Oh how Slipstream hated the stares.
She grimaced, though avoided optic-contact with the numerous 'Cons she passed through the long corridor. Some flashed looks of surprise, others betraying the slightest amount of interest, and the rest appeared to be unreadable.
Despite her usually confident and somewhat arrogant demeanor she displayed, Slipstream didn't enjoy attracting much attention. Even as the leader's mate, that alone didn't draw in the glances she received now.
What she hated most was that all the optics fell upon the current focal point of her body: the bulging cockpit that appeared to have swallowed her waist plates. Which, admittedly, Slipstream couldn't quite understand. Everyone had known for orbital-cycles that the femme was carrying. Such a sight was nothing new.
However Slipstream decided not to chew anyone's head off for this unwanted attention and make things worse; besides, she was tired of having to "poetically" explain how annoyed she was with some of the 'Cons' reactions. Might as well ignore it.
To her relief the 'Con finally stopped in front of the door leading into her shared quarters. Slipstream scanned the room for any sign of Megatron, but no other presence appeared in this room. She shrugged indifferently and depressed a panel on the wall that allowed the door to slide back into its place behind her.
That's when she slightly jerked from a sudden pang in her plates. The femme sighed. That seemed to happen more often now; it didn't hurt, but it certainly wasn't an enjoyable sensation. While they were assured such instances as these were normal, Slipstream couldn't shake off a lingering worry that grew with every impulse.
Maybe it was because the carrying cycle may finally be nearing an end that unnerved her – and these pangs surely didn't help the situation!
"It'll be over with soon," she quietly reminded herself. Though it did nothing to bring any repose; nothing really did at this time, to her frustration.
Slipstream paused when the door slid open once again. She needn't turn around, since she already became aware of whom it was walking inside behind her.
"How are you faring?" Megatron asked hesitantly. The mech seemed tenser than her during these recent deca-cycles when they were informed it was only a matter of time now . . .
"Fine," Slipstream replied, crossing her arms over chassis. "It's certainly not an enjoyable experience, though."
"I became aware of that the last several times you complained to me. I'm afraid there's not much else I can do." The comment seemed to be (or tried to be) laced with a bit of humor, but Slipstream wasn't amused.
Megatron walked past her and sat on the edge of the berth. "Care to relax, then?"
Truth be told Slipstream wasn't keen to do nothing but sit around. However there wasn't much else to do. With her current form she couldn't transform and Megatron had practically imprisoned her inside the base, fearful of what may happen when the femme was in such a vulnerable state. Of course, Slipstream didn't take kindly to that order, but for once her mate was truly determined to see this through to the end!
Slipstream hated such treatment, but after several times trying to "escape" the base (all in complete failure, for she hardly managed to cross the mountainside before Decepticon soldiers came to drag her back to an irate, yet clement Megatron) she eventually gave up and did whatever she could to pass the time. While, at first thought, it sounded luxurious to be excused from all duties around the base to avoid fatigue, it quickly became fragging boring.
Slipstream shrugged and sat next to the mech. However she sat with her back to him, still in protest of all these limited options.
"I know you don't appreciate what I'm doing, but it pains me to see you in such stress."
The femme rolled her optics. 'Oh please.' But instead she merely replied bluntly, "Just be glad this is all worth it."