately, have ya?"

Wheeljack thought for a moment before shaking his head. "Can't say that I have. Why do you ask?" Despite the informal tone of his question, Wheeljack found himself wishing for a mirror; he'd been working in his lab all day, and he was probably covered head-to-ped with scuff marks and stains, which was hardly the image he wanted to present to Jazz, who was always so clean and … flashy.

Jazz, however, didn't notice anything wrong at all with Wheeljack's appearance; in fact, why was it that he had never noticed just how cool Wheeljack's flashing vocal indicators were? "Prowl was supposed to meet with Prime a breem or so ago, but our leader never showed his face plates, and now he's got me an' a few of the others on a base-wide 'bot hunt. Ratchet said that he saw him headin' this way, so I was wonderin' if ya'd talked to him."

Wheeljack smiled behind his battle mask; it was rare, but not completely unheard of for Optimus Prime to get caught up in some of his duties and space off meetings with Prowl. Truthfully, if Wheeljack had to sit through a boring meeting with the second-in-command as often as the Prime did, he'd be looking for excuses to miss out on them as well. "Sorry, but I haven't seen him all day."

"Figured, but I thought I'd at least check," Jazz replied. From somewhere behind him, he heard a soft thumping sound, although for the life of him, he couldn't figure out where the sound was coming from. "You're not workin' on anythin' I should be worried about?" Jazz asked, figuring that the strange pounding sound he was barely catching with his audios was coming from somewhere in the lab. Strangely enough, he wasn't all that concerned with his own safety; he worried for Wheeljack, who was always (it seemed) getting caught in the aftermath of his own failed experiments.

"I don't think so," Wheeljack said, motioning towards the strange mix of chemicals he had spread out over his work desk. "Just an idea I've been toying with. Remember when the Decepticons used that behavior scrambler on a lot of us to make us act, well, like Decepticons?"

"Mmmhhmmm," Jazz responded, his attention drawn away from Wheeljack's explanation by the completely fascinating light display his vocal indicators were providing. I wonder if they still light up when his mask is retracted?

"Well, what if the concept was reversed? What if we could find a way to make Decepticons act like Autobots? To pacify them, I suppose." With a heavy sigh, Wheeljack turned back to his experiment. "But I can't get the atoms to stabilize just right and this weird gas keeps coming from the beakers and I think it's affecting my systems because my core temperature really shot up once you arrived and … Jazz, what are you doing? Why are you licking my head fins? … oh, that feels good …"