Chapter 1: Efficiency
Chapter Text
The department is a quiet sort of flurry of noise. The rustling of papers and the tac-tic-tacs of keyboards, the soft clicks of polycarbonate mugs. The first time someone’s elbow had knocked a ceramic mug off a desk, Prowl had updated the protocol and rules manuals of the human Autobot employees.
Considering the immediate and immense-- 76% --reduction in the statistical likelihood of seeing a preventable injury given any scenario from a clumsy office moment-- 98% most likely scenario --to any form of explosive force causing debris and shrapnel to go flying (he’s not willing to speculate on the exact numbers for this one, despite his TacNet teasing his thoughts with the promise of a hard answer. It’s enough to know that with present intel gathered, the likelihood is exceedingly unlikely), it was worth the processor-dulling helm-ache to draft, implement, and enforce the protocol.
The incendiary-disaster scenario becomes slightly more probable to account for when Wheeljack finally makes it back to Earth from his most recent jaunt into the Unknown, but that was then and Prowl’s only worried about current statistics, the things he can actually react to and plan around and do something about.
Blue optics scan the spacious room, taking in the orderly rows of identical desks with matching equipment at each station, yet each one individualized somehow, whether by the exact tilt they turned their file trays at, or the addition of small momentos, subtle things that offered no real hinderance to the cleaning of each space, but brought a bit of their personalities into each little station.
Something that hadn’t been present in the first several months of the department opening, because Prowl had agreed with Red Alert’s points on how allowing such diversity of adornments would encourage the likelihood of something smuggling its way onto base that wasn’t supposed to be there. He was a little less certain but willing to believe possible, the claims that humans were easily distractible species, and such baubles would only distract from their productivity and goals. Jazz had been one of the few officers to speak up on thinking otherwise when the issue got taken up the ladder in a frankly confusing flurry of drama, and in the end, Prowl had decided to cede to the advice of a mech he considered most well-versed in social politics.
And most particularly, morale.
Prowl might not understand why anyone would be more comfortable with pieces of their personal life on display, data freely there for the taking, but he could understand the effect mood both individually and as a community mattered towards the probabilities of success.
And he wanted this department to be very successful, considering they were largely the ones responsible for ensuring that everyone on base had what they needed. With exceedingly few exceptions-- 6.3% discrepancy; 17% accounting for undocumented imports and Autobot-sourced deliveries --every single order for supplies, went through this room at some point or another. Fuel requests, documentation for every squad’s fuel-use log as well as budgeting forms for rationing those very supplies; medical supplies for humans and mechs alike, raw materials and the receipts for them. Crucial information. Vital not only to the Autobot cause as an inevitability of warfare’s requirements, but to their direct relations with the alien species that not only populated nearly the entire planet, but had the means to be a threat if so provoked.
While warmer relations had developed as friendships and battle-formed partnerships were forged, it hadn’t been that way when they’d first crash-landed on Earth. Discovering they weren’t the first Cybertronians to land and make contact wasn’t so surprising-- but that it was Decepticon forces was just pure bad luck, according to Jazz.
Prowl didn’t believe in luck, but he did thing in the unexpected. One could not plan for what one didn’t know, and some things were just simply out of any ability to feasibly ken.
He doesn’t like being surprised.
Removing his wrist jack from the terminal welded securely to the wall-- far less chance of organics being squished by falling furniture --Prowl casts an analytical glance over the office space again. Familiar behavioral patterns and expressions of focused content meet his optics, and he allows a moment of satisfaction. The reward of dedicated, honest work; the real cog of the machine of war, finely tuned and orchestrated beneath his command, safe behind his own desk and the ranks beyond.
He’s… Satisfied, he thinks-- 87% certain --with the equilibrium that’s been created over the last two years, because it’s been just a little less than that since they ever had to scramble for supplies that went missing, got misplaced.
With little exception, Prowl knows exactly where their assets are on base and off-world at any given point in time, and all he has to do is access this closely guarded terminal to take in the electronic version of the reports the humans prefer to manage by paper trail.
“Can’t hack a notebook unless you have the thing in hand,” had been commonly said when queries of upgrading the office equipment and protocols were proposed. The real deciding factor however, had been the compatibility of this analog method with other branches of the human government.
~*~
If Sam Witwicky clicks his pen against his teeth one more time, you are going to lose it. Or, well, not really-- in the confines of your head you might, but you’ve learned very well how to keep your screaming over-sensitive emotions at bay.
Because it’s not actually a problem that the guy is sitting there, intently focused on whatever document he’s reviewing, slowly tapping his pen against his grimacing teeth as his other hand props his chin up. He pauses now and then to occasionally move the mouse and click, and his eyes keep on scanning the screen.
Which you can see, because your own glossy black monitor is offline and his desk is right behind yours. A comfortable distance away, it’s still a major bummer that there’s only cubical office walls put up around every four desk stations, barring the separate department in its own room behind your offices, which handles all the phone-calls.
You like working here. It’s quiet, studious, easy work.
Well, maybe not easy-- it takes focus and concentration and occasionally a good deal of savvy know-how, because nothing about this seemingly ordinary job was actually very normal.
The first time a requisition slip for uranium came across your desk, you’d had to verify like eight times it was, indeed, meant to pass through your humble little routing department. Since then you’ve gotten quite used to seeing nearly anything under the sun, from lotions and hand soaps and reams of paper for human staff needs, to the munitions that stocked the armory bay and weapons of every mech on base.
It’d taken you two weeks to feel like you had the hang of the job, and another few months to really feel comfortable in it. Knew who to go to for what, who to ask to help you with what problems and how to fix most of the troubleshooting yourself. Then, the department had had the shuffle of a lifetime with rotating staff and petty squabbles, a pizza-party-gone-wrong, and afterwards…
…utter peace.
How, you’re not quite certain. What you do know is that ever since some kind of agreement was settled on, things have been easy sailing since. You show up, you do your work, you amuse yourself with the certain level of uncanniness and absurdity of it all, and sometimes you even get a glimpse at who you’re doing all this work for.
Well, mostly, anyways. You’re also doing it for y’know the rest of the planet and all, at least personally, and also for yourself. The sign-on bonus for taking this remote position on what most people considered a terribly dreary, bland terrain of expansive desert, was definitely a perk.
Unfortunately, even the best of gigs came with drawbacks, and there were still the little daily life annoyances to deal with.
Like migraines. That lovely, wonderful feeling of will-eroding sensation that creeps up the back of your neck like icy fingers gouged into your skull, until your whole head is ringing with pain. Eventually, it licks down your shoulders and arms and sings along every nerve ending in your achy body, until your state of being becomes a whole lot of suck.
Fortunately, you avoid them most the time. You’ve made a lot of life decisions that have helped removed unneeded stress from your life, and even though you are arguably working in a very stressful job… You’re thriving, here. While what you’re doing is world-changing in its own humble way, the actual actions are as simple as spell-checking a document and ensuring all needed assets have been attached to submitted forms, and routing things where they need to go. You’re just one little blip in a much, much bigger machine, one that chugs along at least in this part of the engine with serene stability.
Unfortunately, your body doesn’t always care that things are actually really fine and dandy and there’s no reason to enact nuclear armageddon upon your nervous system. Your therapist had cited plenty of causes, but none of that helped much on truly stopping the condition.
You could manage it, with great effort.
But it never went away entirely.
And sometimes, like today, it’s not a fun, or easy, day at work. It’s all you can do to resist the urge to close your eyes and bow your head down, maybe stuff earplugs in your ears to cancel out the noise of the room. It’s too much sensorial experience; you can hear everything. Someone chewing on a snack a few cubbie-groups over. The disarmingly quiet clicks of a Cybertronian’s pede-steps a much, much further distance away at the entrance of the room. Probably the department’s pretty overseer, the quiet one who you only ever saw in passing. He didn’t have a great reputation, however, and that among other things kept you content admiring from afar and never once entertaining the idea of approaching him for conversation.
You liked your nice, simple job with a straightforward purpose. Show up, do your work, go home-- did it count as working from home if the base was technically your home? Or should you just count your room inside it to be your little house in an underground city? --and maybe read a book or draw before going to bed.
Unfortunately, you have about three hours left on the clock that was far too slowly ticking down, your pain meds aren’t putting a dent or even a flimsy gauze of gentling on the sharp pain throbbing through your skull, and you’re so tired.
Physically strong, but so mentally wrung out from the endurance needed to field an entire’s day worth of dodged social interactions and minimal work effort, you’re doing your best. Fortunately your best has always been enough, and you’re determined to keep it that way, even if this is your third migraine this week alone. You’re genuinely not sure what’s tripped your body’s trigger this time, but it’s not helping you focus any as you re-read the report on your desk for the fifth time, certain that you’ve missed something but not knowing what.
--oh. The answer stares you in the face as you slowly flip through the pages, each turn feeling like a gargantuan task. And all the while, dreading another click of that stupid metal pen to those pearly white teeth behind you.
It helps if you actually sign off on it, doesn’t it?
Exasperated at yourself, all you do is let out a silent sigh. Unwilling to draw the attention of anyone and distract them, unwilling to reveal your own weakness when you’re not entirely sure how it’d be received. You’d be treated differently, possibly doubted, and in any case you didn’t want to invite speculation people were prone to cast on things that just weren’t their business. It’s not that you felt like any of your coworkers were inclined to think such things, but you had an unfortunate wealth of life experience that told you that statistics were stacked against you somewhere. People got… funny, with acknowledging or seeing chronic symptoms.
There. Signed and finished, you ruffle through the paper to check everything is in the correct order, before slotting it back into its envelope, and dropping it on your completed file tray. You’ll have to hand-deliver it to routing at the end of your shift, but that’s fine because the walk there is short, the chances of anyone stopping you for a social greeting are low, and you can walk the long way around the office space at large to avoid getting waylaid by any friendly faces you’d normally be delighted to see.
Today, though, you just want to clock out and slip out unnoticed, and find your blessed bed.
Click. Click-click-click.
The sudden little taping noise shouldn’t bother you. It shouldn’t. Cripes, the stapler noise from another cubical nearby is arguably louder and harsher on your sensitized eardrums than that soft, plastic click against enamel.
--click-click-click--
You want to scream and throw something, maybe flip the work desk with how tense your muscles get as you clench your eyes and breathe deep, knowing that the only one this is bothering is you, and even if you do choose to ask Witwicky to stop the stim he falls into when focused, you should do so politely. Like a mature, reasonable adult, not an emotionally tantruming toddler who can’t even articulate why she’s feeling so miserable.
Swallowing the pained keen in your throat is just as easy and just as practiced, and you resign yourself to the rest of the bleary work-day with another self-regulating breath.
As long as you get the work you have to get done today, no one’s going to notice overmuch if you don’t have quite as much pep in your work flow as usual. In the grand scheme of things, it all balances out, and you’re still useful here.
~*~
When a paper-thin sheet of a slim, sleek electronic screen is placed on your desk by a bemused looking clerk you’ve actually never met personally before, you think at first something’s either gone wrong with one of the shipments you’re responsible for tracking the progress of, or that there’s been a mistake. The green blocking on their uniform coat tells you that they’re from the administrative team, not a department you’ve ever had to deal with often except for the occasional favors exchanged. Mostly, swapping pizza flavors at office parties, because despite literally being the most organized supply-chain program, your department is apparently incapable of ordering the correct pizzas.
“Uh, what’s this for?” you wonder, mystified, because you almost exclusively deal with literal paperwork. What few electronic orders come through are handled by your trusty work-issued computer and the scanner neatly situated to the right of it. “Sorry, I’ve never got one of these before.”
Their expression brightens, clearly eager to talk about it, and you’re glad you have the luck of a helpfully talkative messenger.
“Oh! It’s a flimsy, like, uh-- a dumbed down version of a datapad. The big guys use these to write memos and stuff. I dunno what this one says, but Prowl asked me to bring it to you. He’d have done it himself, but he’s busy with meetings today.”
You swear your heart stops beating as the pressure in your hurting head is momentarily swamped by potent dread, and a non-zero level of shock.
Prowl? Isn’t-- That’s the department head, isn’t it? Like, the head above the head, because even your supervisor answered to the stately Cybertronian.
Surely not. There’s no reason to single you out for a message unless something was terribly wrong-- which was way more likely to get handled by Sara on the desk next to you, because she was a true wizard of the office --or you had done something terribly wrong.
Some part of you wonders if you managed to fuck up today, somehow, after all. Except your migraine hadn’t kicked in until just after lunch, and that meant the work you’d dropped off before said break was probably flawless, or nearly so.
I fucked up, didn’t I?
“Uh… thanks. How do I, uh, read it?” you ask, picking the cool, glossy device up. It’s nearly borderless, just a thin, blue-tinted screen with little to it than that. You can’t see any kind of jack or port, or any buttons at all adorning its sleek surface.
“Oh, just tap the corner with a finger, and it’ll light up,” they instruct. “You good? I gotta get back to my desk,” they ask, kind eyes watching as you hesitantly touch the first corner.
Nothing happens.
Well, I had a one-outta-three shot at getting it right the first go. My odds can only improve from here.
It flickers to life like a lightning bug, a soft glow that pulses out until it fills the whole device with luminescent cyan. A bit harsh on your sensitized eyes just now, but far easier than the white-blue of your normal devices.
“Uh… Nah, got it, thanks!” you chirp, nodding them farewell as the guy hurries off after a smile and an encouraging wave, though you can see lingering questions.
He hesitates just a moment too long before leaving, eyes glancing to the tablet you have in-hand. The ‘flimsy.’
You have no inclination to share office gossip, however, and he has to leave empty-handed of any clues as to what’s written on the screen.
Unfortunately, so are you.
{Enter credentials}
“Uh…” Okay, you weren’t expecting that. Metaphorically cock-blocked from information by the lovely protocol and pragmatism of security. Apparently, there was a reason more than polite abstinence that had prevented your messenger from knowing what this thing said.
With no further prompt on the screen, you hesitate, then give the hazy cyan text a poke with a fingertip.
To your cautious delight, the screen flickers and changes, offering up a simple two row box. A login screen.
Your gaze lifts to your offline computer, then back to the pad. What are the odds that Mr.Smarty-pants used my normal login info? It wouldn’t overmuch surprise you to know he had access to passwords. They were a cybernetic species, after all, and from what you had gathered in your time on base, lived and breathed electric currents like you savored the very air you breathed. Instinctive. Known, by way of intuition and a base-coded symbiotic partnership with the very environment you’d evolved to live in.
With familiar response, a keyboard appears when you touch the username bar, and you quickly type in your ID. It still gives you a little quirk of a smile whenever you have to type it in, because you literally pulled the funniest number tag.
{User: TerranD69}
The headache hurts, but that doesn’t stop you from smiling a little as you exit the edit box, then tap the password field.
…and freeze, because it had never once occurred to you that maybe, just maybe your personally chosen password would be seen by other eyes. Directly known to be connected to you, and you might have chosen a password too unique to forget and too out-there for even your closest co-worker to guess.
Really hoping that boss-man didn’t actually have to connect this data to the device manually, if this even works at all, you punch in the code.
{Pass: SexyRobots404}
Exiting the text field, you gulp. Then, because what the heck else are you gonna do and why stall the inevitable, you click the little twinkly-like star icon below both boxes that intuition would suggest is the submit button.
The screen blinks out with a line of white pixels, flickers in a way that stabs your poor eyeballs, and then boom. You’re looking at a deep blue screen with pretty cyan text in the prettiest font that takes you about half a second to realize isn’t typed.
This looks hand-written. The letters are similar, uniform, but the tiniest deviances of geometry stand out like little neon lights to your discerning eye. You might have flunked out of every level of Algebra for the better part of your entire schooling life, but when it came to visual math based on angles and shapes and form?
Oh, man.
You excelled there, big surprise, and you’ve always been detail-focused. And right now, you’re fixating on the realization that somehow, Prowl drafted a hand-written note to deliver to you, and the personal touch feels somehow otherworldy to your non-spectacular little office desk space.
Click. Click-click. Click. Click. Click-click-click--
Dammit Witwicky. You flinch at the sound without meaning to, and disguise it as simply shrugging your shoulders with a sit-down stretch as you sigh, and lean back in your seat. Now that you’ve wasted precious seconds oogling the pretty handwritting on this alien device instead of actually reading what the neat script says, you start reading from the top.
And just about drop the thing on your lap as the blood in your veins go cold, and forget the ‘fear of God,’ this mech has put the ‘fear of failure’ in you as your heart starts hammering, and you feel your skin go clammy-cold.
Report to my office at 18:30
I have noticed a recurring 8-13% drop in your work
productivity. This established pattern is unacceptable.
Come prepared to discuss solutions, or hand in your
formal resignation.
Agenda:
discussion of work ethic,
scheduling correctional training
-Prowl
That was it. No title, no fancy header or pronouncement of his rank and titles, and really, why would he need to? You knew who he was, even though you’ve never so much as shared a single word between you two. You’ve seen him, though you’re not sure if he’s ever actually seen you. Maybe in passing, but certainly you didn’t stand out to him amidst the dozens of other people who worked on base. You were just one of many forgettable faces to a species that has outlived your entire known genetic history.
Your hands feel cold, where they grip the cool screen like its a venemous fish you’re wary of being pricked by. At least this one doesn’t thrash in your hands or threaten to flip itself into your face with sharp, stinging barbs, but it might as well be, the way its making your heart pound.
The fear and dread that grips you is nearly a physical thing, but that’s okay because this isn’t your first time being called in to discuss a problem by an employer. It is most certainly the scariest, though, because apparently, the rumors were right. There’s not an ounce of forgiveness, compassion, or understanding in these cold words.
Come prepared to discuss solutions, or hand in your formal resignation.
This dude literally just told you to either show up willing to dance to his tune, or give up and quit now, because you aren’t even worth his time to bother with if you can’t bring something to the table. And apparently, despite your self-motivational pep talks, your best isn’t enough, after all.
The real question, though, is what do you want to do about it?
~*~
Its disturbing how quiet the humans can be. Less so when they’re being more typical-- noisy jewelry that clacks or tinkles like the most delicate of chimes, hard-soled heels that give pleasant little clicks against the metal ground. The scuff of rubber soles or the rustle of their layered, colorful clothing. The dress code brings some semblance of order to it all, but they still find ways to personalize things. A necklace here, a bracelet or pair of pretty jewels dripping off tiny, vulnerable audials.
Prowl can’t fathom what drives them to puncture their own bodies with pretty baubles, but he can’t deny there is an aesthetic appeal. Just not enough to make him think it practical.
What if it catches on something?
And yet despite his TacNet and his own personal opinion leading him to suspect that the odds are statistically high-- he’s yet to hear of any injuries in the offices caused by a snagged ‘earring.’
The human he’s called into his office, however, is not typical. She does not make noise like the others do-- no laughs or boisterous words, no hard-soled shoes or a lazy stride that causes scuffs in her little steps. Her clothes are modest, simple; a uniform shirt and a swishy skirt in matching color of the bright scarlet of the office department Prowl manages. Her shows are soft-soled, and the way she moves causes little sound, barely even the shuffle of her abundant fabrics.
She comes tip-toeing in despite chin held high and nerves plainly visible on a face he’s-- 85% --certain she thinks is composed to blank neutrality. It might have been, were he not so adept at reading faces like an open book, taking in every twitch of her muscles and the way perspiration has gathered on the edges of her hairline. Pulled back into an orderly bun, not a single strand is out of place as she comes to what he interprets as an uncertain halt, several paces inside the room. The little alien looks absurdly tiny, dainty even, standing in the middle of the floor of his already small office, and the door slides shut behind her with a quiet hiss of metal-on-metal.
She flinches, muscles jerking like the human wants to glance back behind herself to confirm what her audials no doubt had already informed her of, and halts the gesture. She’s nervous (76%). Ill-at-ease. Possibly a good sign. It increased the odds that this was going to be a productive meeting, because prowl was determined to figure out why one of his best processors was periodically falling into only mediocre performance. He paid close attention to the patterns of numbers that physical actions were summarized down into. How many files completed and of what sort; were they submitted within standard processing times? Held up due to outlying factors?
Hers usually weren’t, until they were, and he had no answers for the discrepancy. Irresponsible distraction seemed likely-- 75% --based on the way other humans had performed, except the nature of their turns of productivity were usually longer or more concentrated bursts, rather than this inconsistent dip.
Prowl needed more data to understand the issue, what needed correction in order to inch those desirable statistics up ever-higher, and if he had to replace someone to do it, he would.
“Are you capable of hearing me comfortably from this distance?” he asks, his office not exactly designed with humans in mind. He rarely had a need to talk to any except at their stations, and he didn’t make a habit of bringing in outsiders to his place of sanctuary. As this was the first time he was dealing with a matter quite like this, unwilling to delegate it to his human subordinate who was already fully scheduled with a heavy work-load this month, he’d decided privacy would be more productive. If the organic decided to tender her resignation-- 23% likelihood, judging by nervous state; could be fearing repercussions or disciplinary response for breach of contract --then there would be less drama stirred, and it could be a quite, politely handled matter. There was no reason to drag it out.
If she didn’t want to bring her best to the table, Prowl had no interest in wasting his time and effort.
Fortunately, resignation doesn’t seem to be what the organic has in mind as she takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, then meets his optics dead-on.
“Sir, I have come prepared for either of your outlined options,” she announces in a flat, controlled voice he can still hear the nervous waver in. A higher pitched keen that struggles to stay restrained in her fragilely composed vox’s output. The odds of this being a productive meeting increase substantially, and he steeples his fingers as he silently listens. “If I’m unable to perform to-- to your standards,” she says, her voice faltering for a moment as his HUD pings a note of temperature shifts in her body, the heat raising in her tiny face, “then I will tender my resignation. I do, however, wish to-- I wanna explain why I’m-- I’m sorry,” she stammers, composure fracturing apart under the weight of his steady gaze as Prowl watches with indifferent interest.
Not the insubordinance I worried about. Is this misdirection to cultivate a sympathetic response? Or refreshing genuinity?
He waits.
When he says nothing further, the human seems to gulp and steady herself, fidgeting where she stands as her eyes start to drift from his, until they seem to settle on a point on his forehead, barely three degrees off from meeting his gaze.
“I-- I uh, I get migraines,” she says with a pinched expression, before her gaze drops, and then she yanks it back up, shoulders stiff. “It does affect my ability to work, but I didn’t realize I was performing that… Poorly.”
Migraines.
Prowl’s only passingly familiar with the term, and a short search through his wideband provides a colorful array of information to inform the concept.
“If I request the dates for your most recent migraine episodes, are you able to provide that information?” he questions. It’d help to verify if the numbers matched up.
Her face pales.
“Uh… N-no? Well-- Actually, I mean, yes, but it’d take me a bit, I’d have to compile it digging through chat logs and--”
“Do so,” Prowl decides, cutting off the excessive rambling. “I expect it submitted at the start of tomorrow’s shift.” Considering how much time was left in the day, there oguht to be plenty of time for--
“Oh,” she responds, faintly, like he’s tasked her with a terrible ordeal. “Okay, I can do that.”
Your tone of voice indicates you think you cannot.
Prowl studies her expression from over his desk, considering. Distraught. Lacking confidence but trying to present it. Reassurance would be beneficial.
Especially seeing as this individual seemed keen on keeping her current employment, it was in Prowl’s interests to cultivate her calm focus.
“If that is not enough time for you to complete the task, then say so,” he outlines bluntly. “I am unfamiliar with the condition you’ve claimed except in brief summary. I will follow up with your supervisor to verify the medical handicap.”
And decide if it’s worth keeping you. He wants it to be; while his department saw high numbers for productivity and accuracy, there were still obvious grades of quality even within that cultivated standard. Being one of three of his best processors barring recent discrepances, Prowl’s loathe to disturb a well oiled system by replacing a part that might not need replacement.
If possible, however, his words only seem to upset the organic more, because her face goes utterly blank after a momentary flinch.
“Uh, Sir…”
“Prowl,” he directs.
