best-first
Optimus' fins tip all the way back. There's got to be some sort of hidden angle or a plot or, or a Starscream reason for this--
But he stays put, his large, armored servo held by tiny sharp talons that have yet to strike out and hurt him.
"Do you... do you want to talk about it?" He asks softly. That's the sort of thing he'd want someone to ask him, in this kind of situation. All he can do is fall back on his intuition and try to be good. "You can say no. I don't mind. I don't mind this, either."
He lifts their folded hands a little.
"I don't mind at all."
If only there were another reason beyond what was already stated, if only he had some ploy to break all of Optimus’ digits in one firm bend, or to trip him with his pedde and bolt while he was still down. If only he had come up with some sort of scheme to get him out of this, but here he was, his digits tightly wound around Optimus Prime’s, his optics narrowed lower, his stature hunched. “No.” He quickly snapped, his voice low, like a cowering dog whimpering up at its owner, his wings curled back. There was a moment of silence between the pair, but before Optimus had the opportunity to speak up, if he had planned to at all, Starscream began to puff up, and he gave a frustrated huff. “There’s nothing to talk about. And even if there WAS, it’s not like I’d want to talk to you about it. YOU KNOW, SOME mechs crack under pressure, but NOT me, Optimus. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME SAY ANYTHING!!” Were his optics getting foggy. Maybe. He was more concerned over the vice grip now held about the poor Prime’s mitt. He had yet to let him speak.