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Today's mission has been a very long one. Long, and filthy. Literally. Thank Primus G.H.O.S.T had the decency to install washracks for their Cybertronian agents - while there are a few lakes probably deep enough for them to have a pleasant-enough wash, he is not particularly fond of the idea of killing off the local population of fish and/or other aquatic species.
He quite likes the fish, and doubts they would like to drown in Cybertronian oils.
“There's mud all the way in my wheels,” he gripes, slinging a sideways look over at his companion. Megatron seems completely unaffected, scowling to himself as he flicks dried mud of his own from the gaps in between his plating. Optimus huffs and snatches up a bucket of brushes, sponges and cleaning fluids, and makes his way over to one of four available showerheads.
Megatron, he notes with mild interest, chooses the one right next to him. Their pauldrons bump as Optimus reaches to turn it on, sighing immediately as the spray runs over filthy metal.
He stays in one spot for a moment, offlining his optics to better enjoy the sensation of warm water washing over him - the day is cold and the mud frankly freezing, and there's nothing quite like a good wash after a hard day's work.
Once the spray has soaked him enough for the mud to loosen, he reaches down into the bucket, retrieving his personal favourite of the solvents inside, as well as a sponge, and does his best to ignore Megatron, who is standing right next to him covered helm-to-pede in bubbles. He looks very silly, and Optimus has to really work not to laugh.
He gets to work lathering himself up, then reaches down again to swap the sponge out for a brush for those more stubborn patches of mud. He's getting most of it off, thankfully, but, well… He's not exactly a small mech, and there's a few areas he cannot reach. Back on Cybertron, washing tended to be a two-bot job, but here on Earth he can't exactly ask anyone else to help him - Elita has before, when he's been desperate, but it feels strange asking someone he commands to help him wash, and there's nobody else available.
Megatron bumps into him, offering a somewhat brusque apology, and when Optimus looks over the mech is twisting himself around in an attempt at tackling the dirt underneath his rather prominent pauldrons. Optimus himself is having a rough time with his wheelarches, so…
“Do you require some assistance, Megatron?” he offers, trying not to sound as tentative as he feels, but instead likely just projecting that ‘air of bumbling, unaware self-assurance’ he has been told follows him around like a lost cyberpuppy.
Megatron sends him a look over his shoulder that tells him he resents Optimus even considering such a question. They may be allies now, possibly even friends, but certain things are too deeply ingrained in them both to unlearn so quickly - and for Megatron, it is his displeasure at having to rely on others for help.
“I do not require your assistance,” he says somewhat snappily, then, expression pinching, adds, “thank you.”
Okay, perhaps ‘want’ would have been a better word to use. Or maybe ‘would you like’. Ah well. Megatron is still very obviously struggling with his cleaning, and Optimus knows that he is a mech of action rather than words; one who, hopefully, appreciates initiative over hesitation, and therefore will refrain from shoving into the wall by the throat at the first unwelcome touch.
(Actually, Optimus wouldn’t mind that, loathe as he is to admit it. Just not like this. Not ever, probably.)
So he steels himself, picks up a soft-bristled brush, and reaches up under one of the sections that make up his pauldrons.
Megatron stiffens immediately, servo tightening around the sponge in his grip, and he sends Optimus an almost warning look… But eventually he relaxes, flexing his shoulders to allow Optimus better access, and it feels like an even greater victory than their actual mission of the day.
Optimus finds himself wondering if this is a new thing to Megatron - he cannot imagine the Decepticons to be a terribly touchy-feely bunch, and suspects that they might even take asking for help as a sign of weakness. He wonders if anyone has ever helped the mech like this before.
If the answer to that is no, he is glad to be the first. Megatron seems to be enjoying it, secretly, plating flaring slightly under the Prime’s touch, struts relaxed. He tilts his helm forwards under the stream of water, and though his expression is out of the Autobot’s sight, he would like to think it is one of contentment.
Unfortunately, he is finished with his cleaning all too soon, and as much as he would like to continue touching the other mech, he cannot fabricate a reason to do so.
Luckily for him, Megatron clearly has designs of his own. Having rinsed any remaining suds from his frame, the ex-Decepticon turns to face him, wielding a brush of his own.
“I take it you would appreciate help with your wheels,” he says very casually, like the Prime’s world isn’t tilting on its axis as he bends his knee and kneels before Optimus - holy Primus, that is not a sight he thought he would ever witness! He sticks his servo into the Autobot’s wheels, deftly scrubbing at the mud encrusted into his tyres, and for the briefest of moments it all feels so very domestic. Like this is something they do regularly. Isn’t that a thought? This sort of maintenance isn’t typically seen as intimate, but it does require a certain level of trust he doesn’t think existed between them before now.
It’s silly, really - all they’re doing is helping each other wash away some dirt. But Primus if it doesn’t feel like a hell of a lot more than that.
Megatron’s servos are surprisingly quick, his touch gentle yet sure as he works, serving also to make the Prime feel horribly, terribly relaxed. He’s very grateful his tacnet has updated to recognise Megatron as an ally, otherwise it would be positively howling at him right now.
But just as with before, it is over far too quickly. Megatron stands, straightening himself to his full height - taller than Optimus, his processor helpfully reminds him - to smirk down at the Autobot. It’s an expression that sends a thrill of something through his circuitry, though not necessarily something unwelcome.
“You have my thanks,” he says, somewhat shakily despite his best efforts, extending a servo for what the humans refer to as a ‘handshake’. Megatron’s grip is strong and a little cool to the touch, digits calloused with millennia of war and weaponry. It occurs to Optimus that this may be one of the first times in years that those servos have been used for anything but violence.
He’s thinking far too much into this. This is a perfectly normal interaction between two Cybertronians. Nothing special whatsoever.
“No,” Megatron responds eventually, snapping him from his daydreaming, “thank you, Optimus. This was very productive.”
Productive would not have been Optimus’s first choice of wording, and frankly he’s not sure it makes all that much sense, but he isn’t going to question it. They’re still very early into their alliance, and things feel a little wobbly sometimes; whatever happened just now was good, and he doesn’t want to undo it.
“I think,” he ventures, slowly, “I might like your assistance with this again, sometime in the future.”
Amusement burns in Megatron’s red optics. “You might find me amenable.”