She seems to startle for a moment, before clearing her throat.
“P-Prowl, um… My supervisor-- Doesn’t know,” she admits, a hand darting up to sweep from the corner of an eye and back behind an ear, most probably a nervous tic as Prowl’s optics narrow. “I’ve, um… I just have to work through it, but I can have my doctor verify. It’s on my medical record,” she explains.
Prowl’s not terribly impressed.
“And why haven’t you informed your supervisor of your ailment?” he presses.
She seems reluctant to answer.
“I…” the human swallows, her hand flashing through the same nervous tic again, before she seems to catch herself, glancing at it and wringing the edge of her sleeve betwixt fingers instead. “I-- Didn’t want to,” she states haltingly. When no further information comes, Prowl lifts his chin from steepled fingers, letting her see his frown.
“If it is a condition that affects your capability to function, then it’s a matter that should be discussed with your superiors,” he lectures with more patience than he feels, because Primus, he’s tired of this. Teaching what should be basic, common sense to subordinates.
“Am I-- Am I going to be fired?” she asks, worrying her sleeve as she tries to meet his gaze, but can’t quite seem to hold it as Prowl’s frown deepens.
“Not unless you give me a reason to,” he states. It’s the simple truth.
If possible, her face pales further.
“Oh. S-so, uh, can you tell me what quota I need to, um, be reaching to meet your expectations? Thirteen percent is, uh, a lot.”
It is.
“We’ll go over the exact numbers at the end of this meeting. First, I’d like you to tell me more about how this condition affects your work. What can be done to accomodate?”
Because if buying a box of polycarbonate coffee mugs had restored office morale, Prowl’s certain he can secure the productivity of a favored asset with a willingness to account for an unexpected variable.
~*~
You’re so nervous you want to cry, but that would probably look really bad in front of this mech of cold, calculating eyes and serene stillness. His presence is like a force of nature that swamps the room, his bright and high-polished paint immaculate and pristine, drawing your gaze and attention like a beacon. The stonewall gray of his office’s walls and furniture only makes his stark white, blacks, and accents of vivid red stand out all the more.
Unfortunately, it’s also making your head scream bloody murder as you do your best to pay cognizant attention to him, because Prowl’s face kinda swims all blurry-like in your vision now and then, and having to tip your head to look up at him is hurting your neck.
“There’s, um, not really anything I can do about it. I’ve got medicine and I keep a careful schedule outside of work that helps, but when they happen, I kinda just… Have to deal with it.”
Please oh merciful alien overlord, let that be enough to convince you I’m fine. I can handle this. Please don’t fire me fuck fuck fuck--
“You have coping mechanisms outside of work that function to alleviate obstructive symptoms?” he questions immediately, making you despair of ever leaving the room.
“Y-yeah, mostly I just make sure the room is dark and quiet. Sleep helps, but that’s not, ah, really productive at work,” you explain nervously, giving a laugh like it’s funny except it’s not, it’s really not. “Honestly, I don’t get them that often, I’ll do better to…” to, what, exactly? Pretend you’re okay when you’re not? Pretty much. “...improve my performance.”
Please don’t fire me please don’t fire me please don’t--
He seems to regard you for a moment, before that pristine helmet of his tilts just a little bit, like you’re being sized up. It’s a downright predatory gesture, one of cool, calculating intent that has your heart fluttering all nervously again.
“Your migraines induce symptoms of audial and optical sensitivity?” he surmises.
“Y-yeah, sound really hurts.”
“That would explain your gait.”
You blink.
“My what?”
The metal titan you’re being interrogated by gestures at you with a hand.
“You walk quietly. More quietly than most,” he observes.
“Oh, uh… Always have.”
“Have you always suffered from this condition?”
And your spine is rigid again at the unwelcomed topic you’d much rather avoid. Just thinking about it makes your mouth feel like you’re coughing up bile.
“Once I got into highschool, yeah.” Remembering he’s not exactly from around here, you add, “That was about fifteen, twenty years ago. Fiffteen if you wanna count from it becoming a real problem, but it started before that.”
“I see. Then will relocating your office station provide reduction of sensory triggers? I can have an office set up for you by the end of the week.”
Your mind goes blank for all of five seconds as you’re pretty sure you gape and goggle up at him, but your face hurts too much to really tell you what expressions your making.
“I-- Uh, I don’t need an office,” you stammer, alarmed at the thought. You have no idea what kind of office politics that would stir, if a lowly position like yourself was given the luxury of her own private work space. “Really, it’s fine, I can just--”
“The repeated drop in your efficiency would suggest otherwise,” he states icily, causing your throat to close as you go stiff again. “I will make the arrangements. When are you available for additional training? While I am inclined to believe that your problem stems from data processing obstruction,” what a way to explain a migraine, buddy, you ain’t wrong, “I do not see how additional supervision for a period of time as we make adjustments will be remiss.”
“Um… Any day, I guess. My only schedule is the one you already know,” you say with a shrug. “My time is yours.”
And something about that seems to please him, because you feel the softest shift in the air around you, like a pleasant bloom of sunshine, despite the fact those icy eyes don’t shift the tinniest bit in temperature. They regard you with aloof indifference, merely measuring your words against whatever his fathomless, alien mind is thinking.
“Very well. We’ll begin tomorrow after your shift.”
“Where do I go…?”
“You won’t. I will send someone to you. Perform your work tasks as normal; they’ll be observing. Advising, when necessary.”
More than a little nervous on wondering who that nosy work buddy will be, you nod.
“Yes, Sir. I-I mean Prowl, Sir. Uh--”
“I have emailed you the files I want you to go over,” he cuts in over your nervous stammer. “Remarks on the discrepancies I have observed and the desired level of productivity I need you to meet. If you encounter any further obstacles preventing that,” he says, freezing the breath in your lungs as his optics narrow fractionally, his steepled fingers touching his chin lightly again, “Then I expect you to report directly to your supervisor. If you need quiet space to work, then request it. If you need a screen filter to dim the brightness of your monitor, request it. Am I understood?”
You stare at him, feeling… the tinniest bit dumbfounded.
This dude found out I get headaches and offers me an office and screen protectors. Am I-- Am I dreaming?
It’s finally starting to sink in that he’s not chomping at the bit to fire your ass. He’s just perfectly willing to make it exceedingly clear he’d be willing to. But he’s offering ways to avoid that.
Emboldened, wary yet hopeful, you dare to perk up a bit as you offer a tentative smile.
“Yes, S-- P-Prowl,” you correct, feeling your face flush. That’s going to take some getting used to. His authoritative, commanding demeanour isn’t helping untangle your tongue from the polite address. “Thank you. I’ll, um… Any more questions for me?”
He seems to regard you a moment, before he blinks, and you feel like some of the intensity eases off. The atmosphere feels just a tiny bit lighter, and you dare to hope that maybe this guy isn’t quite as much of an asshole as his mannerisms would suggest.
He hasn’t ripped into me like they said he would. He’s just… Really blunt.
“That is all. If you’ve no further questions, you are dismissed.”
“Oh, I have like a thousand questions,” you admit on a spurt of whim, because the euphoria of realising you’re not just keeping your job but it might get even better, because maybe you won’t have to ever deal with Sam Witwicky’s pen clicking or Clara Stark’s humming ever again. “But none of them are really relevant to work, so, no. Thank you, S-- Prowl.” Fuck. Why can’t I just say his name! Augh!
You’re already mid-wave and about to go, when his voice halts you in your tracks.
“You have questions of a personal nature?” he queries.
You glance back at him, not having expected him to take a cheeky farewell as a conversation continuation. Someone else, sure, but this guy?
“O-oh, uh… I mean, I’m curious, so yeah,” you admit, a little more at ease with the lack of actual upbraiding. He’s done exactly what the little ‘flimsy’ said would happen-- discussion of your work, and solutions to improve it. I might get even more work done even on days I don’t have migraines, if no one’s able to distract me.
He seems to consider a moment.
“Ask.”
You blink.
“What--? Oh, uh…. What do you want me to ask about--?” Oh shit. Social jumpscare error 404: what the fuck do I do now?!
“Whatever you want to ask. I am curious what data you are after.”
You give a nervous laugh.
“I mean… Everything’s interesting,” you admit, gesturing at him. “I’m talking to someone who’s from not just a different culture from me, but a whole different planet. I uh, I’m not really up for a for-fun conversation though, sorry. My head hurts. If we’re done with business, I’d really like to just go and rest,” you admit, metaphorically shooting yourself in the foot because you feel like you just wasted an amazing opportunity. He’d left the table wide-open for you to place any cards down.
Why do you turn into a police car? What’s the difference between Energon and the Hi-grade I keep hearing about? How tall are you? Can you really lift a whole building up? Is Cybertron like Earth with rotating seasons, or does it stay the same all year-round? Does Cybertron have years?
“...Of course. Dismissed,” he states, and his gaze drops back down to his desk as Prowl immediately lifts a tablet up, and the door behind you hisses open.
Nothing left to keep you here, you flee.
Chapter 2: No Plan Survives... Subordinates
Notes:
Mentions of alcohol in the form of alien Hi-grade
also hello
this is a 30 page chapter of wild whimsy and thinly veiled plot excuses to shove us into the story WEEEE HERE WE GOOOO--
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Day 1 - No Show
When Prowl picks up his datapad at the low-priority ping delivered with the fortuitous timing of his mind actually being available for the disruption, the first thing he notes is the timestamp.
It’s 09:00:03. Nearly exact punctuality for the start of the work shift for an organic species that had evolved to rise and rest with the orbit of their planet’s sun.
When his mind takes in the simultaneously absorbed information that the notification is to alert him to an ‘email’ communication, he has a guess of who it’s from.
86% probability it’s her report.
His TacNet which Prowl had finally managed to force into an idle, restive state jumps to life to chew on probabilities and numbers, because he’s already let it slip into his thoughts quite unwittingly. More difficult now to stop the program from running tandem with Prowl’s own logic-trees of thinking, he lets it be.
It’ll be an interesting progression of statistics to watch unfold, have casually recorded into his memory files for informing future calculations. He’s already got high expectations for this Processor, reflected in the numbers his TacNet spits out. They’ve only improved since the first set of calculations it’d run against the organic’s predicted usefulness.
78.973% probability report intentionally submitted close to mathematically accurate punctuality. Related suspicion; clocked in early-- Dismissed. Reasoning; TerranD69, clocked in at 09:01:67.
In other words, she had only just clocked in, nearly two Earth-minutes late, and therefore sent the email before observing proper workspace protocol.
Prowl’s not sure whether he’s more pleased that his Processor submitted her report on time, or displeased that she didn’t take the proper premeditation to account for submitting while actually clocked in, and the subsequent realization that it meant she’d breached several office rules by walking into the department and using work-issued equipment before proper access authorization.
His TacNet, however, is very certain where his feelings stand on the matter.
96.98% displeasure. 85.973% likelihood procedural fault will reflect in larger projects as notable problem; source; failure to adhere to established protocols; favors avoidable setbacks. 12.973% predicted rate of willingness to detrimentally deviate outside predictable patterns.
And like a flash of lightning, Prowl makes an errant realization as a tiny, minute pattern jumps out to him like a neon light.
A quirk of his TacNet, if he asked Ratchet. To him, a disconcerting glitch that he’s certain is a result of factual psychic damage dealt by the only mech capable of literally crashing his TacNet into overstimulated shut-down. Unpredictable. Too varied. And somehow, the only way Prowl’s rigid programming knew how to cope with the paradox of making hard calculations on a mech who could be predicted to be unpredictable, it had settled on a numerical tag-line. A subtle little hesitance that Prowl had become used to, aware it simply soothed a needed communication his program didn’t otherwise know how to convey.
I think I’m correct but I could be wrong.
And noticing that three of the last several percentages relayed to him have ended in the same x.973 numerical string, has Prowl’s door wings snapping up taut.
Surely not, this isn’t-- Prowl shuts down the logic tree before half-spun calculations can spit out final numbers at him. He doesn’t need to know how likely it is that his TacNet has managed to isolate an exceedingly specific caste of behavior. On the one hand, it seems possible; a firm 67.5% chance that the human is exhibiting familiar traits, because Prowl has familiar tastes. The mech that’s on his mind is simultaneously Prowl’s most capable, competent mech-- and the biggest thorn in his side for all of Jazz’s absurd eccentricities and aversions. The days when Prowl ever doubted the Spec Ops lead as worthy of his rank and role in the Autobot army were long behind him, and Prowl had long since learned to find ways of coping with the fact his best blade also had a will of its own.
Prowl savors a useful asset he can aim, fit neatly into his plans. The only notable problems against his calculations were the whimsy of fate-- he can’t (<0.003%) account for data that isn’t known to even exist --and having to take in consideration for the sensibilities of each individual. Not everyone agreed with the most… practical, efficient choices.
Prowl leans back in his chair, considering, aware that he’s already given this somewhat-- 32% --extraneous fixation of pondery more focus than he’d have preferred. Considering the crucial factor of the requisitions and inventory department, a 99% priority, it wasn’t something he could dismiss out of hand.
So Prowl considered, because he didn’t believe in happenstance, and he doesn’t think it’s coincidence that one of his top processors, the one he’d singled out for some time as a pleasing flow of not just well done, but exceptional work until fluctuations became prominent, is causing his TacNet to react as though she were as unpredictable as Jazz.
97.973% likelihood; favors personality type cross-match.
Instead of yielding to the whim of his TacNet and his own personal curiosity to look deeper into what documented facets of her life was available electronically, Prowl opens the email. Unexpectedly, and refreshingly, it’s brief and to the point.
Prowl,
Spreadsheet attached; dates and recalled severities recorded. I might be missing a few dates and some of the timestamps are estimated, for the times I didn’t electronically message friends about it.
P.S. (Is it really okay to call you just Prowl? Like, no titles or anything?)
A familiar name split into the two parts humans prefer to use separately rather than as a whole, ends the brief correspondence. Prowl clicks to open the file, then blinks.
Meticulous rows of data march across the screen in color-blocked cells, and his optics simultaneously clock the realization that most of the rows contain hidden text, cropped short. Keeping the file visually tidy, less overwhelming, all the ground-down numerical data in easy view at a glance. A neat header title labels the document as ‘Requested Medical Events Report; Migraines’ and in the far right corner, today’s Earthen date.
Below the title with bolded and slightly enlarged font, is another row of merged cells, this time with brief instructions. A legend, for navigating the document, as if his eyes haven’t already clocked the orderly patterns she’s so neatly arranged.
This is more detailed than I was expecting.
Aside from the alternating rows of color that have turned her spreadsheet into two soft shades of faint orange, he spots some individual cells colored in pale yellow. The ordering of columns is simple. The date comes first, followed by the hours clocked in that day, probably (99%) taken from other recorded records, which would explain her certainty on the data being free of any additional remarks. Next is the approximate or known estimate-- she’s marked all uncertain numbers with the tilde. Known timestamps attributed to linked events; 8% confidence in accurate precision --on when, exactly, the migraine occurred. Considering Prowl’s standards of precision down to the mathematically perfect purity, that was still saying something as his TacNet spliced seamlessly into his ruminating.
And then the sparseness ends; a ‘notes’ field holds her speculation on how much strength of negative influence each episode had on her work that day, with a few outright question mark placeholders the farther back they go. Admitting unknowns too uncertain to give a faithful answer. The very last collum is an additional text field where she looks to have written brief notes on what was done to address symptoms for that individual occurance.
There’s eighty-six entries.
It takes prowl a moment to realize that he’s looking at almost two full stellar-cycles worth of timestamps; the document is deceptively short, condensed down into narrow rows with the text-boxes hidden until clicked to enlarge their cropped input. Prowl navigates the entire thing with one flick of his finger, then sends a search through his memory drives. Once the packet ID has been isolated, he sends a retrieval request, the brief exchange of reaching into his deeper archives taking less than a nanoklik. Prowl has the files opened on his Head’s Up Display as the delicate, near filigreed symbols clutter his optical feed’s vision.
He’s still as he sifts through the patterns, translating everything down into cold, concise facts that TacNet rolls up into even more firmly described numbers. Calculations run their course like a pleasant breath or reaching for a thought-- so instinctive, so known, Prowl experiences what in another mech would be crippling mental strain, as a relaxing, familiar experience of repetitive patterns. A known path.
Follow the numbers.
And they lead him to a pleasing confirmation. Alignment. Conceptual theories clarified by the standardized bridge of numerical simplicity. Prowl practically feels the way numbers tic up in his mind’s peripherals, background statistics updated by a live feed of the most current data.
98.973% probability TerranD69; truthful of disabling ailment.
Prowl considered, satisfied he hadn’t judged his hunch wrong, but honesty wasn’t the only variable that informed his choice in whether or not to keep her in his department or file for a transfer. She’d be welcomed and appreciated in any office on base, of that he was certain. However, Prowl only wanted the best of the best. Perfect cogs in his machine. Orderly administrative foundation, the very thing their army drove balanced upon.
His job was to avoid building in potholes.
He crunched the numbers.
Accuracy of identified weakness; 99.973%. 8-13% reduction in work productivity, cross-checked.
He closed his eyes at the familiar number string. No. Stop that. His TacNet responds by a non-subtle request for more data, which Prowl feels like a kind of hunger, spinning his Spark faster as his Optics brighten.
He doesn’t have more data--
--Prowl’s optics flit to the collapsed boxes of text. Elaborations. She’d provided him the numerical baselines he’d requested, as well as additional details.
After a scan to check for any malicious code, Prowl downloads the file from his datapad to his own internal network, and consumes the written text faster than his eyes would have analog.
A few kliks later, he drafts a simple response to the email.
Data received and verified.
-Prowl
He almost sends it then, before adding one additional line, chagrined to have almost-- 26% likelihood --forgotten to answer her extraneous query.
(Yes.)
~*~
Getting an email response back before you’ve even sat back down at your work station after a harried jog back and forth from the busy terminal, makes the breath still in your lungs for a moment.
Not because of the email’s contents, though the speed definitely catches you off guard. Everything else about this is all dreadfully ordinary and downright boring, for communicating with an alien interstellar traveler. You also hadn’t been worried about your info being accurate, because you are still trying to catch up from the night of missed sleep spent, putting it all painstakingly together. A one hour nap does not proper rest make.
You’re flustered for a moment because he emailed you. Which means that having someone hand-deliver a flimsy to you wasn’t just some eccentricity of his, or a preference for his own familiar technology; you were well acquainted with the rumors that several mechs thought the in-house email system was a virus risk. It wasn’t, at least so you were told, and without any personal tech saviness but using the finalized software to your name, you couldn’t really side with either party. Since Prowl was the head of the department and from what little you knew about, other projects as well, you don’t think he’s shy about it. You’re pretty sure he exchanges emails with your Supervisor.
But you could kinda empathize with those who do find it strange or uncomfortable. Alien. Different. The same way you found it strange to walk past the occasional cart of Autobot fuel rations mid-transport, dazzled ny the ethereal blue glow of Energon. A concept you’re used to-- fuel for powering hungry engines --while being rendered so different as to be completely novel.
However, what it means for one of them to go out of their way to pen a hand-written electronic note, you can only speculate on. Prowl could have just emailed you the meeting request. If he were human, you’d assume the note was an added touch of formality, a granting of visibly shown thoughtfulness; he took the time to write that out, have it delivered. A matter he personally wanted to address, because that involvement alone means something significant.
It could also be an office scare tactic meant to test my composure and intimidate me. That seems probable. How much so, you’re not sure, but you figure things lean a lot more that direction, than believing he did it out of pure whimsy.
Nah. You get the feeling that Prowl’s a very deliberate kind of person.
~*~
You don’t get to find out who it is that Prowl has apparently decided to sic on you for babysitting duty, because contrary to expectations, no one approaches you after your office hours officially end today. As the minutes tick by, you send a nervous email to your Supervisor inquiring if anyone was coming, and when the time dragged on and more than half the office had emptied, tried a phone-call when she (unsurprisingly) didn’t answer the message while you sat there, fidgeting at your desk.
She picks up almost immediately, voice clipped until it softens slightly when she recognizes your voice. The subtle detail of which, is enough to soothe your frazzled nerves with deep relief. Some part of you had been afraid that your meeting with Prowl would have changed the way your Supervisor views you, but that doesn’t appear to be the case. Our shiny overlord might have issues, but my immediate boss still thinks I’m awesome.
The perks of being allergic to office drama meant that you were rarely a culprit of it, and thus, your boss had little reason to be stern with you. You weren’t close by any means, but you appreciated the easy, cordial relationship and a friendly professional face. It was familiar, all expectations well understood between you both. Predictable. You did work, and she made sure you knew what work it was that needed doing, and got you the things your department needed to function.
“I’ll check in with him, I’m not sure,” she admits after you’ve explained why you called.
“Alright, thanks.” The line goes dead with a soft, electronic click.
Anxiety over the unknown twists in your chest like a fist gripping your internal organs and squeezing. Your heart feels a painful pinch in response to the intense emotional distress, but you’re used to ignoring it, shoving it off.
I’m literally fine. No one’s dying, body. Calm down.
You’re just not sure what you’re supposed to do.
Eleven minutes later, your supervisor calls you and says to go ahead and clock out because she couldn’t reach Prowl for an answer, and your anxiety winds tighter. This wasn’t was I was told to expect!
~*~
Day 2 - Side Show
Day two, and the first thing that greets you when you walk out of the massive hallway that connects to your office is a shiny, shiny expanse of perfectly polished white and black armor. The side of Prowl’s calf, his ankle alone damn near taller than you are.
He stands at the terminal to your left, between you and the entrance to the aisles of partitioned desk stations. Uncertain whether you’re supposed to sneak past him or take this rare close proximity as a fortuitous chance to ask him questions, you hesitate, staring up at him. You can just make out his luminous eyes over the broad expanse of a heavily reinforced chest, difficult to see well from an angle so close to his pedes as you swallow nervously. His armor is bulky and blocky, obscuring his form with what your eyes sometimes can only see as ‘living geometry.’ So many boggling lines and shapes and angles your mind struggles sometimes to grasp with familiar form, trying to put individual parts into the larger puzzle of a humanoid shape that’s anything but human.
Any vocalization dies in your throat, however, when you realize those intent blue eyes are seemingly staring at nothing, and he has his left wrist held up to the wall terminal, a delicate seeming cable extending from it and into the machine. Well… delicate, compared to the rest of him. It’s probably as big around as your forearm.
He must be downloading data from the department and erasing the files afterwards, is what you assume.
He does it every day without fail, but you’re used to him coming in during mid-shift, while everyone’s already well into the workday, and again well after everyone’s supposed to be clocked out. Both times when no one is likely to risk being underfoot where he walks. The massive strips of scratched yellow and red paints on the ground mark the Cybertronian walkways apart from human-safe zones, and you have to cross part of the red zone to get to your office. Whoever placed the terminal here, probably could have put it on the other side of the room instead of by the door, but oh, well.
When he just stands there in total stillness for half a minute, you lose your nerve, and make to hurry past.
“Wait.”
His clipped, cordial voice freezes you in your tracks, and you turn widened eyes over a shoulder, stunned to realize that despite seeming totally clocked-out, this guy still managed to notice your presence.
“Sir…? Ah-- I-I mean, yes, Prowl?” I swear I’ll get your name right someday. You’re just so… So…
Another moment of silence, before his frame animates like someone pressed the ‘play’ button on a remote. Something in his glowing optics changes, and while you’d be hard-pressed to pin down what exactly that is, the end result is distinct; you can tell he’s seeing out of them. Paying attention. His alien gaze immediately finds yours as Prowl’s wrist cable slithers back into his arm like a retreating snake, vaguely disturbing to witness if you’re honest, and the port on his wrist closes with a snick.
