It's A Good Color

[heliopauseentertainments]

Based on this Tumblr post from 0ptiimus

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Rodimus/Megatron

Characters: Megatron, Drift, & Rodimus

Warnings: Crack

Summary: In which Drift is witness to a disaster.

Crossposting: AO3 | Tumblr

Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

“Drift.”

Drift suppressed the urge to jump at Megatron’s voice behind him on the bridge.

While not normally in charge of navigation, Drift had been asked to fill in as the shift’s usual navigator had come down with a fungal infection. Some of the crew played fast and loose with First Aid’s decontamination protocols after excursions to organic planets, with inevitable consequences. Luckily, it was easy to treat, but it required an extended period of time in a tank of heated sterilization solution… leading to the empty seat Drift now needed to fill.

“Yes, sir—“ He stopped himself as he turned to look back over his shoulder. “Yes.”

The time had long since passed when he would address Megatron as “sir.”

Especially since Rodimus would make fun of him for it.

Megatron, standing only an arm’s length away, stared at him with patient disapproval, like he was waiting for Drift to sort himself out.

“Yes?” He tried again, making his answer a question, as would have been discursively appropriate.

“I have a question for you,” Megatron continued.

“Yes?” Drift automatically repeated.

“Rodimus has changed his paintwork again.” That wasn’t a question. Then again, Megatron often worded questions as statements, expecting the listener to pick out what was under scrutiny.  “I assume you’ve already seen him this morning.”

Drift opened his mouth, but apparently Megatron wasn’t finished.

“It seems he’s set on revenge again given his choice of palette. Whatever for?”

So he had learned how to form direct questions.

Growth.

“I—“

Actually, Drift hadn’t seen Rodimus yet today. The paintwork was likely sloppy—temporary—if he had done it without Drift.

Their paths just hadn’t crossed, not even in the communal shower like usual. Just the other day, Rodimus had complained to him about having seen Megatron and Ratchet drink their morning warm fuel in the shower for “efficiency.” Honestly, Drift had been surprised it had taken Rodimus so long to notice.

“No, to tell the truth, I haven’t seen him today, but it sounds like he’s gone with the purple.”

Megatron nodded.

Nothing immediately came to mind, but—No. Yesterday, in the midst of another of Rodimus’s shower gripes, he had bemoaned that Megatron hadn’t been as “touchy” as he had been before they had gotten separated in the Functionist Universe.

A bit of a strange complaint, Drift had thought at the time. Rodimus didn’t need shoulder pats that badly.

Or… oh.

It wasn’t shoulder pats Rodimus was after.

That was what was different back then. Rodimus’s paint. He had thought—Well, Megatron did always seem rather drawn to the color purple.

No wonder Rodimus had been asking Drift how he lived with Ratchet being someone who would drink a warm beverage in the damn shower. Drift had thought it was just exasperation and disgust, not a request for genuine advice.

However, that said something about Rodimus that Drift did not want to know. He did not want this information and the odds of successfully bribing Chromedome to surgically remove it were discouragingly low.

Best to simply let it go; move on.

If Rodimus wanted Megatron’s attention, then that would be Rodimus’s problem.

“He’s upset at you, I think.”

“Why?”

An understandable question, as it would seem that Megatron was blissfully free of the awful realization Drift had just had.

That question would remain, however, incomplete.

“Unfortunately, neither of you pay me nearly enough to ever answer that.”

Not that he needed the money.

 The least Drift could do for Megatron, in honor of past loyalty if nothing else, was to let him live in blessed ignorance for a while longer.

Megatron’s face scrunched in a way that Drift had only rarely seen before: befuddlement.

Before the captain could form a follow up question to Drift’s sidestepping answer, the door to the bridge was slammed back into the wall.

Rodimus burst in, tires squealing in his alt-mode.

His paintwork was an utter wreck: purple and black streaked unevenly over his usual palette, still sealed with top coat even. Rodimus hadn’t even bothered to remove the old paint, put on primer, or seal in the new.

An absolute mess on wheels.

This would take hours to fix.

Drift had no time to say anything. Megatron was already approaching the rolling disaster.

“What have you done to yourself? Did you just splash yourself with the paint?”

Rodimus flipped back into root-mode, just in time to give Drift a thumbs up, as Megatron grabbed him to haul him into the office. Presumably to clean him up.

Hopefully to clean him up.

Megatron muttered something about “completely inappropriate.”

Drift begged the powers that be that it was just to clean Rodimus up.