Optimus was too exhausted to even properly celebrate his sudden freedom. His jaw and wrists ached from his own fighting, but his valve pleasantly sore (and it had clenched in weak objection when Megatron removed his spike.)

Weakly, he moved his arms down from over his head, rotating the wrists with a pop of joints. Faceplates slipping back into something more neutral and less 'frag me now', he was able to lean over enough to give his Highlord a tired glare.

After all, there was one thing he could still celebrate.

"...You are such a slagging heap of scrap."

Telling off Megatron would never get old.