“I wish to personally apologize for yesterday,” he starts, really throwing you for a loop before your brain pulls up the socially-anxious version of a debriefing file. Yesterday: missed training, no response. Prowl unreachable by Supervisor. Went home certain I’d get in trouble but no one came to get me, sooooo… “Swindle was re-routed by an emergency in medbay,” he continues, as your brain latches onto these spoon-fed scraps of information, trying to predict what he’s going to tell you next, your anxiety steadily ticking up towards the stratosphere with every little unknown plaguing your woozy headspace. Having his focus on you is intense. “Barring another mishandling of one of Wheeljack’s on-site… ‘Experiments,’” Prowl says lightly, with the air of someone trying very hard not to sling snarky disapproval and failing utterly by the acidic edge that tinges his flat voice, “Swindle should be here today to collect you for initial debriefing on your focused lesson itinerary.”
Lesson itinerary?
My dude, you sure know how to make a simple office lecture sound like a full-ass college course coming my way.
“Ah… Alright,” you agree hesitantly, somewhat reassured. Who the heck is Swindle? That sounds like a Cybertronian name. I doubt Prowl’s using people’s nicknames.
He studies you for a moment, mouth parting like he’s about to speak, before Prowl’s gaze grows distinctly unfocused for a moment. A second later, and you clock the familiar body language that marks one of the metal titans listening to a silent message. Something in the way they tilt their bodies just a touch away from you and their shoulders shift, like a person disassociating out of a conversation without quite leaving it entirely. His gaze briefly does that funny, non-focused thing, but not nearly as intense as when he was zoned in at the terminal.
“Of course, I am on my way,” Prowl states, clearly not addressing you, before that icy gaze flicks down to you again. “I must go.”
And just like that, he turns on a pede and strides away, and it’s all you can do not to jump at the instinctive unease that flashes over your body as he walks right in front of you, the wind from his massive legs rushing over you like a drag of air pressure. Not strong enough to suck you in like a train would as it hurtles past, it still makes your skirt and the edges of your uniform top flap with the breeze.
“U-uh--! Bye?” is stammered off your lips, because he definitely didn’t bother to wait for you to even acknowledge his intent to leave. Whatever it is, it’s probably urgent, because you can tell the difference between a casual gait and someone who’s walking like they’re on a mission. That Prowl always walks like he’s got somewhere to be and no time to deviate, doesn’t lessen the prediction. He’s a busy guy, so, it makes sense.
You watch his form retreat rapidly, aware that his stride for a being of that size is actually quite sedate, but it feels like watching through a window as a thundercloud scrolls past you in the sky. Gone far, far too fast for something that big, that present to vanish from view, you take a moment to just stare down the massive hallway Prowl’s disappeared around a corner of further in. The deceptively quiet clunk-clicks of his metal pedes echoes back to you, steadily fading.
…whoever ‘Swindle’ is, I hope he’s nice.
~*~
You were kind of expecting Prowl to assign you a human mentor. At least, you were when he first decided to order remedial training for you, but his hint this morning had you wondering if you were going to get called out of your shared cubby space by another one of the massive titans. The massive expanse of empty space to the left of the entire cubby system exists purely for them being able to walk up next to the cluster of offices, without trying to make room for them to walk in the same little tiny aisle that human staff utilize. You’ve seen Prowl occasionally stop by to look down at the department, as well as a few other Cybertronians who seemed to have some interest or reason to be checking up on the busy little box-hive of workers.
Having never had much interaction with the aliens directly despite all your time spent on base, you really can’t guess who he’s sending.
When you’re nearly done with the day and just beginning to feel the creep of pain starting up again on your still-sore neck, you experience a flash of triumph as you drop your last completed file into the neat stack on your right. Each folder within is meticulously labeled and stamped with its routing ID, the number of packets within that need forwarding and to how many differing locations, and a color-coded priority tag. Your own signature of approval authorizes each file as verified for accuracy, all the contents sorted and prepared for mailing or archival storage. Most of the orders that cross your desk aren’t things you yourself manage the final process of; you’re just in charge of making sure the requests are organized according to standardized protocol, that everything needed is present to ensure it’s not going to get yeeted back with an automatic rejection from wherever it’s sent off to.
The things you have the authority to finalize yourself, are usually handled on the computer you’re so loathe to use. Screen shield to dim the brightness is gonna be awesome.
Your triumph lasts for all of three seconds, before you hear the unmistakable, rhythmic click-hsst, click-hsst, of a Cybertronian walking towards you. This time, however, the sounds of their pede-steps indicate a much, much smaller alien than you’re used to seeing. You’re not the last one in the office by any means, and before you have time to realize that your remaining co-worker in the otherwise empty cubical you share is about to get entreated to the oddest office sight, he’s here.
“Knock, knock,” a masculine, higher-toned, and almost nasally voice greets with laid-back cheer. He sounds young, but you know that doesn’t mean a thing when it comes to aliens who have members still alive and kicking in their species that are older than your species’s known genetic history. You’d heard him coming down the aisle between office spaces, so you’ve had a chance to master your surprise well before there’s a wall of shiny, shiny red and black metal blocking the open exit of your shared cubical. The woman at the desk next to you however, startles like someone lit a bottle-rocket off in the room, fumbling the papers she’d been organizing.
With a somewhat sheepish glance to Sara, you’re glad it’s her and not Witwicky with you just now. He wouldn’t be able to resist asking questions. Sara at least might let you get this over with as quickly as possible, without getting waylaid by extraneous questions and a co-worker’s curiosity.
“Hey,” you greet, aware that the mech is openly sizing you up as covered red optics set into a matte black faceplate look up, down, then repeat the gesture before he glances around the quiet arrangement of desks. Sara has gone completely still with shock, mouth dropped, eyes wide. “You must be, uh, Swindle?”
“Sure am,” he agrees with an easy chirp, one arm above his head where he leans casually against the wall frame, though you’re certain its more for show than actual support. If he really was leaning against the gray partition, you’re certain that his weight would topple it over, or at least shove it out of precise alignment, skewing all connected panels. Fortunately, he’s not, and you smooth your shirt down self-consciously before getting to your feet as Swindle’s head cocks. “Huh. Y’know, when Prowl told me we’d be working with a fleshie, I kinda thought you’d be, I dunno… Taller,” he says, gesturing at you with a matte-black hand, the boxy digits not quite as refined as the artfully sculpted ones you’ve seen on his larger kin.
“Uh. Same back at’cha,” you respond, bemused, and not really sure how to take being called a ‘fleshie.’ Is that like calling them an alien, or ‘metal titan?’ Or should you be offended? There’s no malice present in his easy voice, so you decide to let it slide by without remark for now. “So, uh… Where are we going for training?” you wonder.
That black faceplate cracks an open smirk at you, dripping the kind of charm better suited to some gear-head racer on a movie screen, than this nearly human-height alien who looks like an armored super-soldier. His plating is complex, sleek where other mechs are boxy, covering a myriad of delicate wires and black tubing that peeks out between every seam. The heavy-duty joints of his body indicate a mech of durable framing. Not as delicately constructed as some of the Cybertronians you’re aware don’t take combat roles in the Autobot military, this shiny guy looks like he was built to take and deal a lot of damage.
Swindle pushes off the wall with a lazy shove, then crooks a finger.
“C’mon.”
You squint at him, aware this smiling mech is avoiding your answer, and wondering how exactly prim and proper Prowl ended up sending a subordinate who’s so… So very not like him. This guy drips charisma, but it’s colored by a mischievous slice of anticipation, and your instincts are just waiting for him to try and pull a fast one on you.
“Where are we going?” you repeat as you push your chair in, and double-check your computer and scanner are both shut down properly. “I gotta drop these off at routing, then I’m all yours.”
“Psh, we’ll pass it on the way out. So, shorty, tell me your name.”
Aware he probably already knows it, you tell him anyways, carrying the stack of files retrieved from your paper tray. “Cool. Imma just call you Shorty, got a nice ring to it,” he teases. You squint.
“Says the dude who’s probably the size of his boss’s--” and you freeze, tongue tangled up, because for a split second, you forgot where you are, the context of this meeting, and Swindle’s casual address had dropped your guard. You are not finishing that joke in a work setting. “...ankle,” you finish lamely.
Swindle stares at you for about three seconds, expression unchanging, before he tips his head back and cackles. To her credit, your co-worker just looks with restrained amusement between you both, before politely returning to her work.
“...Bye, Sara,” you acknowledge, moving to follow your Cybertronian leash-holder as you mentally clamp down on your personal sense of humor. This isn’t a social hang-out, this is work. Cripes.
“Soooo whatcha do that got ol’ Prowler up in a tizzy? He don’t really like trying to make people do what he wants unless he really wants them doing it. Much easier to replace someone,” Swindle comments without much care to the volume of his voice; he’s not being overly loud or anything, but you wilt inside at the realization that anyone you pass down the long aisle of partitions is probably going to overhear.
Feeling your ears burn, you focus on putting one foot in front of the other, your expectations a thing of myth, long ground to dust. This is not what I was expecting, at all.
“Uh… I didn’t do enough work,” you answer hesitantly, hoping no one else hears that quite admission. “I get, uh, migraines, and it… Makes focusing hard on some days.” You try to ignore the curious faces that peek out at you and your out-of-this-world company from within other cubicles, and are relieved no one else is walking the center aisle at the moment.
“Really?” Swindle says like he’s just learned a great, fantastic secret, and goosebumps raise up on your neck and arms as instinct suggests this mech is purposefully toying with you. He’s probably trying to figure out if I’ll be honest with him, making me verify information. He definitely knows this already. “Well no wonder. Funny thing, though. I wasn’t really expectin’ to have a fleshie to teach, but then, y’know Prowl. Always making kooky decisions here and there that somehow end up flawlessly correct,” he says flippantly, waving a hand as his armor glints in the bright office lights, and you reach the end of this dreaded walkway. The terminal looms tall and gargantuan to your right, and two massive doorways with human and Cybertronian marked pathways form the T-intersection Swindle leads you to the left of.
Not the direction I expected him to take. Where are we going?
It only takes you a minute to detour to the little office window set into the wall, where you sort and deposit your neatly packaged folders of files into their respective bins, and the clerk inside starts checking their labels to begin the forwarding process. Though you’d have liked to, you don’t so much as say hello to them-- the older woman has never been fond of chit chat and much prefers your simple silence of a grateful nod and smile, and leaving her without interruption of her mental work flow.
“Uh… I take it you know him well?” you venture uncertainly, as you catch up with Swindle, the pain at the back of your lower skull throbbing softly, almost like a heartbeat. Actually, it is matching the beat of your heart, each pulse of blood pressure enough to stir sensitized nerve endings you stoutly ignore. Tomorrow’s gonna suck.
Swindle makes a funny revving noise with his engine as something goes klak-clic in his chest, startling you alongside his short laugh. Fortunately, you’re not sensitized to sound just now, but the mere thought of becoming so weighs like a little unpleasant stone on your consciousness. Like waiting for a shoe to drop, not knowing when it’ll smack down without warning.
“Frag, no. I try to stay out of his angry eyes every chance I get. No one knows Prowl, except maybe ‘Prime,” he shrugs. “Everyone sure knows his work, though.”
“Oh. Where are--?”
“C’mon, gawsh, can’t I surprise you? Keep you on your toes?” Swindle interrupts, casting you a saucy smirk as you struggle how to react to his overtly non-professional behavior.
This is who Prowl wants… teaching me to be better?
You’re honestly so at a loss.
“I just feel better knowing what’s coming next,” you admit cautiously. “I, uh, I was also kinda expecting a human mentor.”
Swindle’s optics seem to get brighter as those red lens flash a wink at you, making you aware the seemingly solid covers of his eyes are actually as flexible and expressive as his black faceplate. Metal and glass shouldn’t stretch! That’s so weird-cool.
“Phffft, don’t we all! Hey, if you ever do become prophetic, make sure you take me to to the casino or races with ya.”
Imagining the absolute mountain of paperwork that’d probably be needed to secure the clearance for such a frivolous jaunt with an alien pal, you shake your head, bemused.
“Sorry, I’m kinda boring. I don’t really gamble.” Considering his name, you have a good guess at what his favorite pastime is.
Swindle’s frame bleeds a humming noise of engine harmonics that drives your curiosity into the stratosphere. He’s so expressive!
“‘Course ya are. Say, how fast is the turn-around for a munitions request for the Spec Ops team?” he wonders. “Say, specifically, for eight crates of grade-three projectile primers for Wheeljack to party with?”
Caught off guard by the rapid segway into business, you blink, the information easily coming to you. Thank fuck the headache is only a physical pain. Pleeeeease don’t screw with my focus today, brain, pleeeease?
“Oh, uh… Depends,” you shrug a little, movement checked considerably by an avoidance of wanting to rile angry nerve endings and taut muscles. “If they filled the requisition form out correctly and everything’s there, then munitions requests don’t usually stay on desks for long. They’re flagged as a second-tier priority, unless they come tagged with something specific to override that.”
“Yeah, but I’m looking for numbers. Prowl loves numbers,” Swindle states, like he’s asking you what your favorite candy is.
Side-eying your chatty, beats-around-the-bush-extensively companion, you consider a moment.
“Anywhere from two hours to three days.” That seems like a reasonable estimate, though you have to fight yourself not to say it could be done in way less. If all you had to do was sit down at your desk, tend to one properly submitted requisition form, and deliver it immediately upon completion, you could probably have it done in less than half an hour, including the time it takes to walk to and from your station. Realistically, you’ll probably get bogged down by needing to track down a missing asset to attach or verify, or if it’s a complicated request, it’ll simply take more time to sort it all out. “I’d say the average is a day and a half-- if the forms get approved and sent at the end of the shift, you can expect routing to have it handled by the time lunch break rolls around the next day, unless it’s got the highest priority tag, then they’ll make sure it’s done first thing. If a Processor gets the forms on our desks in the morning, then you’re looking at a possible same-day turnover.”
“Mm-hm, yeah, gotcha,” Swindle rolls his shoulders with the weirdest mechanical rotation, drawing your attention to the fact there’s little tires hiding inside the covering plates of his fussy looking pauldrons. His frame is sleek, almost like a human wearing armor, if it weren’t for his slightly off proportions and the fact his joints are very clearly solid rings of swiveling hinges. “Sooo what if I asked, how do we make that faster?” Swindle wonders.
You blink. This is starting to sound more like a conversation for your Supervisor, the one who actually has access to the proper data to make such judgements off of.
“Well, you’d have to identify where it’s getting hung up in the system, then make a new protocol path that streamlines it. We have a team that’s dedicated for time-sensitive, emergency requests.”
“Yeah, we’ve made use of that,” Swindle agrees, and something clicks in your brain. Wait. Is Swindle in Spec Ops--? “Sooo why’d ya join the team? Just a pretty paycheck?” he wonders.
You, despairing over ever having any kind of handle over where this wandering conversation is going to go, are convinced that Swindle’s being purposefully erratic. He’s fishing for something, and you’re willing to bet it’s intel gathering on you before he starts ripping into your work ethics.
“A lot of reasons,” you shrug. It’s easy to be honest about it when you have nothing to hide, even if you’re a little uncomfortable sharing personal details with a total stranger. “I liked the cause, I know I’m capable of the work, and yeah, the pay’s definitely a nice bonus. I mostly just wanted to feel like what I’m doing really matters, y’know? I’ve had a lot of jobs over the years, but few have comes as close to the satisfaction I get here, knowing I’m actually part of something that makes a dramatic difference. A good one.”
Swindle seems thoughtful, his treaded pedes making soft clicks as you follow his easy gait, side-by-side. Either he’s got a naturally lazy, easy going walk, or the mech is purposefully slowing down to accommodate your smaller strides.
“Uh-huh. Pretty boring answer,” he shrugs, and you blink wide eyes at him.
“I’m… Sorry--?” you stammer, flustered. What the heck did you want me to--?
“Shorty, I’m messing with you,” Swindle says with a good-natured dose of humor in his voice, and this time, the smile he sends you seems more indulgent than mischievous or cocky. “Cripes, no wonder he likes you so much. You’re as dull as he is.”
“I beg your pardon?” comes blurting out your lips as your brow furrows and you frown, not sure how to take that insult. As dull as who--?
“Welp, can’t say I blame him, seeing as you’re the gal who made sure I had enough Energon to not die on my last mission with Payload,” Swindle shrugs, like he didn’t just deliver offense by calling you dull. “You know how hard it is to get extra rations from the quartermaster?” he continues as you rapidly re-assess his manner of speech, fairly certain that Swindle is just… like this, and there’s probably no need to be taking what he says so personally. “Jazz started routing all the requests to your desk once Prowl pointed out you got it done days faster than anyone else. On our side of things, it sometimes takes like a week just to get an approval pushed through, and then we gotta wait for actual delivery if it ain’t already stocked on base, and it’s a fekkin’ nightmare.”
Swindle. You’re going to give me mental whiplash, throwing all this random info out at me like a bad storyteller feeding me in spoonfuls at a time, you think despairingly, your heart trying to figure out if it wants to beat in anger or flutter in flustered pride, because now he just complimented you.
Dull, boring… and remarkably useful. I guess there’s worse impressions to make on someone. Considering you’d apparently been assigned to him for correctional training, you’re a little confused why he’s leading with such irrelevant questions, topics-- and now that work is the topic of question, he’s telling you what a good job you apparently do.
I didn’t… Know they appreciated my work so much. It really wasn’t anything special. You certainly hadn’t realized anyone was making sure specific jobs landed on your desk, but then, it wasn’t your responsibility to disperse the daily tasks and orders amidst available employees. Technically, everything that entered and left your department’s offices was classified. This whole base was classified. All you had to worry about was what happened in your tiny little sphere-- well, maybe more like a cube --of influence.
“I break ya?” Swindle wonders, startling you when a prodding finger dares to reach for your head, clearly intending to give you a friendly poke.
You flinch and side-step immediately, dodging the contact as you bring your hands up in a halting gesture.
“Please, don’t touch me,” you request politely, but strained with haste. “My, uh, my head really hurts right now.”
That seems to give the cheeky mech pause as he cocks his head, studying you.
All at once, it feels like you’re looking at a different Cybertronian entirely, because the easy, personable expression and body language sloughs off of Swindle like a predator shedding its camouflage. For several hair-raising seconds, you’re faced with a slightly-bigger-than-you-sized metal soldier whose eyes and expression have the blank, lazer-focused intensity of a hunter, one who’s sizing you up like prey. Analyzing every tic, taking all the details in without emotive response, just raw absorption of data, and you have no idea what Swindle’s thinking of what he interprets.
“A’ight, sorry,” he apologizes a moment later, lifting his hands up in a show of peace. “Kinda weird tryna talk to someone who don’t respond the way I expect. I making you nervous?” he asks directly, like he’s genuinely trying to puzzle you out.
Mining for more data.
“...Kinda, yeah,” you admit cautiously, heart fluttery. “To be fair, though, I’m pretty much nervous around any stranger.”
“Weeeeell we don’t gotta be strangers!” Swindle chirps. “Actually, it’s kinda funny-- Feel like I know you better than you know me. Weird to finally talk to you in person.”
Huh?
“Er… We’ve talked before?” you wonder, blinking.
“Nah,” he shrugs. “I just watch you from across the room like a creep. Kinda my thing, Minicon and all,” he says, gesturing to himself with an open smirk as the headache slowly starts to creep up over the back of your skull with your rapid double-take. Dammit, Swindle. “I record stuff. Watch things, watch people. Plus, you work next to Witwicky, and ‘Bee is always fussing over him, so you kinda got thrown into surveillance by proxy,” he rattles off as you struggle not to slow your steps.
Having held the understanding your presence on base was not only unremarkable but largely unnoticed except by immediate co-workers, you’re more than a little blown away.
“...Oh.”
Swindle seems to wait for a moment, like he’s hoping you’ll say something more, before he shrugs and beckons you with a hand to follow him towards another hall. It’s not until you’re passing under the massive, doorless archway that you realize the intersection looks familiar; you’d never come at it from this direction, having stuck to the routes you’d painstakingly memorized like clockwork, but you’re pretty sure this is the officers’ hall of, well… offices.
You’ve been here several times over the years, each visit memorable, if only by virtue of having culminated in the meeting of one of the alien residents. Kinda hard not to be awed and overwhelmed by the sight of Ultra Magnus sitting at his desk in full stern composure, or Prowl and his sedate, regal posture.
“Do you have an office here?” you wonder. Is Swindle an officer himself…?
“Nah,” he responds, confusing you further. “But the guys I answer to, do. Soooo Imma be honest and level with ya,” Swindle starts, as he leads you down a hallway that might be cramped for the titans it was built for, but to you feels like a massive highway tunnel. “Prowl made a whole fancy schedule and stuff we’re supposed to go over, but after watching you work today, I already know you don’t need none of that,” he floors you with. “So we’re gonna do things my way, and my way says, we need to see Payload, because if our favorite girl gets fired imma be real heckin’ sad and also probably kinda hungry.”
“W-what?” Does Prowl know he’s throwing his orders out the window? Am I supposed to report this--?
“Listen, Shorty--” Swindle stops to look at you, one optic stretched wider than the other like he’s raising a non-existent eyebrow at you. “--ya don’t need my help knowing how to do your fussy office job, and that ain’t even really what Prowl wants anyways for the actual end result of all this; I’m betting he threw that in as a precaution because the guy is more thorough in planning than a fission weapon’s specialist engineering a new power-cell that don’t go boom,” he says like that should mean anything to you, but you think you catch the gist. “You do need my help knowing how to level up, though, ‘cause I’m pretty sure you’re gonna be the answer to a whole lotta problems.”
The pounding in your head gets worse. Your eyes start to feel strained, and its a fortunate thing Swindle has red eyes and this hallway is only conservatively lit. The dim environment does not hurt nearly so bad as your bright office space would have.
“Um…. What exactly am I being trained on?” you venture cautiously. Because what you’ve gotten so far has been so far removed from any semblance of expectation, you’d think this mech was playing a practical joke on you if Prowl himself hadn’t slipped you the name of your assigned mentor this morning.
Swindle smirks, then cocks his black and red helmet at a massive door to your left, and you follow to look.
You’ve never been through that one before, and like all the other doors, there’s no markings designating whose office is who’s.
“Making yer work go faster. C’mon-- Time ta introduce ya to the team.”
~*~
When Prowl had told you this was correctional training to improve your performance, you had been assuming the mech wanted you performing at your baseline best.
Not upgrading it entirely, in pretty much a bold move of ‘go big or go home.’
And the black-and-white mech staring down at you with white-blue eyes, is definitely big. He’s built like Prowl except not; the color blocking and general configuration of his armor is the same-- four black wheels in familiar locations, on his shoulders and embedded in his complicated, boxy pedes, doors arched high behind his back like little wings, thick armor panelling with minimal exposure of joints and the delicate mechanics beneath --but that’s where the similarities end. This guy is far more boxy, less… refined looking than Prowl. Where Prowl’s waist tapers in to an unfairly beautiful grace of sleek physique, this guy is built more like a solid brick. Like someone took Prowl’s frame and bulked it up into tank-mode, keeping the same color scheme and location for familiar parts, but all the little details are different within the broad strokes.
His chest is covered by a black grill guard littered with scratches. Actually, scratches and chipped paint freckle his entire frame, another stark difference, and you even catch glimpses of dirt stains on the edges of paneling by his tires and odd parts of his body, like he’d been driving dirt roads. The hard, dry-caked nature of it hints that it may have been at least days or more, since he was last outside the base.
“Hey, if it isn’t my biggest headache and our favorite squishy,” the big guy greets with a force of volume like falling trees, all growly timbre and a static crackle like he’s got the robotic equivalent of a smoker’s voice. Boisterous, almost, except he’s not really raising his voice past an enthusiastic, cheerful greeting. “Come on in,” he invites as you walk with a somewhat dazed expression into the sparsely lit office. It causes a sharp contrast of shadows to fall over this massive mech’s frames, and you think you’ve seen him out in the main hangar before, getting ready for deployment, but always from a great distance. “Find her alright, Swindle?” he checks.
“Yeah, right in her office where he said she’d be. Hey, Shorty--” and Swindle reaches like he’s going to put a hand on the back of your shoulders and push you forward, but before you can even get far enough to flinch, he quickly jerks his hand up to gesture instead, waving you forward. “--Come meet Payload, my overbearing overlord and master,” he introduces.
