He didn't like being stalked on, partly because he'd been about to do the same himself, partly because like this, what little authority and defiance he had had just been snatched right away from him as the Prime came close.

And then closer. Those optics lingering on his spark chamber, bared (if still shielded) as it was, made his lips curl and almost close up. He didn't at first though, not even with Optimus basically standing chest to chest with him.

What did, however... Was that.

"Who gave you the right?" Instantaneously, after an astrosecond of stunned, outraged surprise, Megatron roared, not even paying attention to the slide and click of his chestplates closing up.

Boiling anger kept him upright even as every strut, cable and piston ached and shivered to do as ordered, and he didn't get any less angry by the realisation that the consort-convict programming - understandably, but rage-inducing nonetheless - had controls to make him obey.

Failsafes, in the case of necessity. There was, after all, a key word in that phrase; convict.

Nonetheless, Megatron remained standing, even as he had to take support from the berth behind him, legs practically locked in place for a few agonizing moments.

"Your hunches, Prime, doesn't give you the right---" The groan was as much from anger as frustration as he felt his knees buckle, power redistributed and his grip on the berth shift.

"Slag you."

Because the Prime had just gotten - delayed, admittedly - what he wanted; Megatron back up on the berth, and this time not sitting but rather lying down... though propped up on his elbows.

Ever the rebel.