The mech in question sends the Minicon a rueful smile on squared, angular faceplates.
“You docking or hanging around?” the titan asks him as Swindle startles you by leaping up into the air, very much like he’s got springs in his legs or something. You half expect flames to shoot out from the bottom of his feet or something, but all that happens is he makes a shockingly high arc in the air, before landing neatly on Payload’s hand as the mech brings it up. In the same smooth motion, he casually deposits Swindle on his broad shoulder, where the Minicon’s red armor stands out against the white plating like a scarlet stain.
“You kiddin’ me? I wanna be awake for this,” Swindle chirps gleefully as he sits, kicking his feet.
“Someone wanna tell me what ‘this’ is?” you ask despairingly.
“Right! Lecture time,” Payload says with a grin. “Welcome to my office, little one,” he greets as you blink owlishly at the maybe-insulting-maybe-endearing address. “As Swindle said-- I’m Payload, and I’ll be your mentor for the next chord. Er… Week,” he corrects, as you blink. “Well, almost a week. Close enough. Anyways-- C’mere, feel like I’m talking at my toes. Can I move you to my desk?” he requests, as that massive, stiff looking body somehow manages to contort itself down into an easy crouch as he kneels, and places a black hand on the floor.
Your eyes go so wide you can feel how bad it hurts.
“Y-you want me to get on your hand?” you ask, shocked.
“Well, yeah, unless you’ve got a way t’ hoist yourself up a straight climb of smooth metal?” he teases, sounding amused as blue optics glance behind him to the only piece of furniture in this little-big room. It’s anything but ornate; Payload’s work desk is just a massive rectangle of seemingly solid metal you’re certain has a gap behind for leg space and possibly drawers or cabinets. The top is tidily organized with what looks like the alien version of a massive bendy-lamp, some odd looking devices, a cup with different colored stylus looking things in it, and a few neat stacks of ‘flimsies’.
“I, uh… A-As long as you um, don’t drop me, or squeeze me,” you agree hesitantly, wildly unsure. You’ve heard of other humans being picked up by the titans, but you’ve never seen it personally, and you’ve certainly never touched one of them until today. Witwicky once told you about fractured ribs he’d gotten from Bumblebee’s grip, but you remind yourself fiercely that that had been because the mech had caught the dude from falling off a whole-ass bridge.
You think you can trust the gargantuan being before you to sedately lift you up like he did his little Minicon friend. The part of you that isn’t recoiling in instinctive fear of physical contact and all possible injuries it could cause, is feeling more like you just got invited to go on a carnival ride you’ve never been on. The adrenaline dumping into your systems would be a lot more appreciated if it didn’t simultaneously make your headache that little bit worse, the pain progressing from isolation on your neck and the back of your skull, to now branching down your neck into stiff shoulders, and creeping towards your vulnerable temples.
Just. Breathe. Calm breaths. I’m fine. It’s fine. This is totally normal and not worth freaking out over.
“I won’t squash you,” Payload promises like it’s the most absurd thing he’s heard all year. He gives a soft huff, seeming to restrain the full force of it like he’s conscious about startling you. “I’ll move slow, too. Just sit down on my palm, and I’ll make sure you don’t fall off. If I move too fast, tell me?”
You’re frozen in place under their glowing stares for all of three seconds, before you give a stilted nod, then march forward like you’re approaching a sleeping snake. Please don’t bite me. I know you’re not venomous, but your fangs can still hurt.
Stepping onto his hand is like getting on a sketchy looking bus in a strange, unfamiliar city, or perhaps an underground subway. Theoretically safe, but the unfamiliarity and knowledge of existing risks doesn’t feel too nice on your nerves.
Being lifted up slowly into the air dozens of feet off the ground as his mechanical body makes the softest sounds of hissing pistons and moving gears and servos, your fear is replaced by wild thrill. The wind rushes over you like driving down the highway with the windows wide open, and you’re locked into the safety-enforcing comfort of feeling perfectly stable on this mech’s palm. The broad space around you offers no tilt nor pull of gravity to push you anything but further down into his hand with the slight increase of gravity as he stands, and his fingers have cautiously curled.
Feeling very much like one of the little bugs or rodents you’ve scooped up with infinite care yourself, your heart flutters as Payload gingerly sets the back of his hand on the broad top of the desk, in front of the dark monitor. There’s no keyboard anywhere, and he takes a seat down in the chair beside it after ensuring you’ve got both feet under yourself on solid ground.
“Well, someone looks giddy. I do a good job?” he asks, smiling openly. The friendly face and welcoming mood is like being given a canteen of water after a trek through the desert sun; wholly welcomed, and slaking a craving you weren’t even aware you so desperately desired.
I really wanna be friends with this guy.
~*~
When Jazz lets himself into Payload’s office, he’s expecting additional company. What he’s not expecting, is to find his demolition’s expert with folded arms and chin rested upon them, all to be closer to the tiny little organic who’s chattering away with him. Swindle’s sitting on top of the monitor, legs dangling, one foot idly tapping in the air, ever unable to sit still.
“Well hey, mechs,” he greets as all eyes lift to him as Jazz steps through the doorway. It hisses shut behind him as soon as he’s through, and he takes a moment to take in the scene; Payload’s EM-field is broadcasting a pleased, satisfied mood with a pique of downright cheer, which tells Jazz all he needs to know about how well the little organic will get along with them.
If Payload likes her, then she probably checks out.
Wide little eyes stare up at him like glittering gems as Jazz lets an easy smile crawl across his face, and folds his arms.
“Hi, Jazz!” Swindle chirps, offering a lazy wave. “I got our squishy. How long you think before Prowl realizes we abducted her?”
“He won’t notice until he bothers to check in,” Jazz smirks. Which, knowing him, could be any minute… or days.
It all depended on how much priority the Tactician had given to his little side-project, one Jazz has gleefully confiscated from such capable, busy hands.
“H-hi, uh… Hi,” the human greets, a little lamely, clearly flustered. It never gets old to Jazz, seeing the wonder and awe on their little faces as they marvel up at him.
“We’re just going over ideas for streamlining the paperwork trail,” Payload offers, not budging from his comfortable slump. If it were any other commanding officer he would have, and not as any form of slight to Jazz-- Jazz simply hammered home in his mechs that he didn’t expect useless decorum until it actually mattered.
Prowl or Optimus? That would have the former Enforcer on his pedes at stiff attention before the door ever opened.
Letting out a flare of his ‘field to broadcast content and amusement, Jazz comes closer to the desk.
“Basically, the, um, the idea is if my Supervisor approves it--”
“If Prowl approves it,” Swindle cuts in, sounding smug. The human glances at him, and a tiny little note of data on Jazz’s visor tips him off to a change in temperature on her face as blood rushes to it. Aww, ain’t that cute.
Such a dainty, fragile little creature in a room full of killers is such a juxtaposition, it’s hard not to find immediate endearment. Most mechs might find the human’s fragility to be an alien, uncomfortable, and offputting-- but Jazz just finds it makes him appreciate them all the more. Where others see only a human’s weakness, Jazz marvels at their strength.
“Right, uh… if he approves it, the idea is basically I’ll take over all Spec Ops requisitions, and other critical, time-sensitive tasks when you guys don’t have anything to keep me busy.”
Unsurprised since that’s exactly the idea he’d bounced around with his mechs, Jazz gives a little nod.
“Sounds great. Hey, Prowler get you that office, yet?” he ventures. His frame doesn’t react, but Jazz knows himself; even without his engine kicking up into a higher gear, he’s still aware he feels a flood of anticipation at the mention. The thrill before captured prey; a successful hunt known for a positive outcome before it ever completes, that certain of the expected results. Prowl’s gonna be so mad. And Jazz so does not care.
“Oh, uh, I haven’t heard anything about it, so probably not. He said by the end of the week.” Curiously, this seems to fluster the little human-- she glances down to her feet and suddenly finds great interest, examining the edges of her uniform top’s sleeve. Huh. Ain’t that peculiar; why’s it bother her?
“That a bad thing?” he wonders, as Payload’s eyes silently flit between his Commander and his newest peripheral. Swindle just grins wider.
“What--? O-oh, uh, no, that’s really amazing, actually. I never expected to be given my own office.” She hesitates, fidgety, before continuing, “I’m… Sorry, it’s just a bit overwhelming. I’m kinda worried how my co-workers are going to react, but since I’m taking on a specific task focus, that should smooth things over with them.”
Jazz blinks. Before he can ask for clarification, Swindle beats him to it.
“Why would it upset ‘em?” he tosses out, legs kicking idly before the Minicon pushes off the monitor, and drops straight down onto Payload’s desk with a clack.
Their human company laughs, but it’s a nervous one. Aww sweetspark, you’re gonna get eaten alive here. Jazz gives it a week before she’s shedding this nervous, fluttery uncertainty for the confidence he’s been told she exhibits while working.
“Er…” and that fluster seems to recede some, the organic’s little frame going quiet still. So still, in fact, Jazz wonders for a moment if her processor just glitched or something, because even her breaths seem to slow, eyes growing unfocused, before she animates like someone just released her out of stasis-lock. “Okay, so I guess, a bit of human culture? It’s different everywhere, but in general, in this country… Office spaces have internal politics. You have that in any group of individuals, but there’s kinda some expected culture in a work setting like this. People expect to be given largely the same treatment, same privilleges. If someone’s getting something other people want, there better be a legitimate reason for it, or people start getting jealous and then office morale can plumit because peopel are…”
She scrunches her nose, and shrugs.
“Not everyone, but a lot of people can be… Petty. When I first started working here, you should have seen the squabbles and dissent that happened just because we got told we couldn’t have breakable coffee mugs or dishes at our desks anymore. I swear it was like a month before our Supervisor fixed it all by issuing everyone a shatter-proof mug, so we all had access to the same thing.”
Swindle blinks.
“Ya’ll got up in a tizzy over… a coffee mug?” he asks blankly.
The woman shrugs.
“Imagine having your favorite tool that holds and delivers fuel, that you’ve been alloweed to use for weeks, suddenly being banned and you weren’t expecting or prepared for that. Then the next day, your office-buddy at the desk next to you brings in a fancy thermos they bought themselves, but you don’t have one yet. Doesn’t matter they could have just bought their own, too… People get itchy waiting for shipping time, having to go out of their way to order it to begin with-- It’s stupid, but yeah, people got all upset over it.”
She rattles all that off like it’s obvious intel, but Jazz is already whisking it away for further analysis. Leave it to a human to understand human minds, he thinks, but there’s something intriguing at the way she laid out her assessment.
Pleased that the human he’s singled out is willing to focus on the little details, he smiles wider, then draws her attention by bringing them back on topic.
“Sooo… About that office space.”
~*~
Silence.
The kind of office most of your acquaintances, both human and Cybertronian, would hate; the fan that operated did not so much as hum or buzz with the quiet harmonics of an internal motor. Perks of having relations with a species so well educated in matters of technologies and applied sciences, you just kinda shrug at a certain point and let yourself enjoy the whimsy of magic.
And the magic doesn’t go away even when they explain it, because Wheeljack had enjoyed telling you every nuanced detail about the construction of the tiny device and more, with a side-lecture on the origin, creation, and refinement of what the modern day flimsy was today compared to the literally floppy things they had back on Cybertron.
He liked to talk.
You liked to listen.
The result? You’d accidentally made yet another friend, and you had Swindle to blame for it because his extroverted ass was hauling you around base whenever he had pedes on the ground long enough to spare. It was cool; having friends that sought you out. They didn’t feel like typical co-workers.
The big F word is a little scary to consider, and not the four-lettered one. The one that makes you feel a little small inside, like if you’re really seen, you’re just going to shrivel up under the brightness of that intensity.
You like being in the background.
Swindle, in his bright red paint and poke-every-button-good-and-bad attitude, draws attention like a magnet, and one thing leads to another, and…
…like a natural flow of sinking into the river, you fall into things so naturally despite how awkward it feels. Bumblebee is one of the few mechs you’ve met before, but you’d never actually exchanged more than a friendly hand-wave with the cheery fellow. He proves to be just as pleasant of company as you’d anticipated, and far more fun to be around than Witwicky ever let on.
Hound you’re a little nervous around, but possibly only because he seems very close with Mirage, and Mirage’s somewhat aloof nature had you questioning whether or not the Cybertronian liked you or not. You can handle indifference-- but Mirage’s occasional remarks on your suitability to your role needle you a bit.
Just because I’m a human doesn’t mean my brain isn’t smart or functional. Sure, you couldn’t do math in your head or even more complicated formulas with paper, pen, and calculator provided, but you weren’t dumb.
And then there was Prowl.
“Whatcha think? Will that work?” Jazz asked, very much looking like he was daring you to decline. You’re pretty sure the intimidation factor would have worked even if he was you-sized and human, because one did not say no to the fucking THIRD IN COMMAND of the entire military operations. You’d known this guy was high up the food chain of Autobot hierarchy, but learning this easy-going, music-loving fellow had some of the highest level of authority and responsibility on base had thrown you for a loop.
It’d also served to make your fluttery little heart determined to live up to every expectation, because praise from your superiors was like a little shot of dopamine directly into your blood-stream. The thought of failing them?
Yeah you don’t even wanna think about it, or the anxiety it churns in your chest.
“I-I uh, I mean, yeah, if Prowl--”
“Don’t worry about Prowler,” Jazz says with a smirk. “I can handle him. I jus’ need ta know if this’ll work for you, so don’t think about anyone else just now.”
Which implied that your Supervisor’s Supervisor was, indeed, going to take issue with the Spec Ops team picking out an office for you that they preferred. The only downside was how far it was from routing, but with the no-top golf-cart they’d somehow commandeered to stay parked for your use, that was now a non-issue.
“For my needs, this is perfect,” you finally agreed, flustered.
And thus, your fate had been sealed. Three days after meeting Swindle, you boxed up your work desk, reassured your immediate cubby-sharing co-workers you weren’t being fired, and moved into a new space.
You haven’t had a single headache since taking over what used to be an amunitions box of heavy explosives, alien-grade. Because your new ‘office’ is actually a metal canister one of the titans had tipped on its side and installed a door, lights, and ventilation into, very much like building a tiny, metal doll-house. It sits in the corner of of the Spec Ops common-room, or what they commandeered for one, anyhow. Payload and Jazz were the only two mechs who bothered to keep personal offices (and Jazz’s was mostly used to store contraband to mess with Prowl when he went looking for the evasive TIC, as you’d learned with confused amusement), and everyone else just made use of a large habsuite they’d hauled a few couches, a shelf, and a big table into that was surrounded by makeshift stools. They didn’t decorate and they didn’t waste; repurposing things with no purpose into whatever they wanted at the moment served well enough, which is why almost every seat was also a container capable of storing things like their pretty metal card games, strategy boards, and mostly, weapons and the tools to care for them.
The first time Bumblebee had helped Smokescreen pull a whole-ass Cybertronian-sized sniper rifle out from beneath the couch ‘Bee helpfully tipped over and held in place, you’d just stared on with a shocked expression. You knew exactly enough about their recorded supplies and protocols of use, to be aware that wasn’t… probably a sanctioned weapon’s acquisition. The fact you’d been explicitly sworn to secrecy on pain of death to keep anything and everything you saw, heard, or thought you saw or heard in the Spec Ops rec room, only enforced it.
They broke rules, but you knew why they were doing it, and it wasn’t your place to question soldiers who had been fighting and surviving through a war that spanned centuries. Millenia, actually.
Six weeks into your shifted focus of employment, and you’ve gotten used to most of their behaviors and quirks. Smokescreen’s hissing engine and nervous pede-scrapes on the floor no longer startle you from focus unless its’ accompanied by that unsettling chrk-chrk-gurgle his engine makes when he’s really pissed off. Bumblebee’s fit of temper when he comes back from a soured debriefing or a particularly boring meeting, only cause you to smile and offer a friendly distraction of conversation, watching the tension bleed out of him as he relaxes with the social engagement.
Jazz’s music, Hound’s Cy’gars, and Mirage’s distant, watchful face devoid of outward emotion beyond perpetually in thought, have all become familiar.
A ping from your computer draws you out of staring at the oval fan device with its hollow center and an orange ring of light. Looking away from Wheeljack’s invention, you fix your eyes on the red-tinted screen that had managed to cause a small scandal when you requested a photosensitive-friendly device. It hadn’t been difficult for them to switch the monitor’s basic display from blue-and-cyan to red-and-pink base colors, but it had brought out grumbling about color theory and reluctance for a Decepticon glow.
Fortunately, the tiny peep of red is contained in your office, ensuring no accidental frights of a special agent thinking they caught a glimpse of an enemy’s optic peering up at them from a stealthy position.
Awww heck, now what?
You’ve only just finished the last five reports, one being a submission to Prowl to update him on Spec Ops most recent armory manifest (on which you dutifully leave the sniper-rifle unmentioned). Three others, requisition requests for ammunition, incendiaries-- Payload had used up far more than expected on their last mysterious excursion --and medical supplies for field patches. The last was easy, but tedious, because Hound forgot once again to remember to attach his credentials to the request, making you have to track him down via comms and your gold-cart to find the fragger. Back in your office, you’d been hoping for a little bit of downtime before launching into whatever came next.
You open your screen, read the notification that’s been added to your task-list, then swear softly.
Fuel requisition.
Possibly the most critical part you play here, your biggest job and highest frustration is getting the team the rations they need to not only complete their missions, but be able to recover from sustained injuries and be able to walk around with fully-lit biolights on base. Energon was a terribly finite resource, and absolutely critical; your hands might have tremors in them when verifying the critical data on a requisition for dangerous, continent-exploding materials, but your real battle comes here.
Despite being the literal life-blood and fuel of the Autobot army and their entire represented species, the Autobots aren’t the ones who control the Energon.
Your government does.
And your job, is to keep that blasted quartermaster happy and friendly enough with you it’s easy to sweet-talk him into provisioning the mechs you’re starting to feel more than a bit protective over, with extra fuel.
“You ever seen a mech sparkin’ out with patched fuel lines? He needs a double-dose to let self-repair systems work.”
“Aw, heck,” the man your age grumbles, known for his icy, stern disposition. You’ve managed to crack through that distant exterior however, by the simple virtue of taking the time to talk to the man. Well aware that most people coming to his office are here to play hard-ball, and how poorly that went for your co-workers who just wanted a job done and done quickly, you came armed with bribes.
The first one, is the smile you give him as you put all your focus and attention on Jackson Wiles, and the hook you sink is the assurance you’ve got all the time in the world to wait for him to wrap up whatever he’s in the middle of doing that you interrupted. And you don’t just say it, either-- you mean it. You go out of your way to make sure you can take as long as is needed here to make sure he never feels rushed, no matter how bad the mechs you’re representing are breathing down the back of your neck.
The second bribe is the little gift you set down on the counter; not food, even though you know he loves sweets and have brought him hard candies and gourmet taffy before, because he can’t actually eat those on-shift. You might be co-workers, but there’s a softly reinforced security risk that means he’s not going to eat anything he isn’t absolutely certain of, while he’s responsible for guarding the most critical resource on the entire base.
This time, you’ve brought a little box you wrapped with ribbon and a kind note, the sparkly coils enticing as they cascade over the clear plastic. Clear, so he can see the contents clearly, without any worry of what could be hidden out of sight; a pretty specimen of his favorite rock, the pristine piece of smokey quartz sure to delight.
You’re not doing it entirely out of manipulative motivation, even though it is your top priority to make sure your mechs get the fuel they need to not die. You like giving people things, making them smile; well aware how much office work can be a drag, it’s a true delight to see people light up with the smiles and happiness a little bit of the right attention causes. It makes you happy to see others happy, and it makes you happy to get your work done, so it’s all positive happy boxes you’re checking off here as you smile, leaning on the counter with folded arms, entirely at ease.
Even though the seconds are ticking off in your mind like the coming detonation of disaster, well aware that Swindle is hiding just out of sight down the hall, waiting for you to return with the final verdict. They’d requested nearly double the amount of Energon for refueling than any other team deployed this month, and you’re well prepared to fight for it.
“Gosh, eight cubes and a full tray of the medi-grade stuff?” Jackson says, sounding like you’ve asked the impossible of him as he runs a hand through his hair, but that quartz rock is already sitting proudly next to his keyboard, next to a few other fossils and crystals you’ve brought him over the years. The Azurite is particularly eye-catching with the way it’s stark, royal blue melds into a small peep of green Malachite, still in its original matrix, carefully chiseled from a larger rock cluster.
“Yeah, ‘Bee got beat up pretty bad. Ratchet had to replace his fuel pump, and do an Energon-drip. Smokescreen and Payload still have sparks coming out of their joints, kinda freaky,” you remark easily. C’mooon, gimme some good news, miracle-worker.
The human you’re chatting with nods knowingly, then sighs.
“Well… I’ll see what I can do,” he says, nodding. “Let me make a call first and verify there’s no other groups expecting to need the medigrade, because we’re a little behind on stock with those. The last fight with the ‘Cons wasn’t kind to our reserves,” Jackson says with a grimace, and you match the expression.
“So I heard… The overall supply is still stable though, right?” because you know this already, but you want to end the conversation on a good note, keep things feeling positive so he has no reason to turn towards hesitance. It hasn’t happened often, but sometimes, Jackson returns your requisition requests with downgraded approvals, and you’re reeeeeally not wanting to return to Spec Ops empty-handed.
“Yeah, it is, we’ve got all the stuff to make it, Perceptor just isn’t… er… Well, he’s doing his best.”
That catches you up with a blink.
“What’s up with Perceptor?” you wonder, not a ‘bot you’re overly familiar with, but have definitely heard the name tossed around.
“Oh, he’s just… Well, he’s a little nervous mixing it up. While ago now, the big guy made a batch and lost half the entire thing to combustion because the temperature changed too fast in the lab. Someone opened a door,” he grimaces. “Big boom. He remembers to lock it up now, but, uh… Yeah. Not his favorite think to mix up, I guess the ingredients aren’t actually very stable until it’s all mixed.”
Damn. That sucked.
“If it helps any, you’ve got some wiggle room on the medigrade stuff,” you toss out, hoping the bartering of a little more time consideration might get you the full order instead of halved or, worse, cut down to a third. “If we can get some now, it ought to squeak the team by until there’s more to go around. Say, maybe next week?”
Jackson considers that for a moment, then looks thoughtful.
“You don’t mind me splitting the order into two parts? I can get you the eight cubes today, if they don’t mind the medigrade taking me a hot bit. I’ll have to pry the authorization out of my Supervisor’s cold, heartless hands.”
Your relieved, appreciative smile is as real as the triumphant flush that makes you feel as pleased as a Cheshire cat.
“That’ll work, thanks so much, Wiles.”
“Please, call me Jack,” he insists abruptly, reaching over to offer you a hand. Startled, you brighten, then happily take hold, aware that despite how friendly he’s been since you first managed to make the guy crack a real smile, this is the first time he’s ever offered physical contact. His palm is warm against yours with a firm, sure grip. “You just make sure Spec Ops doesn’t throw another party for at least a few months, because I’m pretty sure that’d get us both in trouble.”
That catches you off guard, your hand momentarily forgotten in his as you freeze.
“Huh?”
Jack takes in your confusion, then laughs; just a brief, short chuckle as he lets go and fondly adjusts the little specimen container on his desk, admiring the smokey quartz.
“Remember the last time the big guys got in trouble for an unsanctioned party in the back hangars?” he prompts. You do, if only vaguely. The entire base had been in a tizzy of gossip over the aliens being just as silly as humans.
“Yeah…?”
“Jazz threw it. Got in big trouble with Command, but I don’t think he much cares, seeing as that’s kinda his thing.”
You blink. You blink again.
“But… He’s Third in Command. Isn’t that high enough rank to let his guys have some rec time?”
Jack rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, it would be, if the SIC wasn’t such an ass. Prowl’s allergic to fun,” he says, some of that icy cynicism most are familiar seeing, creeping into his voice as his expression turns severe. “Heard him ripping into one of his subordinates, once. Thought the mech was gonna walk out crying.”
Ouch.
“Huh. Well… I’ll let them know if they want to have reliable snackage, they need to play nice with kill-joy’s pragmatism.”
Jack grins at you, that warm humor from before eroding the ice away.
“That’d be helpful, honestly. Actually, gotta thank ya-- things have been a lot easier on me since you took over their forms. Swindle’s awful about it, I had to double and triple check he didn’t change the numbers on me every time.”
Amused at the thought of the Minicon trying to circumvent your department’s purpose by handling it directly himself, you hum.
“Not surprised, knowing him. Well… I won’t keep you, I know you’ve got a lot of work to do. Thanks a bunch, Jack!”
“Any time,” he grins. He hesitates for a moment, like he’s considering saying something more, but in the end he only flashes you a softer smile, then nods before returning his focus to his computer, zoning right back into his database work.
Almost absent-mindedly, he slides your file a little closer to his keyboard, no doubt the very next task he’ll address when he’s finished with the current one.
And now, in the present day, you’re staring at the little tidy bullet-point list of requested supplies like the numbers and ID strings are going to crawl out of the monitor to eat your eyeballs.
Reluctance turns into outright mortification, then dawning horror as you read down the list, then again, and stare.
Nine full ration cubes, three medigrade trays, twenty power-cells for the standard weapon’s cartridge, three incendiary-grade batteries for remote detonation controls, and a flask of hi-grade? What?
You could probably swindle any of those things out of Jackson’s stingy fingers if they’d been tacked onto a normal order of six cubes and maybe a half-tray of the medigrade, but--- but three trays? What the hell were your mechs getting geared up to go do? And hi-grade…? That wasn’t necessary, as far as you know, but a purely indulgent treat. The power-cells aren’t so surprising as it’s been over four weeks since you ordered them any kind of batteries at all, but the fact they want as many as they do is gonna raise eyebrows. You’re good, but you don’t think you’re that good.
And the flask of hi-grade? What?
You’ve only ever once had to make an order submission for a purely frivolous Energon request. An order for candies and hi-grade had fallen across your desk just a few months before your office-change, and it’d been subsequently denied in entirety.
Who the fuck submitted this, you wonder with exasperation, wondering if your mechs are starting to get a little too high in their expectations for what you can and cannot accomplish. Swindle, I swear, if this is--
The signatures on the bottom of the brief form stop your mind in its tracks as you stare.
No fucking way.
You blink. You close the document. You open it again.
The names don’t change.
Authorized by Second in Command Prowl
Authorized by Third in Command Jazz
Authorized by Chief Demolitions Payload
If you had any less control over yourself, you’d have flipped your entire desk in exasperation at the top three brass as far you ever have to deal with, all demanding the impossible of you.
Aware that Energon is considered their top priority, you grab the funky looking datapad off your desk, and turn it on with a touch to the corner. The alien, you-sized device powers on instantly, and after verifying your credentials via fingerprint, facial scan, and your login, you navigate to the communication’s app.
His name is the top on the list, put there by the starting tags of a sparkly emoji and a black diamond. Below Prowl, Jazz is next, sorted by the same sparkly emoji you so favor, and a cyan diamond. Every other mech in Spec Ops is on the datapad you guard like your life literally depends on it, because having direct communicaton access to pinging the mechs your life now revolves around is kind of a big deal.
It’s also one you got used to after the first week of novelty and bone-rattling pressure of responsibility.
Tapping Prowl’s name, you set the device on your desk and lean it against the monitor so the camera will face you at an appropriate angle, and wait with steepled fingers touched to pursed lips.
~*~
“I know you think I’m a miracle worker, but I’m gonna need to know why you want some of these things, or I can tell you right now, I won’t be able to swing this,” Spec Op's dedicated Processor begins with a strained voice, but levelly spoken. “Jackson is gonna freak, and I do not like upsetting our stingy quartermaster. I had to fight him tooth and nail just to get a single tray of the medigrade last time.”
Prowl’s not surprised by the lack of polite address or time wasted on social pleasantries. It’d only taken two video calls for the requisition specialist to learn she didn’t need to bother, and he’s only somewhat-- 32.973% --surprised the human adapted his own sparse communication habits. Part of him feels that ought to be a little lower, considering the leaps and bounds of efficiency her work flow has achieved after intervention.
His TacNet doesn’t budge on the prediction, despite his emotional query prompting instantaneous verification.
“The reasons are classified,” he states.
She rolls her eyes at him, openly expressive where others might check their reaction. That change had come following the first time he’d crossed paths with her in the Spec Ops communal lounge, and the location her office had been (deliberately circumventing his orders) tucked away into. After watching the way the team behaved around him, and most particularly Jazz’s effuse reception, her reserve had largely fallen away.
No longer stammering and stuttering to get a word out, too flustered by her own nerves at addressing a superior officer of another species.
Unfortunately, Prowl’s not certain the time that had been wasted with her emotive distress, had been more than simply replaced by other emotive responses instead.
It was, however, far more useful. A clearer window into her thoughts and how that might affect responses, all data his considerations fed into hungry TacNet to gnaw on.
She’s convinced-- 89.973% --she can’t fulfil the order as-is.
Prowl’s convinced she can. 98.94% likelihood.
“Of course the reasons are classified. So give me something I can say, because there’s no way he’s going to approve this entire order,” she speaks his prediction aloud, subsequently earning a higher tick in background calculations as his TacNet adjusts known data of this individual. >0.03% - increase of accuracy in predicting behavior. +16.03% - increased certainty of observed patterns, reliable profile; 78.973% completed profile. “Did you inflate the numbers to give me haggle-room, or is everything a hard necessity?"
Prowl hesitates. He hadn’t really expected-- 46.973% --her to to ask so directly. Another statistic changes in the carefully constructed character profile in his mind, more noticeable to him by the very virtue of being so new.
Her file was so miniscule compared to the folders he possessed on individuals he’d known for millennia, it was almost a novelty of experience to have such a steady stream of new, trickling data flowing through his processor. Fortunately, not so unpredictable as to jam his orderly logic trees entirely, it provided only the interest of speculative data. Small changes. Delicate adjustments of formulas, weighting one variable a little more or a little less, all depending on incoming data. Largely known in broad strokes and framing equations, requiring only the finesse of tweaked values.
Based on prior experience, Prowl is willing-- 67.973% --to assume he’s about to have a short argument he’d rather end with a single sentence.
Unfortunately, it’s been advised to him that simply telling the human what he expects her to do and signing off, sends the Processor into a whirlwind of emotional chaos that makes even her tiny, primitive Electromagnetic-field blaze like a tiny star. Distracting for the mechs near her, and certainly not conductive to fostering a productive mental state for work productivity, his best office worker is hardly more temperamental than who Prowl’s used to handling. It also usually results in being peppered by questions sent in succinct emails, and if he fails to answer in what she considers a timely fashion, she calls.
If that fails, she calls Jazz, who then either calls him, or finds him in person like a Cy’cat who caught the Glitchmouse. That outcome is highly likely (99.973%), and highly undesired (99.97%).
“There is some leeway,” he answers shortly. “Requisitioning the full order is preferable.”
She narrows her eyes at him. TacNet scrambles to decide whether it’s more likely the expression is a result of her focus, or the result of emotive disgruntlement. Possibly both. It settles on a hesitant 50.973%, and refuses to tell him which variable the glitched weighted decimal favors.
“What’s extra? I’ll get whatever’s needed without fail, because Jack knows when I’m serious and Imma bring him serious,” she says, her time spent with Swindle slipping into a faint censure of accent that colors her voice at odd moments. “I’ll try for more,” the Processor adds, softening just a touch as her focus is reigned in. The hands that had dropped off-screen when he answered her call request return, folding together under her chin as she leans on the desk, watching him through the screen.
“Five power-cells, one tray of medigrade, two cubes.” Whether Jazz is aware of it or not-- ##.973%^ --Prowl knows that Spec Ops has a private, undocumented store of Energon. For this mission, he’s equally aware that Jazz will be willing to dip into it without hesitation. >0.003% chance of discovering stockpile location during access of--
Prowl shuts the errant logic-tree down. It’s reflexive for him to run the calculations for how probable it’d be to catch someone in a criminal act, but he’s learned to pick his battles, and frankly, he’s glad Jazz is keeping a secret stash. Some rules were worth circumventing, especially when they were largely drafted and enforced in part by an alien government he didn’t much trust.
He’s also not the only one, and the last thing Prowl desires is the humans getting interested in auditing every Cybertronian for hidden Energon stashes.
His keymost tool to cut through that very human bureaucracy for access, is staring at him on the screen of his datapad. His Processor sighs softly, lips pressed together in a thin line as her gaze grows unfocused, or rather, re-focuses, because he’s aware she draws into herself when thinking. A relatable pattern, a familiar tic.
Abruptly, those eyes animate as she blinks, free of deep thought, then looks him dead-on.
“And the Hi-grade?”
Prowl’s engine nearly shifts gears, but he checks the reaction. His door wings, however, lift higher with a brief quiver he barely halts. The brief dart and flick of human eyes, tell him she noticed the movement.
90% chance correct assumption of behavioral language.
Fairly certain that the soldiers she’s been spending time with are responsible for her growing understanding of Cybertronian body language and culture, it’s still jarring for Prowl to realize how precise-- 89.973% observed perceived accuracy --she is at pinning down their moods. She notices far more subtle details than most humans he is accustomed to speaking to.
“...it is greatly desired,” he admits stiffly, unwilling to explain himself. He shouldn’t have to, and as Second in Command, he doesn’t need to.
The human grimaces, closes her eyes… then sags her shoulders and sighs, and Prowl assumes she’s going to sacrifice it as a token of barter to secure the other supplies. A reasonable strategy, and one of many reasons he’d justified what Jazz accused him of being a whim.
It wasn’t. Well, not truthfully-- 97% --when he got right down to it. A rare indulgence, and one of the few ways Prowl knew to let his mind truly relax. A full break. A quiet, peaceful, sometimes social and sometimes private allotment of time set aside for the mandatory requirement of rest. Just because he enjoyed the indulgence, didn’t mean it was frivolous. Not the way he’d learned to utilize it.
Prowl had long ago learned the risks of running himself to burn-out, and how much more costly the repercussions were versus scheduling time to allow himself reprieve to prevent loss of control over his own frame deciding for him. This quartex was both particularly grueling with the challenges they’d had thrown at them, Wheeljack was expected on base in the near future, and…
He wasn’t looking forward to the expected week Jazz and the majority of his team would be spending off-base. No cheerful company to take refuge in the freely offered smiles and comforting camaraderie of, Prowl was not looking forward to being alone.
He was used to it. It was necessary. It did not make him enjoy enduring the shelved discomfort any less.
Those shimmery eyes are suddenly opened and looking at him on the screen, and Prowl feels himself perk as the number estimate for his desired outcome-- order requisitioned in full --ticks higher. Her body language signals a favorable shift in mood, which increases his prediction on how confident the requisition specialist feels about accomplishing the task.
“Okay, I’ll get you the Hi-grade, but two conditions.”
That draws him up short, as Prowl wonders what she could possibly desire tacked onto it. Time off? Higher pay? He’s not interested in bartering for or being pressured to yield personal favors, even if his own request is… rather personal.
Being that his entire intimate life and wellbeing, what little fumes of it existed, were in fact relevant directly to military proceedings since he was a living battle computer for the entire Autobot forces, Prowl is completely certain that his request is valid, where hers might-- 87.973% --not be.
“If you are going to cite an additional work load over the request, I will remind you that you are still paid regardless of the tasks assigned or a lack there-of,” he outlines bluntly.
She draws back, clearly offended, and Prowl realizes he erred in prediction. Not seeking personal boons, then.
“What--? No, you… You… uh, no,” she says, embarrassment stealing into a quickly composed expression as the human’s shoulders go rigid, and Prowl’s optics narrow fractionally. The Processor clears her throat. “Condition one is that I’ll need to submit it as a separate request, and it’d probably best if I gave it a few weeks to ask it. That’s got the best chance of them even considering signing off on it.”
“Condition two?” he prompts, feeling the success rates tick up. 98.989% chance success.
“We need to keep Spec Ops on their best behavior on-base between now and then, or I’m going to get a big fat no, and so will you. They hate giving out Energon that isn’t for anything but an absolutely need--”
0.03%. Prowl feels the rapid drop-out in statistical likelihood like a punctured and drained fuel tank. So much for certainty. His TacNet offers no remorse nor response. The only thing it cares about are inputs that affect its calculations, not the reactions to them.
“It is needed," Prowl asserts, even though he feels the familiar guilt pinch and twist, before he disengages the code and sends a patch to lock it from disrupting his focus. Its left to churn with other emotion packets waiting for analysis and proper dismissal, a firmly locked file tree in his deeper processor that he’ll deal with later. “I am making the request for purely medicinal reasons.”
That causes a rapid blink.
“Oh, it’s medical? That changes everything, why didn’t you lead with that? I’ll get it out of Jackson today.”
What?
Prowl blinks.
“How does that change the certainty of acquisition? You were ninety-seven-percent convinced it wouldn’t--”
And stops when she blinks, then smiles softly, a hand quickly lifting to hide the expression behind as her eyes seem to brighten, though they cast no light of their own.
Prowl clears his throat.
“You were convinced it wouldn’t work.”
She waits for a moment, probably-- 68.973% --gathering her thoughts, possibly-- 13.973% --just taking in his reaction, or waiting to see if he’s finished.
He is.
“I told you. If it’s a need I can get it. If it’s just for fun, no dice, but even fun sometimes is a need because sad people don’t win wars, and I want you to be the happiest mech on base. Keeping you and Jazz happy is basically my job, Prowl.”
His processor feels the disruption of the intense, pleasant surprise that shocks him into stillness, eyes widening fractionally, before he composes himself, and shoves the heightened pique aside just as he did his own prior guilt. Good or bad was irrelevant; any heightened emotional peak could distract him from dedicating adequate CPU to crucial processes, as numerous functions marched along, peripheral to his conscious thoughts and sense of self experience.
“Understood,” he says, feeling the warmth in his voice, a faint censure of a loss of rigid stiffness as he relaxes fractionally. “Thank you.”
This time the human freezes, but her reaction of shock is far more profound and visible than his. Her eyes go wide as her lips part in a little ‘o’, and he sees her hands drop as she lifts her head up.
“O-oh, uh, yeah, no problem, sure. Is that all? --Uh, I mean, I’m the one who called,” she rattles off, voice picking up in pace as Prowl’s eye ridge draws together, taut. She gives a laugh he interprets as a nervous tic. “That’s all I needed, thanks! Um, have a good day, Prowl. Take care.”
The video clicks off, and he stares at the blank screen before setting his datapad down. His door wings droop to casual rest, and he lets out a soft sigh.
There’s a 99% chance that he’s going to have a replacement for his dwindled supply of Hi-grade, before he really starts begrudging the empty bottle.
Notes:
;v; some of ya'll might recognize Swindle and Payload from Gladiators of Kaon. I couldn't resist.
Wasn't expecting Swindle in this chapter as the person Prowl sent (originally i was gonna have him send the Supervisor or have her assign someone) but then i really wanted to have an excuse for us to spend more time with Spec Ops soooo... yeah we're their pet squishy now :D
Chapter 3: 99%
Notes:
The writing muse has me by the throat and that's okay because eventually it'll be Prowl who does
I mean what
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You were ninety-seven percent convinced it wouldn’t--”
97%? Really? You have no idea where Prowl got that number from, but you aren’t inclined to argue with him. You weren’t exactly expecting him to cut himself off mid-sentence, either, but you have a funny feeling he hadn’t actually meant to spit the numbers in his head out at you.
You’ve only talked with the guy a handful of times, most of your exchanges so brief it may as well not technically count as an interaction.
But that’s just it.
It does count, and you’ve never been someone to dismiss something just because the quantity was on the small side, nearly insignificant by some standards. When it comes to this particular individual, Prowl’s sparse behavior only enforces your impressions of him, tweaked a little farther from the gossip and rumors that had formed your first expectations.
He’s a mathematical ass! Don’t ever try to contradict his numbers or he’ll read you the riot act.
Prowl was a perfectionist. You didn’t think the rumors had been wrong on that front, though you were struggling to see how everyone except maybe Jazz, Ratchet, and Optimus, seemed to think this guy was Satan incarnate but without the demotion to king of Hell. Just angry and lonely to be here stuck on Earth, instead of off in the sparkling galaxy, lightyears away, where their home planet waited.
Cybertron.
A world made of metal, that had given birth to metal life. A fascinating concept. A daydream that has twirled in your dreams and daydreams both, ever since learning of it.
“Thank you.”
The unbidden memory of softly spoken words comes crashing into your consciousness like a freight train, and your finger tightens on the pen in your fingers. Your first impulse is to throw it; your actual choice is to close your eyes, sigh, and shove off the potent peak of emotion that threatens to swamp your focus entirely.
I’m almost done with this, then I can go to sleep. Shut uuuup braaaaain.
You get a minute and a half of peace before the intrusive thought crashes in again, begging for your conscious attention. Plucking at your focus, stirring your biological systems into a tizzy as you feel your heart react, then your breath, muscles drawing taut--
“Thank you.”
“Dammit!” You set the stylus down before you do throw the poor, defenseless thing. Fortunately, you’re allowed the outburst, because you’re the only person in your tiny little crate-turned-office, and you’re moreover the only individual in the Spec Ops lounge. There’s no one to hear your vocal complaint, and you take full advantage of it.
“Aaaaauuuuugggghhhh! Shut uuuuup, brain! I’m almost done with my work shift. Leave me work in peace,” you grumble, rubbing at your temples, wondering if your body is just trying at this point to trigger a migraine. You hadn’t actually expected to dodge them for so long, but you have to hand it to Prowl.
The fragger is always right.
Providing you tools to actually address the most difficult obstacles of your own-- as Swindle would say --’glitchy frame’ had, indeed, helped dramatically. Being able to control the soundscape of the room you’re in has provided immeasurable amount of peace for your train of thought and easily sensitized eardrums.
It’s also made it that much easier to derail yourself with your own thoughts, because there’s absolutely nothing else in your environment to distract you but work, and maybe the datapad, if you decided to use it’s services for purely social reasons. Something you avoid until clocked out, because you’re definitely afraid Prowl would both somehow find out, and be very displeased.
You’re supposed to be working, not socializing right now.
Tired eyes glance to the clock on your datapad. It’d taken you about two weeks to adjust to the new format, because despite living on a military base, your little office tools had all happily used a civilian standard for telling time in the twelve-hour format.
18:05:56 and already ticking over as you watch the seconds count up, and realize that actually, you could clock out, now. Probably even should, because you’d definitely pulled some overtime last week, and while no one has complained about your hours worked, you don’t want to give them a reason to.
“Thank you.”
--you’re going to throw something, and it’s probably going to be your sanity out the nearest window. Fortunately that might take a while to accomplish, since there’s no actual windows in this underground base. The memory of Prowl’s soft voice chases your focus like a bloodhound, and you finally give up, deciding you can allow yourself three minutes to a distraction that’ll take up more time trying to avoid it.
You turn your focus reluctantly towards the thoughts, allowing yourself to feel the trickling sensation of emotions that ripple through your body in response. Warm fuzzies. No surprise there. You liked being praised for a job well done. You also don’t know how to take a compliment to save your life, and frankly, you’re not really sure why Prowl doing something as ordinary as thanking you is--
--waitaminute.
Like a light going off over your head, you realize why your brain is so fixated on this. You blink, stunned, then go over your handful of memories with the dude. It’s not the first time you’ve heard him say that-- he’s definitely said it to Jazz and Payload on rare occasion, and--
Rare occasion.
You’re pretty sure this was the first time Prowl has ever said that to you.
Like a satisfied cat, you feel the way your subconscious releases its claws hooked into your train of thought. You figured out the message one would think you should have known, but funny thing, you don’t actually know your own body until you listen to it.
And right now, it’s telling you that Prowl saying something objectively nice is like being given a Sativa-heavy joint and a big box of your favorite candy to suck on. You feel tingly. Content, dare you think it.
You’re also mortified his positive attention means that much to you, but then, is that really so surprising? There’s not really any comparison you can come up with, to earning reconsideration and eventual praise, from the mech that’s literally second in command of the entire shebang. You’ve long since learned that one of Prowl’s main functions in the Autobot army is to provide them cold, hard statistics boiled down to the numerical bone from more verbose reports, woven into easy-to-digest reports that inform their decisions. This guy literally has the burden of the entire army, their entire cause, combined with the weight of Optimus Prime’s trust and expectations on his shoulders.
Fortunately, Prowl has both very broad shoulders, and is probably the most capable mech you could ever meet for the task he’s been assigned. He’s smart. He’s practical. And--
--he’s calling you.
Your heart leaps into your throat with the irrational and immediate panic that somehow he’s aware you’re thinking about him, and it takes you a full two seconds to calm the silly reaction down. No, he doesn’t. He’s not Jazz who mysteriously knows everything somehow. On second thought-- Fuck. He’s the guy Jazz tells shit to.
Well, either way, it’s Prowl calling, so it’s probably not a social call.
“Hey, Prowl,” you greet when you pull the datapad close, setting it to lean against your monitor again after tapping the answer button. The device had already been unlocked and active, so you don’t have to waste any time on entering credentials. The video call simply opens a new window that covers the screen, hiding away the inventory report you’d been cross-referencing.
Prowl’s stern face is the first thing you see, perfectly framed in the exact dead-center of the screen like it always is. He’s in his office, probably, judging by the gray wall close behind him, and the way light is reflecting only softly over his features, casting gentle shadows. A highlight on his cheek and the corner of his helmet flashes now and then with a bright reflection, emphasising the fact he’s a being made of living metal.
That’s never not going to be so cool to see.
You’re a lot more curious, however, by the way Prowl’s wingy-things lift up a fraction, perking like he’s suddenly more interested than he had been before calling. Possibly a reaction to me answering. He hates if I miss his call. Which you have done exactly once, and then promptly had the unholy Fear of Failure dumped into your bloodstream when Swindle had been sent to ask you, in person directly, what was so important that you ignored it.
“Uh. Dude…. I was in the bathroom,” you’d said with wide eyes, frozen at the door to your office. “I’ll call him back.”
Swindle first stared, then laughed at you from where he sat, perched on your office chair. The fact it’d already been replaced once is the only reason you don’t tell him to get out of it or to stop making it lean so far back like that, because after he’d broken your first one, it’d been replaced with a seat that could survive a Minicon’s weight and restlessness.
“Uh-huh. Good luck. Fortunately, he can’t kill you just ‘cause he’s pissed, but he can make your life living hell,” he’d joked, getting up and slipping past you at the door.
Right now, prowl at least doesn’t look annoyed like he’d been that time. His doors are held up high and proud behind his shoulders, and his eyes are only narrowed a normal, intensive amount. You’ll probably be fine, as long as they don’t--
--narrow slightly at you like they do just now. Oh fuck, I’m so dead. What did I do wrong? What did I--
Before your mind can get too far into doom-prophesizing, Prowl speaks.
“Have you submitted the requisition forms for Energon?” he asks bluntly, without any form of greeting. Admittedly, that actually manages to soothe your nerves like, instantly. He’s so focused, it’s easy to let him draw your own mind on-track again as you let out a deep breath you hope doesn’t show too much on camera, trying to keep your face composed. Right. Energon. I can focus on Energon talk. Your heart still feels like it wants to try out for the Kentucky Derby, but at least you can focus, now.
“No, I’m actually working on that project right now,” you admit, then pick the datapad up as the doors flared behind his shoulders twitch. Aw, heck. Don’t doubt me now, Prowl!
“You usually have fuel requisitions completed by now.” In other words, he’s asking you ‘what’s the holdup?’
You roll your eyes off-screen after you’ve tapped the Switch View button that flips the camera to the other side of the device, and aim it at the papers neatly spread out over your desk. You’ve broken the order down into three completely separate requests, one of which manages their to-be-consumed fuel of the standard cube and less-standard medigrade trays, and one for the combative grade stuff they’ll use to arm deadly weapons and power them up for a firefight. You’re determined to get every single thing ordered, because you’re determined to make sure your friends have everything they need to come home alive, without the risks of penny-pinching.
You’d prefer them home in one piece, but you know the odds of that are…
…low enough you know better than to ask anyone for the actual numerical prediction. Prowl probably knows it, and like heck you’re gonna ask him. The fact they’re asking for three medigrade trays is answer enough.
“I don’t usually have to do more than say pretty-please and batt my eyes at Jackson to get your fuel,” you understate with a sigh, letting Prowl take in the way you’ve broken things up. “I’m making a plan of attack for this one.” Splitting the forms up will make it easier to barter for things in smaller groups, than if you’d given him total sticker-shock by slapping it all down at once. With more control over the conversational and haggling focus, it’ll be that much more to your advantage to discuss. Plus, it’ll make his work easier, another incentive for Jackson to have no cause to deny you, because he’d probably have made the suggestion for you to split the order up himself. You’re also coming armed with a very good understanding of what materials the depot does and does not have in stock, and already arranged a promise from Perceptor that yes, he’s willing to replace the batches used despite all the reluctance of a phobic trauma victim. I’m so sorry to ask if of you buddy, but we so badly need more of those things made. I believe in yoooou.
You very much assume that Prowl has noticed your third and final pair of forms, only partially obscured underneath your hand-written notes, the ones you’ll wait to submit until whenever it feels opportune; his hi-grade request is drafted up completely by itself.
Instead of any kind of praise for your dedication to work ethic, however, you get sideswiped by Prowl’s less-than-enthused reaction.
“What?” comes the flat response, making you blink, and you look down at the screen to see that Prowl’s wings are at high mast, his eyes narrowed as he frowns deeply. “Are you implying that you have been seducing the--”
“WHAT? NO!” you splutter, aghast, though a tiny part of you recoils so strongly because he’s poked that tiny, unwanted little nugget of guilt you carry, wondering if the guy has mistaken your kindness for flirtations. You’ve been very careful not to ever say or do something that could be taken as a romantic come-on, but then, you also know some people think a person being polite and giving is the same as them saying please come to bed with me ;) *winky emoji.*
The idea of crawling into bed with Jackson is about as appealing as going back under Hound’s undercarriage for his own sake and by Ratchet’s request, because you were the only tiny-fingered being the guy trusted near his vitals. A soft-bodied organic who couldn’t possibly cause him damage; even though both of you know that’s not actually quite true, his panic-locked defensive scripts had already coded you as so low of a threat you might as well be harmless. Swindle? Oh, yeah. Not happening.
Still, if you never have to roll yourself under an injured living vehicle that’s vibrating like an angry cat and spitting sparks everywhere, it’ll be too soon.
“Then I fail to understand what you are implying. Elaborate,” Prowl commands as you stare at the screen, before you tap the Switch View button so he can see your indignant expression.
“Dude, I love you guys, but I am not crawling into bed with someone just to get you snacks. No, man-- I mean that I’ve spent my entire time working here trying to make that guy not hate me, because he hates everyone, and he’s usually willing to trust the fact I don’t ask for things that aren’t actually needed.
“If he’s sweet on me he’s never said, but he definitely appreciates a friendly face, because lord knows no one else gives that to him. No one likes the guy who does the government’s dirty work, even if he’s the most polite person you could ever think to have doing it,” you say with a grimace. You are well aware how unpopular Jackson is with most the staff who have to interact with him. You have a feeling he’s probably well liked within his own niche department, but requisitions office?
Oh, yeah. He’s not popular with anyone except maybe you, but then again, you’re also as far as you know, the only person who treats the guy like an ordinary person, not a living firewall to be brute-forced through. Smiles work far better with him than angry demands or threats. Sympathetic agreement and commiserating goes much farther than complaints and whining at him like he’s out to personally get you, not just doing his job to the letter.
You’re not expecting Prowl’s flippy-wings to settle back with an annoyed flick, like you said something that’s particularly bugged him.
As ever, he doesn’t comment on his own emotive reaction, that level gaze never leaving your face as he studies you with unblinking focus.
You counted it, once, out of curiosity. He blinks once to every five of Bumblebee or Swindle’s blink rates.
Useless information your brain has none-the-less absorbed anyways.
“I am given to understand that the phrase, ‘bat my eyes,’ is exclusively used in reference to describe a human courtship display. I am wrong in this understanding?” asks your shiny taskmaster, and makes the blood in your veins go cold, because…
…because he’s kinda right, and ouch, you hate admitting it, but you fucked up. I coulda worded that better.
It also makes you panic, wondering if Jackson is sweet on you and if maybe you’ve over-done it. Fuck.
It takes effort not to put a hand to your face and hide behind it like a scolded child, but you can’t stop yourself from running fingers through your hair, letting out a huff of breath as your eyes grow unfocused with thought.
“....Okay, yeah, I could have phrased that better. I don’t flirt with him, Prowl. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t purposefully trying to be charming and show my best side so he feels at ease. I’m not trading him kisses for signatures.” That’d be soooo wrong. And probably get one or the both of you fired.
There’s a long silence. Long enough it drags your gaze to the screen with great reluctance, because Prowl not having something to say means he’s thinking very carefully of what to say.
“Since you have achieved results where others have failed, I am going to overlook this,” he says like you are doing something wrong, which makes your heart sink. “Don’t overdo it.”
You snort at him, unable to hold his gaze as you feel your face heat up.
“Don’t give me a requisition form that means I’d need to,” you can’t help but quip, defensive. “Because if the choice is my mechs coming home alive or someone dying because they got shorted by the stingy government, I’ll…” fuck him six ways to Sunday, almost falls off your lips before you remember who you’re talking to, and you clear your throat and change tact. “...probably do something stupid, and one or both of us is getting fired afterwards, but you’re definitely getting your Energon.”
There’s another long pause, for Prowl. It’s only two seconds, but for him that’s a wildly expansive frame of time for him to do nothing more than sit there, staring at you.
His doors that look like ineffective wings twitch restlessly. Maybe annoyed, maybe amused, you can’t tell this time.
Dude you have the world’s best poker face. Not even Swindle can read it.
“Is that a threat?” he asks mildly.
You stare at him, jaw dropped.
“It’s a joke, Prowl,” you say, gobsmacked. After a pause, you add thoughtfully, “Okay, half-joke. Seriously, life or death at stake? Yeah, I’ll play hardball. But no, Prowl, I’m not keen on jumping into bed with a total stranger! Cripes. I can’t believe you think that of me! Do I seem that loose and easy?” Okay. Okay, you should definitely stop talking because this is only going places that are deeply mortifying and not doing good things to that tiny seed of guilt inside you.
Or the bitter embarrassment of being painfully aware that you are, in fact, so far removed from that kind of behavior your friends have accused you of being a prude.
“No, you are simply dedicated. I am not joking. Do what you need to secure our supplies, but do not incite disciplinary action. I can protect you from Autobot repercussions, but I have no authority over your own government.”
If you’d been holding anything, you’d have dropped it.
“Are-- Are you saying you’d actually be okay with me bribing the Energon guy with-- w-with--” You can’t say it. Not as anything but a joke that might have some serious seed of truth buried in it, somewhere. Deep.
“I am granting approval for your own idea,” he states, most definitely mortifying you further. “I trust your record of proven success.”
“P-Prowl. Prowl,” you stress, feeling like you’ve let this conversation get wildly out-of-hand, painfully aware you… you have been giving him mixed messages. “I know I said I’d--”
“Were you lying?” he asks, voice level. Nothing’s changed except your own perception of him, and right now, your mind is telling you he’s your worst nightmare.
Oh god I can’t have Prowl thinking I’m sleeping around on their behalf.
“I-- Dammit,” you curse, unable to stop yourself this time as you put a hand to your face, feeling the heat beneath your clammy palm like the burn of the sun itself. “Okay. Let me rephrase; no, I am not flirting with him. No, I am not enticing him into bed with me. Yes, I’m willing to go to upsettingly great lengths to do my job. No, I’m not-- I’m not… Can we change topics?” you beg.
Prowl’s door wings flick, perhaps dismissively, perhaps in annoyance. All you can really tell is that he’s definitely not letting this go.
“You are very affected by this. Is he a distraction?”
You goggle at the screen.
“Wha--! No!” you protest. “You’re the distraction, Prowl, cripes! I never thought twice about this being weird until you-- y-you-- Auuuuugh,” and you give up, dropping your face down into folded arms, and completely miss the way the SIC’s door wings flutter with a sharp lift as Prowl’s optics widen briefly. “Is this all you called about? Checking on the Energon requisition?” you ask, praying to any listening anyone that he grants you mercy.
“No. I am also calling to ask why you are still clocked in, but you answered that already.”
That passive-aggressive needling gets you to lift your head up with confusion, and you take a moment to set your datapad back up against your monitor, so Prowl’s not staring at your ceiling.
“I… I did--?” I don’t remember that question. When did I--?
“You are actively working at your desk, this time.”
You flinch, vividly reminded of the first day you’d been dragged into all of this, because Swindle hadn’t been joking when he said he wanted to introduce you to ‘the team.’ Which had meant about three hours of socializing, work plotting, and trekking around the base to find people as he introduced you to every mech in Spec Ops.
Unfortunately, you’d also earned your first proper dress-down because you forgot to clock out by the time Swindle dropped you off at the human residential wing.
Your Supervisor had not been happy with you the next morning, but at least the reprimand had come from her and not from Prowl. Unfortunately, you know he was dutifully informed of it, because he’s mentioned it on rare occasion. Like now.
“Yes, I’m working. Is it a problem I’m running over time?” you ask warily.
“So long as it does not compromise your mental and physical health and impair your ability to function, no.”
Relief floods over you like a drug through your veins. Considering how your body’s emotionally responsive and triggering chemicals work, it probably isn’t that far off.
“Cool. Anything else?” you ask warily.
There’s a brief pause as his wings lift a touch, then settle, and you clock the gesture like a neon flare in the night. He wants something.
“Yes. I have a proposition.”
You blink. You wait, and when you don’t say anything, prowl simply continues.
“I have been informed that despite your need for silence and calm, you do best when occasionally engaged with social interruptions throughout the work day. Your customary company is going to be unavailable for… Some time, on their next deployment.” Yeah, you figured. Nine cubes, three medigrade trays, and the heavy firepower they’re obviously planning to pack was more than enough to tip you off that your boys are gonna be busy. “I would like to suggest relocating your office to a more productive environment while they are away.”
That causes you to sit up straight in your chair as you frown, immediately recoiling.
“Uh… I’d rather not,” you admit. “I mean, yeah, sure, it’ll be a little lonely without hearing them goof off or having Swindle come in to pester me, but I’ll be fine.” Besides, if no one else is around, no one can see me cry.
“Even with the benefit of being closer to routing, and company at hand?” he prompts.
You grimace.
“It’s… Sweet of you to be concerned,” you admit carefully, trying to figure out how to decline his request without sounding like an ass. “But it’s, um, it’s not that simple. First off, putting me around other people isn’t gonna make me feel better, it’ll just drive my anxiety higher because I’ll be around people I don’t know well, because I doubt my old desk is still empty.” You don’t choose to mention that being seated next to Witwicky again would actually make you go mad. You have gotten terribly and irrevocably spoiled, being nearly two months removed from hearing his annoying pen-clicky clicks. “Second off, it’ll just make it harder for me to work, because I like my nice familiar office. Thank you, but no. I’ll keep my current desk.”
Prowl’s wings lift, and stay lifted. Something very subtle in his expression changes, and you immediately tense, because a smug Prowl is worse than an angry Prowl. This little tic of minute expression gives all the warning you need to be aware that he knows something you don’t, and the immediate knowledge that you don’t know something is enough to make your entire body cringe with distress. Spit it out already, facts man!
“So your only resistance is a desire for familiar company, and for your immediate office environment not to change?” he presses.
You huff, unable to hold his gaze, uncertain why he’s trying so hard to press for this anyways. I’m fine. It’s fine. I’m a grown ass adult who can handle biting her nails while her friends are off fighting a war. I can even haul over an empty bucket to put my tears in and contain the mess, all by myself.
“Yeah. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Are you certain? What I have in mind meets both our needs.”
That causes you to jerk your gaze back to him, and you blink owlishly. Both our needs…?
Which prompts you to think; what does Prowl need? You working at top efficiency, to keep his happy little numbers all in order?
“Uh… What?”
“I am offering to relocate your office module to my office space. I will not always be present, but you would have occasional company. Your work station will not change; I will pick the crate up, though I would require you to secure any loose items inside so they do not slide.”
It feels like the chair and floor drops out from under you as you stare at him with wide eyes, not having remotely seen that coming.
Part of you wants to decline, on the pure principle of not wanting to seem weak or like you need to be coddled. It would hardly be the first time you’ve spent all by your lonesome for days at a time, while the mechs you worked directly for were out busy risking their lives to save lives.
And taking a lot of them in the process.
“I… I-- Yeah, that, um, that’d actually be great,” you admit, flustered. “I… Th-thanks.” You’re not sure what else to say. Something more eloquently spoken, probably, but the meaning would be the same; agreement and gratitude. Prowl might not be someone you’re socially comfy with, but he is familiar, and you’ll take familiar, quiet company over a stranger or echoing loneliness any day.
Then he goes and short-circuits your brain, because the mech on the screen actually cracks a smile at you. It’s just a brief quirk of his lips, a faint softening of harsh features as those icy eyes look more like the light of a winter’s sunny day on frosty ice, rather than the deepest chill in the darkest gloom. They cut right into you, impossible to ignore, as your face starts to warm again
“Excellent. I will make the arrangements.”
You expect him to sign off right away, but Prowl once again surprises you by lingering. For the briefest of moments, his gaze leaves yours; darts once to the side, his right and your left, before he looks back at you. His door-wings quiver then flick and lift, like he’s deeply satisfied about something.
“Thank you.”
And then the screen goes black, the call ended, and the app auto-minimizes itself to reveal the view of work documents that had been briefly interrupted.
Why-- Why is he thanking me?
It shouldn’t hang up in your mind as strongly as it does, but… It does. Like a leech that won’t let go, you tumble the thought around in your head, trying to pull something out of it. Was he thanking you for something specific, or had he just said that to be polite? From past behavior, you figure the latter is a low probability. Slightly more likely is that something about this call was personal enough to him to warrant the expression, much like the last time he’d uttered those words so easily taken for granted.
“Thank you,” he’d said, after the back-and-forth of him more-or-less negotiating with you to secure a bottle of fancy alien booze for, you assume, himself. In fact, you’re willing to bet he had two of his highest ranked officers sign off on the form of approval, just to make it very clear he wasn’t trying to swindle something off-record.
It only takes you a moment to make the intuitive leap, as your mind connects two errant thoughts.
‘Both our needs,’ Prowl had said. Does that mean Prowl… Also wants company while they’re gone?
~*~
“Hey, if it isn’t my favorite shit-stirrer” Jackson greets when he clocks you walking towards his window, the arm-thick bullet-proof glass with criss-crossed lattices of internal wire structure seeming kinda silly when there’s a wide gap on the bottom, to allow the passage of paperwork. Or the occasional, tiny gift.
Quite intentionally, you haven’t brought him any physical gifts today. Don’t want to look like I’m actually bribing the poor guy.
You also, more than a little bit, don’t want him to think you’re actually trying to woo him, and if your brain could kindly stop over-analyzing that, you’d be able to get through this coming battle without blushing yourself into thermal meltdown.
You take no offense at his crass greeting, well aware it’s not said with malice, but with affection; a gruff humor that came out to play once he realized you didn’t have a stick up your ass, you’re just… Cautiously professional.
“Hey, Jack,” you say with a grin that comes naturally, though as soon as you feel yourself making the warm expression you suddenly fluster, because dammit--! What if he thinks you’re trying to--? Fuck you, Prowl. Why did you have to go and put this thought in my head. Auuuugh. “I’d like to contest that title, but alas, it’s proudly worn,” you say ruefully, coming to a stop at the counter, purposefully holding the three thick packets of manilla folders against your stomach, out of immediate view. Best to hit him with the sticker shock slowly.
“Mmhm, proudly and way too effectively. I think you actually managed to break my Supervisor a little bit with the last order.” Oooooh that’s not a great sign. Shit.
Because as much as Jackson was basically the first and often final line of defense you had to get through to wheedle supplies from, his decisions could always be overturned by an unhappy higher-up. There weren’t many, but they did exist.
Fortunately, Jackson’s reputation is as sparkly as your own. Hopefully without the reputation for being a seductive hazard-- AUGH. STOP THINKING ABOUT IT.
Unfortunately, you’re poker face is leagues away from Prowl’s, and Jackson clearly clocks that something in your mood is different. He quirks a brow as keen gray eyes take in your sudden fluster, and before he can comment, you bring the first file up, keeping the other two folders between you and the counter as you wiggle the manila folder at him.
“Welp, here to make good on my reputation, and I am sooo sorry in advance, because buddy, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” you say, again with a rueful tone, because you’re aware that as hard as this is for you, it’s also hard on Jackson. He has to sign off on every form, and it’s his neck on the line even more than yours, with superiors scrutinizing his every action.
And somehow, remembering that makes you feel a little more at ease. Prowl might have jumped to the wrong conclusions, but your human superiors clearly didn’t have issue with you forming a cordial, friendly, platonic relationship with this guy. Co-workers doing co-workery things. Good for morale, etc etc.
Jackson gives you a grimace of open reluctance as his eyes lock onto the folder, only half joking. He knows I play hardball.
“Gonna twist my fingers for another tray of Medigrade?” he asks, as you flop the folder down on the counter, then slide it forward to his reaching hand with two fingers.
“Nope,” you say, watching as he flips it open, and begins scanning the top summary. “Three.”
“Nine cubes?” he repeats, aghast. The highest you’ve ever personally requisitioned is eight. “And-- Three trays? What? Are they planning on hitting Megatron directly or something?”
You huff.
“You know I couldn’t tell you even if I did know the classified deets,” you say, more than willing to press the slight little advantage you have, with the fact Jackson knows who you now almost exclusively requisition supplies for. Theoretically you could be sent here for another team, but in practice, you come here to feed one set of fuel tanks and one set only.
And it’s kind of a big deal.
“Sheesh… Alright, I can swing this, they ain’t gonna like it but I can swing it,” he says, flipping through your paperwork, and causing you to once again feel like the floor has dropped out from under your feet. You’d absolutely expected him to push harder against this, but this easy yield is really throwing you.
“Wait, really?” you ask, too stunned to be more collected about it.
Jackson glances up to you as he pauses in scanning your tidy forms, and smiles warmly. It reaches his eyes, giving them a friendly, almost appreciative look that has Prowl’s warning ringing in your mind like klaxon alarms.
“Yeah. Someone apparently already twisted Perceptor’s arm behind his back, so I don’t even have to bother the guy,” he says with twinkling eyes as you feel yourself flush. “And your guys are heavy hitters, that’s nothing new. If I’m honest, seems like something big is going down soon. You’re not the only one coming in with an inflated fuel request-- I think the big guys are gearing up for some real damage.”
And like magic, Jack offers you the in for act II of today’s office brawl.
His shoulders go stiff as you bring the second form up, and with a careful deliberance, so he knows you are dead serious, you set the file down. He’s reaching for it as he lets the other folder drop shut, but you don’t immediately relenquish it, keeping three fingers pinning the manilla paper in place as he stills. Protocol prevents him from reaching underneath the gap to take it from you, and gray eyes meet yours.
He’s locked onto your face like a hawk, and you know this time, you’re not getting off so easy.
“You’re not wrong,” you say grimly, then slide it forward, slowly, letting your lips purse. You don’t try to trigger good humor or a joke this time, because the weight of what you’re about to ask for isn’t something you can joke about. The fuel keeps your mechs alive, but these things? These things are for taking lives. “Before you accuse me of inflating the numbers on this one, I need you to know I braved Prowl’s wrath in questioning his numbers to confirm they really, really need these. Exactly these,” you say, the Second in Command’s name dropping off your lips like the sweetest honey, and not in tone of voice-- in sensation, because it’s not often you name-drop someone.
You’re absolutely going to name-drop Prowl to back this order up, because you have to believe that having the blessing of not only Jazz but one of two dudes above Jazz has gotta mean something.
Jackson’s expression isn’t blank, but it might as well be as that soldier-discplined flavor of focused intensity washes all other emotive response away. In silence he accepts the folder from you after you’ve finally slid it forward for him to take, and in silence you patiently watch and wait as he opens it, then begins shuffling through the papers.
He says nothing. You wait patiently, shoving down every intrusive thought that suggests maybe you should crack a joke, lighten the mood. Maybe you should try to encourage him to your favor by adding another incentive for how important this is, maybe emphasize the fact that all but the highest commander of the Autobot army has signed off on this report, and you’re perfectly willing to track down Optimus for his elusive signature if it means getting your boys the equipment they need.
You say nothing. You long ago learned that sometimes, less is more; you’ve already told this brutally resource-guarding man that you’re asking him for something far outside the realm of normalcy, and that it’s for the team of mechs who go on missions no one else would come back from.
And both of you really want these mechs to come home.
Finally, Jackson closes the file. He glances between the fuel and the energy-based munition request, before looking up to meet your eyes with all the professionalism of a man who is used to enduring screaming tirades and threats.
“You’re really trying to get my rank stripped off my uniform here, but alright. If my superiors wanna fight it, I’ll tell them to take it to Optimus, because I doubt he’ll be impressed if we overturn the orders from both his SIC and TIC,” he says grimly, no humor evident in his voice.
You feel yourself relax, marginally. This doesn’t mean you’ve bagged the Energon for them, but it does mean you’ve bagged Jackson. Thank you, buddy. I’m rooting for you.
“Thanks, Jack,” you say sincerely, and before you can get another word out, his gaze drops, and he crooks his fingers at you in the universal gimmee gesture.
“Let’s see that last one.”
Embarrassed that he caught you out, but not overly surprised, you inch the folder up into view. This one only contains two sheets, and if Prowl ever accuses you again of sleeping with someone to get something, you’re going to remind him that you braved Ratchet for him.
“Alright, but this one… Uh--” you falter, and the sudden misstep in grace of conversational skill suddenly makes your panic rear its ugly, viscious head. Fangs of uncertainty bite down into you and inject the fear of failure like a burning poison, because you got him to say yes so easily to the other two forms, you’re suddenly wildly uncertain you can swing this one. Those were military based supplies, something he understood.
You have no idea what Jackson’s personal opinions on hi-grade are.
“If it’s asking for more munitions, I’ll see what I can do,” he says like he’s talking someone through disarming a live explosive, watching your face carefully. “But doll, you’re definitely asking just short of the impossible from me today.”
Doll.
You seize up, eyes wide, face flushed, and Jackson immediately backpeddles, jolting like he surprised himself.
“Sorry, I--”
“I-it’s fine, really,” you stammer abruptly, looking away from his face to stare at the folder, flustered. Dammit, Prowl. Because this has to be his fault, somehow. “I just-- You caught me off guard, is all.”
When you dare to glance up, Jackson’s got a wry smile on his serious expression, pairing well with the apologetic look in those pretty eyes. He is, you realize abruptly, actually… Kinda handsome. Oh no.
“Fair play,” he asserts, tone light. “Payback for all the times you’ve stunned me speechless, and that’s often.”
Even more flustered now, you play it off with a wave of the hand and a sheepish grin.
“I’m just really determined not to piss my bosses off,” you say, unable to look him in the face until your heart’s stopped beating like a kicking rabbit trapped in a snare. “This last request isn’t standard.”
“None of these are standard,” he says with a quirked brow, but you can tell his curiosity is piqued.
You catch his eye, and smirk slightly. Just play it cool. Breathe. Breathe. I can do this.
The twinge of pressure at the back of your skull says maybe you can, and maybe it’s gonna cost you. Fuck you, brain.
“Yeah… But the only time someone’s asked me to submit an Energon request for hi-grade, it got a big, fat no,” you say. And are prepared for Jackson to immediately straighten, all cheer falling off his face as he closes off his expression to you. His lips press into a tight line.
Yep. There it is. Now we play hardball.
You set the form down, but don’t relinquish it yet, holding his gaze steady through the lattice-work of his office window.
“I can tell you without even looking at the files, I can’t approve it,” he says, not quite apologetic in tone, but not mean about it. Just firm. Very firm.
C’mon buddy, you know I only ask for the good stuff for good reason.
“That’s exactly what I told Prowl when the original order came across my desk,” you agree, not fighting him on that because that’s a battle you’d lose anyways, so you yield with graceful defeat. Fortunately, it’s one of those lose-this-to-win-the-war kinda scenarios, because it’s not the only field of play to work with, here. “And let me tell you, getting the Commander to admit that it’s a personal request--” Jackon’s face simultaneously shuts down with immediate rejection, at the same time his eyes twitch with the jolt of surprise, tipping you off that your next words need to be spoken very carefully. “--but for very good reason. I wasn’t even going to take this to you, but… Well. Prowl’s got the worst puppy eyes I’ve never seen, because there’s something pretty endearing about the world’s most frigid ice cap admitting he needs something to help unwind. Wanna help me make sure our base’s Tactical computer doesn’t glitch out from overworking himself? I don’t think he ever takes breaks. This is for that,” you assert, and let the file go, sliding it across the counter. “Promise you won’t answer that, until you’ve seen what’s inside this file, because I’ve got some extra goodies in there.”
Jackson doesn’t answer. He just watches your face, likely picking apart every facet of your expression to search for artifice, and then he drops his stern gaze to the file, and dutifully opens it.
He’s still stiff-shouldered and tense as his eyes rapidly skim the first page. It’s probably the shortest form you’ve had to fill out, with little more needed than confirmation of what’s wanted, when it’s wanted, and who authorized the requisition request.
The second page, however, has his shoulders relaxing as his head lifts a bit, and you tamp down the premature feelings of triumph. Yes! Yes, c’moooon, give it to me man, you know this is serious. I’m not joking around, and Prowl of all people won’t be sanctioning that little flask to go towards mayhem on base, I swear.
Jackson heaves a beleagured sigh, then drops the first sheet down and folds the file closed.
You’re practically dancing on your feet just to keep your expression still, but can’t help the big grin that stretches across your face when he closes his eyes, and heaves out a weary, “Alright, I’ll make it work.”
Yes!
“Thank you, Jack, you’re--”
“But,” he says, lifting a finger up as he quirks a brow. “If you want this to work, then make sure Prowl knows no one else can know about this except us and the mechs that approved this order,” he states. “If anyone else on base catches wind I caved so easy, I’m gonna have every requisition Processor pestering me on behalf of thirsty alien soldiers looking to start a real party.”
You literally can’t put enough gratitude and relief on your face if you tried, and you don’t attempt to hide it. He deserves to know how happy this makes me, because I bet that makes him feel a lot better about his usually thankless job.
“Deal. If they approve it, I’ll have Prowl come pick it up himself so it’s as private as it can get.”
“Since it’s medical and Ratchet signed off on that, I’ll send you with the approval slip today, and he can pick it up tonight. Tell him to come in during shift change-- I’ll have some free time then to handle it while the night shift is busy clocking in. The rest of these, I’m gonna have to run by high command. You leave me any haggling leeway, or are these numbers firm?” he presses.
You can’t help the sheepish, yet triumphant smile that makes your eyes feel like twinkling stars in your face as you let him see how smug you are, just now.
“Awww, c’mon, now you wanna haggle with me?” you tease. The tension dissolves that little bit more, and he cracks a smile at you.
“I’m serious. Any leeway?” he asks plainly, no heat, no accusation, just honest request.
It’s easy to give it to him.
“They’d really prefer the full order, but I don’t think they were excessive about it. The charges for remote detonation devices are non-negotiable, but Prowl said they could make due on fifteen of the power cells, and seven cubes. Swindle might be a little guy, but his whole function is kinda a living battery for Payload, so he needs way more fuel than you might expect. He barely eats on base, but that dude gorges himself on Energon before and after every mission, and still looks like he’s gonna face-plant from exhaustion.”
Jackson nods.
“So two cubes and five cells. I can work with that,” he says with confidence, lifting a manilla folder up briefly, before whisking the thinnest of the files up and turning to his computer. “Hang tight a sec, let me get this all prettied up and you can go give the SIC happy news.”
Beaming at him openly, you fold your arms and rest your chin on them, tired and eager for the work day to end.
“What time do you get off, anyways?” you think to ask, during a pause when he’s waiting for his machine to load the inventory program, closing out of his database. “You work even later than I do, I swear you’re just always here.”
Another smile quirks the harsh set of Jackson’s lips. He doesn’t look your way, but you neither expected that nor need it. He’s busy focusing.
“I take a late shift. If you were a morning person, you’d have met my twin in crime, Duster. He likes to joke you’re just waiting to see me, I do have the better looks,” he jokes.
And sends you right back reeling into the panicked territory of wondering if you’ve accidentally led this guy on, but with Prowl’s requisitions at stake, you’re unwilling to broach the question just now.
You give a nervous laugh, looking away.
“I mean, he’s not wrong,” you say, mostly for something appropriate to say, until you immediately clam up at the realization that could be taken as encouragement. “I-I mean, I mean that you’re handsome, not that I-- I mean, th-that’s--”
Jackson pauses at the computer, fingers stilled over the keyboard, before he turns and looks at you with an amused expression. There’s something lighter, there, a happy uplift in his looks that makes him seem…
…appreciative. Hopeful.
“Yeah?” he says, voice a lilting tease at your expense, and you practically wilt under the realization he’s definitely clocked your fluster. “Well…” he turns back to the computer, hits a button, closes a file, and then the printer to his left is whirling to life with a noisy clatter of internal mechanisms. “Tell you what-- If you’ve got nothing better to do tonight and you’re game, come with Prowl to pick up his order. When the big guy’s satisfied, I’m all yours,” he offers, then grabs the sheet of paper out of the printer, signs his name, and turns to face you.
You can just glimpse your own thunderstruck expression in the reflection of the glass over his dark uniform top, aware of a strong, pulsing throb in the back of your head as it begins to creep down your neck.
Jackson slides the sheet of paper forward, stopping with it halfway under the window, his hand held just behind. You’ve never seen him without a sheet of bullet-proof glass between you both.
Your hands feel clammy as you take the precious sheet of paper, and you swallow thickly.
Do-- Do I say no? Do I say yes? I-- I don’t even know what to say right now. Is Prowl going to think poorly of me if I decline? --is this going to hurt future orders if I do?
Deciding to be cautious, and wanting to buy yourself time to think without just standing here like a deer in the headlights, you slowly take the form from him.
“Ah… D-Do you mean like, just hanging out, or…?” You can’t finish teh question.
Jackson’s eyes dart away, before coming back to meet your gaze with a breathtaking amount of confidence. He’s smiling warmly, practically melting you on the spot as your brain registers the attentive nature of his behavior.
“It can be whatever you want. I wouldn’t mind a date, if that’s… Agreeable. I’m also happy with just spending some time together. I don’t have a lot of friends on base,” he admits, this time with a wry twist to his smile as he lets go of the paper so you can take it in newly numbed fingers. “Play it by ear?” he offers. “I don’t want you to feel pressured to.”
Stunned speechless, all you can do is nod at him as you lift the paper up to your chest, font facing you, and nod.
He waits for a moment, before that confident pride twinkles in his face again, and the man glances away, smiling to himself.
Then, he meets your gaze again.
“See you later then, pretty lady.”
And he turns back to his computer, smile even wider as he returns to work, just like that.
“S-See you,” you manage to utter, before fleeing.
Notes:
Who doesn't love a little, sparing pinch of jealous 'bot sprinkled into the story? ;)
Chapter 4: Probabilities
Summary:
Prowl learns things about humans.
Reader learns things about Cybertronians.
...and Jazz has it coming :'D
Notes:
I figured i'd tag this as a trigger warning? Just in case? It's not something i knew going into this story, but the idea came up and i decided i really liked it
Mentions of infertility in this chapter. I haven't decided if Reader cannot get pregnant at *all* or if she merely has a condition that means it would be exceedingly ill advised, and thus, is prevented with extreme care.
Chapter Text
He’s expecting good news when Prowl sends the ping to open his office door at the request of Spec Op’s Processor. Jazz’s Processor, quite technically. Her message had offered no hint one way or another how things went, but the fact she wanted to see him in person didn’t overmuch affect his TacNet’s prior calculations. Prowl’s less enthused to be aware at least some of that confidence comes from knowing she’s very determined to pull through for them, and he’s equally unwilling to speculate overmuch on those thoughts. The worst part is, finding out hadn’t changed the predictions.
His TacNet knew before he did, and what that says about him and what that says about her, is probably-- ##%.973^.973^.p73--
Prowl flinches, quickly shutting down all conscious and peripheral logic trees with a hard reset, using the momentary pause to delete the ones he doesn’t want starting back up.
Jazz, you are literally a glitch. A glitch in my processor.
…and apparently, so was one of his most critical requisition specialists. The thought almost stirs a laugh out of him; A Processor glitch in my processor.
Prowl startles, blinks, then in the echoing expanse of a briefly quiet(ish) mind, starts all his peripheral routines up as an alert pings on his HUD. A momentary distraction, the briefest deviance--
--he very much hopes he won’t have to turn to more… preferably avoidable means, to get the drink that dulled his neural net enough to keep his TacNet offline in temporary shut-down.
As long as her actions did not come back to bite them all in the aft, he’s happy to let her do… Whatever it is she does, to get the job done. Jazz would similarly approve.
When the door slides open to reveal a tiny, diminutive figure at the very center of the split seams that slide apart into the walls, however, he feels the calculations in his mind buck with a ripple of distortion as numbers flicker into new alignment, a cascading effect triggered by a single tweak.
Probability of success: 89%
That’s not ideal.
Even less ideal; the realization that he’s gotten lost in thought with the human standing there in front of him, and the only thing that keeps him from visible startlement is the fact he realizes she hasn’t possibly-- 89.973%-- No! Stop tha8t9!.9N7O--##% --realized.
Prowl shuts down the logic tree, stills his thoughts, then reluctantly halts a few lower priority systems. He can live without the numbers for inventory assessments and scheduling the roster being ready for him later; Ironhide is an exemplary advisor on troop movements and Prowl’s comfortable delegating some of that processing power to the specialist by simply asking him, later. What he can’t have are actual glitches causing a twinge in his thoughts that comes stabbing through with the fierce, iced intensity of a fine needle in his helmet. Quite possibly a shorted circuit self-repair would already have seen to the damage of, one little glitch here and there isn’t going to short him out.
Seeing that this is the second one in less than a breem, Prowl’s convinced he doesn’t want to dismiss it as non-harmful. Any damage to his processor was, realistically, a terrible crisis.
He pings Ratchet with a silent request for an appointment, just as he finds the gem-like eyes of a tiny, alien lifeform. She doesn’t seem to see him just yet, not until she takes a deep breath, steels herself, then strides into his office on dainty little pedes that don’t so much as click when she walks. Toe-first, she glides into his office in a flutter of skirts and embarrassment that skyrockets when the door shuts behind her, and all at once, his usually composed subordinate throws her hands up in the air.
For the first time, Prowl feels what Spec Ops meant when they reported her EMF flaring like a tiny star, because even at this distance his own politely held ‘field is feeling the buzzing distortion of agitation.
Oh.
“You owe me big time, Mr.!” she announces, and he’s startled to hear an unexpected-- 33.973% --quaver of anxiety in her voice, but it comes laced alongside a much stronger, confident center. Something is upsetting her (50.973% chance), but not everything (50.973%-^##--{end script}}), which… Doesn’t matter. Prowl dismisses strings of probabilities in-progress to focus on one already computed and re-verified. It spits out an update.
Probability of success: 99%
Prowl has to keep his engine from onlining with a purr of satisfaction, well aware that showing any positive mood while she’s expressing distress is only likely-- 98.973% --to cause unintended offense. And he would rather not upset one of his most useful assets, because if Jazz was a blade that could change the aim of his hand willingly or not, then this alien femme was… He’s not sure, actually, having not bothered to think of her through metaphor before. (3%) He ignores his TacNet’s tattling.
She got the supplies.
Relief is swiftly followed up and enforced by content, because he can’t deny he’s pleased. He can practically taste the phantom sensation of cooling, tingly liquid on his glossa, burning down his intake as he watches her march forward.
“You are well compensated for your efforts,” he returns evenly.
“No shit I am,” she grumbles, but her temper is hardly soothed. The longer the intensity of her emotive response fails to ebb, the more Prowl suspects that the human is distracted by something he’ll need to address. “I got you your hi-grade, but I need two favors.”
Prowl narrows his eyes.
“And those would be?” he asks, trying to keep his tone mild.
She huffs at him, then crosses her arms, and refuses to look him in the face.
An unusual reaction.
“First, no one else gets to know about this, not that I thought you’d go yapping to others on base because I like to assume you’re already aware how bad that’d be,” she says with a sigh, relenting some in her expressive outburst. “Jackson made me promise not to accidentally have every soldier trying to wheedle him for booze. Second, you take me with to go pick it up tonight, because I don’t actually know where Energon is distributed from, and I need to see Jackson tonight.”
That puts a grinding halt in Prowl’s processor as her possible-- ##.97--{end script}}) --implication.
He chooses his words carefully.
“Would the reason that you need to meet with him, have anything to do with your embarrassment entering my office?” he asks cautiously, studying her expression as she blinks rapidly, spine going straight, the temperature of her face rising. “You seem… Uncomfortable. I do not wish to think you meant for me to-- Encourage certain efforts. I would not want you to do so if you were not wholly comfortable with the idea.” And that’s somewhat of a lie, more than he’d like to have a hard calculation for, thank you, no, TacNet. He gets one anyways.
69.973%
Stop that!
He despairs over knowing whether that’s a minute glitch again, or if its a truthful statistic. The cursed string of numbers he’ll always struggle to tell apart.
“I… I… Uh…” she stares at him, looking, he thinks, truly horrified. He rejects TacNet’s speculation on the matter, shutting down the program’s reach into his conscious cortex. “Okay.” The human takes a deep breath as he watches, analyzing her reaction. “Prowl. I’ll tell you exactly what happened and why I’m going, if you promise to hold your questions until I’ve thoroughly explained.”
That seems agreeable. Then why does it feel like there’s a catch?
Prowl’s optics narrow fractionally as he feels the door wings on his back adjust with a flick, and he lifts them up high to dispel the restless tic.
“Proceed.”
She huffs at him, and for some reason, seems assured.
“Okay. So, let me be very clear on this; I did not seduce the man to get your hi-grade or anything of the sort. I’ve built up a very good working relationship with him through painstaking efforts of being kind, polite, and friendly, and--” she pauses, narrowing her eyes at him.
“And?” he presses, impatient. He was listening.
“You clearly have a question. What?”
He blinks, but chooses not to remind her she told him to hold all questions. He immediately takes advantage of the opportunity.
“Are you actually friendly with him, or do you merely project the impression?” he wonders honestly.
She blinks rapidly with surprise. Likely genuine, then. That would match with his assessment of her thus far.
“Uh… Well we’re not close by any means, but I like to think I can call him a friend, yeah. He’s, um, he’s been really nice to talk to. He studies geology as a hobby, which is pretty cool. I like rocks, too, so I bring him some time-to-time. We chat sometimes. So yeah, I’m not just pretending I like him or anything,” she assures, then purses dainty lips into a tiny frown. “Anyways-- You definitely owe him thanks, because I didn’t have to argue at all for your orders, Prowl. He approved the first two packets without any hesitation, just a bit of resignation and a warning he’d have to check them through his higher ups. If I need to, I’ll track Optimus down for a signature.”
Prowl quirks a brow.
“You think he’s so easy to get ahold of?”
She looks at him like he’s daft.
“Dude, you’re his SIC and Jazz is Third’. Yeah, I’d go through the ballache of getting ahold of him. I’d start with Ratchet,” she says sweetly, this time, offering him a very pointedly open smile as her eyes seem to light up from within, despite no actual glow cast. How human optics manage to catch and reflect the ambient illumination is beyond him, but he’s intrigued by her confidence.
He’s also aware she’s flaunting the fact she’d circumvent protocol by applying through more personal channels.
“That is not the appropriate way to get ahold of him.”
“Noooo, but it would be the most effective, right?” she checks. “Call it a… Ninety-nine percent chance, because I struggle to see Ratchet turning me down on a bid to help make sure he has less work to do.”
99%; verified
Prowl closes his eyes briefly at the recognition of TacNet slipping right back into his thoughts again. When had it even come online? Maybe the first time he breathed. Who knew at this point. He sure didn’t.
“...You are not wrong,” Prowl settles on. “However, more effective would be to ask myself, or Jazz. We maintain constant communications with the Prime.” At the crestfallen look that steals away her triumph, Prowl adds, “I am appreciative of the forethought and willingness to take initiative, however inaccurate it was.”
She perks right back up again.
“That is the most ass-backwards compliment I’ve gotten in a while, but I’ll take it,” she replies with open amusement. Just as he’s thinking her mood has settled (75.6% chance), the femme suddenly flusters for no apparent cause what-so-ever, and looks away from him. “A-Anyways, uuuh… So anyhow, Jackson did us all a solid on the munitions and fuel, and I had to explain a bit about why you wanted the hi-grade, but everyone on base literally has the best interests in keeping the guy who works full-time as a living computer happy, so he literally signed off on it right then and there. Which is whyyyy…” and here, she perks up, embarrassment seemingly forgotten-- 97% chance Jackson is root source of distraction --as the human reaches into her uniform top through a seam Prowl was not aware was accessible as her hand vanishes. Vaguely discomfitted, he watches as she withdraws with a folded sheet of paper, which she wiggles up at him, grinning smugly. “I have the authorization ticket for your relaxation juice.”
Prowl blinks. It’s tiny. It’s just as well she desires to go with him, because he’d rather let her handle passing the form over than attempting to himself, or having to handle the minor bother of scanning it into electronic format. Humans and their paperwork.
Dutifully, he remains silent. She still hasn’t got to the reason she evidently needs to go with him, to see Jackson Wiles.
With a happy hum, she tucks the paper back inside her over-shirt.
“Okay, you’re not smiling, but Imma check-- you’re happy, right?” she asks, sounding openly hopeful. “Because your wings are doing that cute fluttery thing again, and Jazz said that means you’re really happy,” and the bidding, earnest expression suggests her own delight depends entirely on Prowl’s answer.
He freezes.
“...I am satisfied with your work,” he allows, taking great effort to keep himself still. Jazz. You’re not supposed to be teaching them about our biology. It was natural for some things to naturally be learned by sharing space and interacting, but any of the more… alien features to them, were best left unknown. The less they knew, the less power they had over Cybertronians.
He still remembers how poorly they’d reacted upon discovering that every firewall in existence of humanity’s history, was nothing against even a poorly skilled Cybertronian with next to no conscious understanding of code.
His current company huffs, preening.
“Good, then all that was totally worth it. Anyhow, the, um, the reason I’d like to go with is because Jackson offered to hang out after his shift. Not because I asked him to o-or enticed him to, and-- Shit,” she mutters, unable to hold his gaze as Prowl stares at her, turning the information over in his mind. “I… Ugh, I just don’t want you to think I’m-- I don’t-- I’d much rather be with someone I really care about and trust. I like Jackson, but I don’t think we’d… And I don’t want you thinking it’d upset my work, but I don’t have many friends on base, either, and neither does he, a-and-- And-- And I just wanted t-to make it clear, I’m… Not… Being irresponsible,” she finishes, fidgeting in place, looking anywhere but at him.
Prowl has to think very carefully before he answers.
~*~
“I understand. However, you are aware that should your cordial relationship turn negative, there is a risk this could affect your work duties between you both?”
You gape at him. The audacity of this mech--! Dude, you all but sanctioned me getting down and dirty with him at his desk if need be, and now you wanna suggest I can’t go on an honest to god date without coercion involved?!
“Uh… No shit, it could, but Jackson’s as professional as I am,” you say slowly, aware that even though this is a highly personal matter, it’s unfortunately become adjacent to work concerns, because… Well. Your life was kinda tied up with an alien war and all. Sucks to be you, shoulda read the fine print more carefully when you signed up to make the world a better place. “Plus, he made it really clear he’s not pressuring me for-- Anything. Just an open offer to spend time together. Whatever comes of it is something we’ll just have to find out,” you explain.
Those icy optics are unwavering as he stares you down, way more intense than seeing Prowl through the distance of a digital screen. Your growing immunity earned by micro-dosing on him in brief correspondence, is the only thing that keeps you from actually quailing under that cold, calculating gaze now.
“I will trust your judgement. However, your conduct and work flow will be under higher scrutiny. Do not let him become a distraction; I understand your species’ urge to… Reproduce, but I cannot afford to have my best Processor temporarily decommissioned by pregnan--”
You throw a hand up and don’t care that you are about to interrupt the motherfucking SIC. You’re gonna call the alien vs human life experience card of culture clash out here if anyone dares challenge you on this snap choice.
“PROWL.” He stops speaking, eyes wide, mouth dropped mid-word, clearly startled by you and openly showing it as his wingy things lift up high and settle back, almost like an affronted cat. You did it. You shocked him speechless. Good. “Just. Okay. So first off, fuck you, it’s my choice if I ever wanna get knocked up and second of all I cannot get pregnant so woopdie-fucking-doo, enjoy the statistical happiness of that variable set in stone. Third of all--” and here you pause for a moment, because his door wings just did the weirdest flutter-snap as they jerk forward, down, up, then go cock-eyed before he flutters them and jerks them straight, like he’s only just realized he’s broadcasting. “--Third of all,” you continue, face on fire as your finger shakes, pointing at him. “Fuck you,” you say, a little less afraid of your job being on the line because you’ve heard Jazz and several other officers mouth of to him, and maybe you’re just the teeniest bit emboldened by the fact you know he really wants you under his thumb. You’re valuable to him, and that’s an advantage you are not afraid to press. “Please tell me you said that because you genuinely think humans are mindlessly driven to make babies, rather than because you think I’m specifically too loose to not be smart about it. I haven’t even gone on a date in years, man. I’m not about to let some random guy screw up my entire life and career.”
Slowly, Prowl schools his features. First the harsh planes of his metal face as he closes his mouth and stern consternation takes hold. Next, his optics-- that widened glint almost enough to make him look whatever the Cybertronian equivalent of a human saying ‘twenty years younger’ would be. Finally, the doors behind his back lift up high, then flick once and settle.
Ooooh yeah, I pissed him off. Come at me, bro.
You can feel the way your own temper ignites, probably flashing in your eyes as you stand your ground, because you are so not letting this go.
“I… See,” he says cautiously. “It seems that I was informed in err. You do not--” he falters, then, and you are stunned to see the way his door wingy things repeat the same gesture; fluttering and snapping up high, trying to hold still. They quiver slightly. --Wait. Wait, Smokescreen does this when I compliment him. Is-- Is Prowl flustered? “--Do you not… Feel any drive, to seek out a mate?” he asks, sounding uncertain.
You want to rip into him again, but some higher level of thinking in your brain warns you that hey, uh… Maybe take a chill pill for a second. And focus. Because he’s not reacting like most--
…
He’s not a human male, comes the realization like a sack of bricks over your head, because you realize you’d fully expected Prowl to immediately dismiss your claim to bodily rights. You’re still kinda mad he so bluntly stated he didn’t want you getting knocked up, but you can probably chalk that off to tactlessly shared preference over tyrannical commandment.
You clear your throat, and find yourself unable to meet his level gaze dead-on, and instead choose a point on his forehead, studying the gray ridge between his red chevron-looking things. You wonder if he’s ever impaled anyone head-butting them before.
“...It’s a little different for everyone, some people I guess really feel that drive and some people would genuinely have a meltdown if you so much as ask them to hold a baby or watch a child for a few hours. Some people have, um, like zero urges at all and are totally happy solo. Me, I don’t like being single, per se, but I don’t dislike it, either?” you shrug helplessly. “I like being around kids and all, but I made my choices a while ago. I don’t plan on ditching my work duties to go work as a mom instead,” you say quietly, and realize you’ve dropped your gaze to meet his, and flinch away, looking down. “So, um, I guess the short answer is yes? But it’s not the kind of urge that actually ruins my focus.”
There’s a long pause. Long for Prowl. About three seconds, give or take a bit.
“Then why did you enter my office without composure? I fail to see where your argument against distraction holds merit.”
You resist the urge to gape at him. Everything I said and that’s--? And then you pause, and take a deep breath, and remind yourself that this is Prowl. And you’ve become well acquainted with the fact he digs for info like the most thorough bloodhound this side of the galaxy.
“Becuase I wasn’t… Flustered over Jackson,” you admit, then hesitate, reaching up to move hair behind an ear that’s already neatly pulled back. “I m-mean, kinda, yeah, but I was actually worried of-- um… H-how you would react. I don’t-- I’m not-- I’m not good at social stuff. Talking with, um… Talking with people is hard.”
He was blank faced right until your final claim, and now, you’re surprised to see Prowl’s doors arch high behind him, then flick.
“Why would you claim something so obviously false?” he asks, sounding genuinely confused, his eyebrowless brows furrowing as a tiny crease appears on his metal faceplate. “You are exceptionally skilled with social graces. I have watched you engage with others.”
You flap your hands uselessly as if that will explain.
“Y-yeah! Talking about them!” you splutter. “That’s-- That’s easy! I don’t-- This is personal,” you stress, fidgeting in place.
“...I see,” he settles on, and those tattle-tale appendages of his settle back to being mostly at rest, casually splayed behind his shoulders. The clear glass catches reflection of the lights, shimmering briefly with every one of his breaths. “So, your species is capable of curbing its instinct to mate?”
You slap a hand to your face.
“Yes, Prowl. I’m… Sorry if that’s difficult to understand, since, um, I know we’re, uh… Organics and all, and you’re made of metal, but--”
“We are not so different. There is only a thirty-two-point-seven percent discrepancy between the Cybertronian and Homo Sapien species, and most of that is physiological. If you take into account historical, then the numbers adjust… But not overmuch,” he remarks.
You stare at him, daring to drop the hand from your face.
When did he calculate that? How did he calculate that?!
“Oh.” You’re not going to question him on the numbers. “Huh. Wait, did this affect that percentage?” you wonder.
His lips quirk, but he doesn’t really smile. Those door wings give the tinniest little quiver, though, before settling.
“It did. By about six percent.”
You blink slowly. Then, you blush.
“O-oh. Wait, does that mean--? Does your species, um… Y’know, take partners?” you wonder.
And are startled to see Prowl’s eyes dart away from you, his hands coming up to fold together in front of his face as he rests his chin to the edge of them, partially hiding his face from view of you at this angle.
If you didn’t know better, you’d say he’s--
Those door wings twitch like rustling leaves.
--flustered.
“...We have several ways of reproduction. At least one of them is analogous with human copulation practices.”
And neatly spears your mind with the forever ingrained image of the unfortunate, knee-jerk mental image that springs to mind upon his words, of Prowl tangled up with some other hot Cybertronian.
I regret coming into his office today.
The pain in the back of your neck that has gone mostly ignored, starts to creep over the top of your skull, and down your back. Fuck.
“O-oh. W-well, um. Do… You guys, struggle to curb--?”
“No,” prowl asserts, so harshly it takes you a moment to calm yourself from being startled, and when you do, you can’t help but quirk a brow at him.
“Okay. So now that we’ve established we both have brains that operate outside the gutter, can we, uh, go get that hi-grade now?” you ask. “Or whenever their shift change is? That’s when Jackson said to come by, he wants to handle the transfer directly.”
“Shift change for the night crew at the depot is in two hours, three minutes, and forty-two seconds,” Prowl answers.
You’re adorable, math man. Cripes you do love your numbers.
“Okay… I should probably go clock out, then,” you say with pursed lips. “Um, do you want me to hang around, or meet you back here when it’s closer to the time to go…?”
“If you are amenable to remaining on duty, I would like to solicit your assistance with something.”
You perk, and try not to feel too much like a dog who just got offered treats in exchange for tricks, because staying on the clock means overtime pay. Fuck yeah.
“Alright, whatcha want me working on?” you offer, walking closer. “And, um… can I maybe do it somewhere that isn’t the floor? Kinda hurts to look up at you from down here.”
Prowl’s wings jerk back and lift, arrowing out from behind his back before they sweep forward and forcibly settle, like he just checked the gesture.
“Of course. I apologize, I did not… Consider,” he says hesitantly, before surprising you by standing up from behind his desk, moving with a smooth, mechanical grace.
Fuck that’s never gonna get old to watch, you think, unable to not admire the way his sleek body moves as that flexible looking waist bends with the tilt of his motion to turn from his chair and come around the furniture.
Your eyes innocently drag downwards as you’ve done many, many times before, purely to admire the alien cool factor of wickedly dangerous looking heavy armor and--
--your gaze catches when you realize you’re staring at the slightly protruded, boxy bulge of his pelvic region, and all at once you yank your gaze away to stare at your feet, mortified.
Please tell me he didn’t notice me staring.
Mechanical pistons with the softest hissst sound off before quiet clicks echo on the metal floor as your alien company kneels down.
More clicks follow, as he lays the back of his black-painted hand on the floor in front of you, fingers open in a relaxed, gentle curve.
“I will advise you to hold still once you are seated. I will not drop you intentionally, but I cannot reliably keep you from falling if you attempt to move.”
You huff at him, amused.
“I’m used to Payload and Jazz picking me up. Just don’t move too fast or tip your hand and I’ll be fine.”
“That is good,” he answers, but stiffly, like it didn’t come naturally. You can’t help your excited-scared nerves as you take the high step onto his boxy palm, and marvel at the magic that is getting on a hand literally big enough to hide you like a hamster. Gently beveled, powerful fingers with smooth, lightly scratched plating hide the thick hinges and teeny little wires you can see peeking at you from between his articulated joints.
“Your guys’ hands are all so pretty,” you remark thoughtlessly as you sit down, studying his fingers, and jump a bit when they suddenly twitch. A moment later and they curl towards you in a gentle cage, his thumb coming up close before Prowl carefully lifts you up off the floor.
“I fail to see the appeal.”
You send him a stricken look, startled.
“What--? Okay, well, maybe your species doesn’t care about physical looks or something, but c’mon. You don’t even admire the fact they’re so detailed and articulate? Your hands are works of art! Literally!” You wiggle your fingers at him.
Prowl stares at you, before his gaze darts away and he sets the hand your on down on his desk, then startles you by tipping his palm to slide you off.
You catch yourself off the edge, stumbling upright with your momentum.
“To clarify, I meant that I fail to see what appeal an organic would find in them. We do not fall under your described appreciations of what is beautiful.”
You squint at the alien who takes a seat back in his massive-to-you chair that honestly looks kinda dainty with him perched on it. Those broad shoulders really fill the space of the room with his shiny, polished presence.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” you quip. “What some other person finds pretty, I might see as ugly.”
He pauses in the middle of picking up a datapad, before glancing to you. That cerulean, glowing gaze pins you in place.
“Most humans find us preferable to look at in our vehicle forms.”
You swear there’s a leading question in there somewhere, but fuck if you know what it is. You’re a little distracted watching the way his door wings vanish from view, drooped. They only slowly come back up, before halting at rest.
“...Cool. You talk to a lot of humans?” you wonder, somewhat surprised to suspect that Prowl, of all people, is sensitive about his looks. Then again, you’ve never seen the guy with so much as a proper chip of paint missing, so maybe that makes sense after all. “You should ask your human friend, I bet they think differently.”
Prowl’s brow furrows with confusion, and he startles you by his shapely lips actually pursing into a brief pout.
“I do not have any human friends,” he says with confusion, and just about spears your heart.
“Jokes on you, we’re pretty clingy,” you say, sticking your tongue out at him. “You’ve been adopted. Congrats. If you were just my boss I’d have quit a while ago, but I actually kinda like my alien family.” Then, now that you have his full, speechless attention, you watch his door wings carefully. “And your human friend says you’re really pretty, Prowl.”
~*~
“Why are you so insistent on this?” Prowl wonders, honestly at a loss. Her first comment had been careless, without thought-- Dropping off her mouth like a comment on the weather, or remarking on the scenery. Just a simple, easily given compliment. Pretty. His hands? Certainly not. They held little appeal beyond their functional use-- Flat, boxy digits more suited to pressing buttons and holding a stylus, than the artful, well sculpted forms that allowed a mech like Jazz to smoothly flip the handle of a blade in a spin around his sleek fingers. Artful.
He was merely functional.
“Because your door-wings drooped all sad-like when you said people prefer you guys in car-mode. I like you guys in any form.”
And like a ping alert, her comment draws his attention to the fact his door wings are, indeed, freely tilting behind his back as he struggles to keep them still.
Settling them out of a brief flutter into serene stillness, he tries to hide his discomfiture.
“...Irrelevant,” he dismisses, and turns to his datapad. “I would like you to organize this set of data into one of your color-blocked spreadsheets. I must give a debriefing to both Cybertronian and human audiences tomorrow, and I wish to have a presentable visual for the meeting attendees to reference.”
Immediately, her buzzing ‘field shifts patterns like a soothed cadet, all bright-optics and revving engine, ready to be set towards a purpose. Eager to please.
“Sure, tell me how you want it and I’ll make it happen,” she answers with confidence he’s pleased to hear. Not doubtful of her own capabilities, at least in this.
He sends an EM pulse directly into the datapad with his palm pressed to the back, carefully pinching it in his other fingers. Though he’s looking at the device to track its shifting mass as it begins to fold up in on itself, his optical feed simultaneously observes the way his human company drops her jaw with open awe, utterly stunned.
He can’t help the flutter of his sensory array as the door wings behind his back respond to the intense flash of smug delight.
She is so earnestly enthused. It reminds him of Bumblebee, before the Scout had about two hundred years to get used to military grade technology.
“Woah… That’s… Woah,” his company breathes, reaching up for the newly shrunk device as she takes it from his fingers. “How did--? Nope, don’t answer that, I can only fit so much space science in my head before Wheeljack breaks it,” she hastily dismisses.
Prowl frowns.
“Wheeljack has been explaining Cybertronian sciences to you?”
“Yeah, he and I talk when he’s on base. Sucks that they have him working on the moon project so often, he’s fun to be around.”
This last, said with a hushed voice as she lowers her volume to a point it would most certainly cut off from human audials overhearing, but Prowl picks up the faint vibrations of her vocalization with ease.
“The moon project?” he prompts, well aware of what the organic is likely referring to, and well aware that it’s not something she should know about. The fact she has lowered her voice despite the empty room, would infer she likely knows as well that this is classified information.
“Wait, you don’t know about it?” she asks with wide eyes, then-- she looks alarmed. Panicked, even. “O-oh…. Ummm… this is awkward, uh--”
Impatient, Prowl presses through her discomfiture.
“I am well aware of many things. I would like to know what you know, and who is leaking classified intel to an organic not remotely granted the security clearance for such things.”
Wide little optics look up at him, before the human grimaces, and he sees her withdraw into herself with a muffled whine.
“Er…. Um… I dunno how much I should say,” she hedges. “Ask Jazz? ‘Cause he’s the--”
“I outrank Jazz,” Prowl says, aware his displeasure is showing in the form of a colder tone of voice as his engine threatens to online with a growl. “I am issuing you a direct order to report. Who. Told you. And what do you know?”
“S-Spec Ops did,” she whispers. “Um… Jazz and ‘Bee. I-- I thought you’d be safe to bring it up with s-since you’re, um, s-second in command, but did I-- Is Jazz gonna kill me?” she asks in a tiny voice.
Only if it’s necessary.
He hopes it never is.
Ignoring that question, Prowl only says, “Then I will have a word with Spec Ops. Have you brought this up with anyone else? Heard them mention it to others?”
“N-no,” she answers, looking and sounding like a scolded sparkling. “They didn’t really tell me anything, e-either,” the human adds, plucking at the hem of her uniform top with nervous fingers. “Just that he’s working on a project on the moon and it’s classified and I’d get my organic fuel lines slit if I told anyone outside of Spec Ops. I-I thought you, um… Kinda… Counted in that.”
Jazz. We are going to have a talk. Probably more than one. While part of him was intrigued at the saboteur's trust in this diminutive organic, the rest of him is alarmed that sensitive info is considered remotely safe in the hands of a being who is so easily breakable. It would take nothing for an enemy operative to force an answer out of her through malicious means.
Prowl shuts down the calculations that start figuring out how likely the various outcomes are, unwilling to speculate on something so unlikely to happen just now.
>1.15% chance, his TacNet supplies anyways. Prowl shuts it out of his main cortex again. It is a good thing they approved the hi-grade.
He’d have to thank Ratchet later.
“I will schedule a meeting to go over the proper protocol of information security. I will also have Ironhide assign a security detail to you,” Prowl decides after a moment’s thought. “You are too valuable to allow being defenseless.”
At that, she draws herself up, eyes wide.
“Wh-what? I don’t need--”
“You are privy to intelligence that interested parties would not hesitate to maim or kill for,” he states bluntly. “Whether you like it or not, you have become a critical asset to protect.”
She shuts her mouth with a little click.
Her ‘field is practically diminished into nothing, a far more familiar idle state.
“...Okay. So, walk me through this data you want compiled, and I’ll work my magic,” she says stiffly, hiding her gaze from him by looking at the screen.
Chapter 5: Amaze Me
Notes:
I really struggled with this chapter, but I think I am happy with it
this story is -wildly- getting away from me
Prowl, you're a special kinda asshole. How can you be so cute?
enjoy the human ADHD vs Cybertronian OCD dynamic
Chapter Text
“Prowl, I am so sorry. Could you, um, repeat that again?” you ask with a flaming face, unable to meet his gaze even though you know it would be more socially polite to do so, but you feel like you’re about to wither into silty ash under his stern and openly judgemental attention. And you’re very certain by his annoyed door twitches that you are failing the mark miserably. You’re trying to focus, you are, but, but--!
This thing shrank from the size of a large swimming pool to a tiny ass ipad! What the actual fuck! Physics? Hello? Do you EXIST?
Also, it’s shiny.
There’s red lines that edge the frame, each one a glowing light that you’ve only seen on the fancy datapads the Cybertronians use for themselves. Your own device has nothing but a plain, smooth frame with simple sharp-beveled edges. The fancier frames always match the owner’s biolights, or at least so you think from observation, and this one is no different.
Prowl’s datapad positively dazzles with lovely, danger red, drawing your gaze every time the warm lights pulse and scatter in response to you touching the screen. A little pink pinprick of light appears in the center of each line, then flares out like a stretched gradient before fading entirely, or brightening right into the next pulse. It takes an unfair amount of exerted willpower not to simply rapidly tap-tap-tap it, just to see the gradient of lights dance.
This supposedly utilitarian thing is so pretty. And alien. And cool. And-- and you’ve seen a lot of wild and crazy things in your time on base, but you’ve always been peripheral to it until lately.
There’s still a very real factor of your sheer awe and amazement at being dazzled by things you’d only ever thought of or witnessed in fiction.
You feel like someone plucked you out of the proper timeline, then plopped you back down far, far ahead of where everyone else around you is.
You are holding a device capable of somehow being simultaneously large enough to be held-in-hand by a being as large as Prowl, and also fit to the same absurdly proportional scale for your tiny little human hands. You’re not even as tall as one of his fingers. His thumb, maybe, if you didn’t count the fussily armored hinge that on a human would be the heel of the thumb on the palm.
Your hand against his would be so laughably different in comparison, it genuinely boggles the mind to try and even conceive of this thing you have to figure out how to treat as ordinary, because-- because it literally exists. It happened. It’s in the palm of your hands right now.
Both of you can use the exact same device. How the fuck. No, seriously, how the actual fuck? You have so many questions for Wheeljack the next time you see him and the first one on your list is--
--asking Prowl what he just told you, again, and quiet suddenly your dopamine rush bottoms out with a flatline blip of dread. Aw, heck. This is the second time. Come on brain. Okay. Alien coolness has to wait because office boringness Prowl how can you make this so ordinary!! Aaaugh!
“Um…” You close your eyes, steel yourself, then dare to look up at him because if you’re gonna be a spacy idiot in front of him, the least you can do is look Prowl in the alien eyes and own up to it. “S… Sorry,” you manage to force out, trying to keep your voice from being a squeak as his optics narrow fractionally, and you see the most minute shift of geometry hinted at like lines of glowing light, laced within the blue glow. Analyzing your every tic, probably. “One-- Um, one more time, please?” you ask with a mostly straight face, if you measured that composure by not changing your expression at all. Unfortunately, it’s probably countered into being null by the face you’d frozen with, which feels like a very pained grimace.
Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry fuck don’t cry. It’s fine. It’s fine I’m fine this is fine he’s mad that’s okay I’m being stupid he can be mad about it c’mon just. Breathe. Tell me the instructions and I’ll get them right this time and--
“Are you experiencing a migraine?” he asks instead of repeating himself on how to duplicate a cell row with it’s internal formatting in-tact, because his stupid alien device is way too smart for you, and has way too many functions. You have no time to memorize every tiny command or button that pulls up what you want, and you’re pretty sure you will not have this completed before the two hours is up.
“Er… Teeechnically yes,” you draw out reluctantly, well aware of the achey-ache that’s making your muscles feel like solid lead and your skull thinks it’s wearing an electric hat, “but not one that should be affecting my focus at all,” you finish with hesitance, glancing up at Prowl before yanking your gaze back donwn to the datapad, and away from the intimidating and intense view of his alien visage and all it’s war-armored polish and shine. His white paint is stark against the dark room, and it’s funny how he can make you feel claustrophobic when you a) love cozy spaces and b) this is not a cozy space, you have literally so much room in his office and the airspace around you.
They feel so much more present when you’re not standing on the ground, looking way up at them at a distance. Go figure.
You feel like he can see your every move and is counting every flaw, but at least Prowl hasn’t given up on you yet.
He just sighs. A lot-- and there he goes again.
Prowl sighs. His flippy doors flick.
“Is there a reason that you are unable to retain information clearly explained at an established volume of effective communication?” he asks, and for a good several seconds, you’re unsure how to react to that.
Did. Is he-- Okay. No. This is Prowl. That’s not an insult, that’s an honest bid for explanation. I’m a squishy human and I don’t think this guy talks to us much. He’s also more blunt than a mallet.
Hoping you do the human race a good job of representation and feeling woefully out of your league, you swallow down the unease, choose to let it go, then tap the screen on a button just to see the lights go, letting the pretty colors soothe your nerves. The paler point of nearly-pink bounces up and down the length of each line of red.
“Um… Yeah. It sucks, but um, I’m just kinda like this,” you say with a straight face, until you feel a grimace pulling at your lips, and your grip tightens on the device in your hands as you shift your weight, discomfitted. This is always so hard to share, but he should know. ‘Cause it matters. And also, he handled your headaches with shocking understanding and maybe even alarming enthusiasm. Getting an effective promotion of sorts out of the deal was not what you’d ever expected for your office career, and certainly not how it’d happened. You’re also fairly convinced that Jazz and Swindle completely ran over Prowl’s original intentions and twisted things to get here, and you’re not gonna complain about it except if only you could stop messing it up all by yourself, because Prowl is still looking at you like a problem he needs to solve and it’s not doing good things to your composure. “I um, I get distracted really easily, s-so I have to exert a lot of uh, focus. There’s… So much going on in my environment, it’s like--” you pause, trying to figure out how to explain the workings of your mind to a guy who literally has a computer in his brain. Just on a whole, whole other level and powered by a sentient being.
Who’s watching you in silence, the glow of his eyes reflected off the faint burnished surface of the desk you stand on. Two little pinpricks that stare intently, unblinking. Your mind would like to fancy you’re being stared at from two directions, a distinctly unnerving feeling, but you punt that unneeded and imaginary anxiety out the window like flicking an invasive beetle off your shoulder. Nuh-uh.
“...it’s like if you couldn’t control how much data you were receiving about the environment around you, and it kinda short-circuited your brain,” you try, gesturing with a hand. “Like… I uh, I overthink things. And that’s bad. ‘Cause it kinda makes my brain hurt and then other things start to hurt. But also I can’t really stop overthinking things, because it’s-- It’s just how I am?” you try, flailing hands again. “They tried, um, medicating it, but my body didn’t respond too great to that, so I just manage it with careful routine and lifestyle choices, and… Just working with myself. But sometimes I still just-- Get distracted,” you admit, cringing.
The fast-paced whirr of quiet, well oiled gears and a faint draft of the smallest tug on the air current in the room, causes you to look behind yourself. You twist around just in time to see Prowl’s doors appear above his shoulders as they perk, his mouth hidden behind both hands with fingers laced together.
“Go on. I am listening.”
You blink rapidly.
“O-oh, uh. I was done, I guess. That’s it.”
“What distracted you?” he prompts immediately. No comment on anything you just said, how he feels about it, what he thinks. A complete, impregnable mystery. You wince, purse your lips, then sigh in defeat.
Staring at the datapad, you touch one of the glowing, hazy red stripes that decorate the edges.
“The pretty lights. They do stuff every time I touch the screen, and my brain is going crazy trying to track the patterns. It’s also, y’know, super pretty.” Unable to resist, or rather, willing to demonstrate your weakness for the result it’s gonna get you, you poke another cell to highlight it, and watch the pretty lights dance. Then you tap it again, because he’s watching and you’re nervous and fuck just. Breathe. Pretty lights. Watch the pretty lights, it’s fine.
There’s a long silence behind you.
A moment later, all the luminance that rings the device goes dark, suddenly disturbingly cold and lifeless when once there’d been volcanic heat. Like a ruby in the sun suddenly gone dark and opaque, you’re startled at the sudden change.
“Oh…”
“Does that help?” Prowl asks, and you genuinely can’t tell if he’s patient or impatient. You decide not to speculate in favor of preserving what little nerves you have.
“Y-yeah, um, thanks,” you admit sheepishly, and resist the urge to admit that a non-insignificant part of you misses the light show. It was so pretty!
You turn back to the screen, and are startled when one of Prowl’s arms appears in front of you at a distance, slowly being set on the desktop like he’s casually food-guarding a tray in a cafeteria, or hiding a document from casual viewing to passer-by. He’s not straining himself in the gesture, but there’s abruptly a veritable wall of white and black surrounding you as you feel as tiny and dainty as a mouse all of a sudden.
It’s easy to forget how big these guys are until they’re up close, and all your little self-preservation instincts war with the logical assurances that you can trust him to be careful not to squish you.
“To duplicate the cell and retain all formatting data,” Prowl begins as you haul your attention to his voice with panicky determination, trying to ignore your distraction with his arm as you look back to the screen. “Double-tap and hold. It will highlight. You may then select where you wish to paste it. Confirm with the same gesture.”
“Will doing that again keep pasting it into new cells?” you check, not sure you’ll need that function but pretty sure it’d be handy if you do.
“It will.”
“Okay, cool. Is this, uh… Am I actually helping you, or am I just keeping you from work?” you dare to ask, because your anxiety has had enough of clamouring for information to figure out whether it’s more likely Prowl’s upset at you right now, or if he’s just the most patient perfectionist in the history of humanity. Probably helps he’s a different species. “Sorry I’m, um, taking so long to learn this,” comes rambling off next, because you can’t stop the nerves from prompting your mouth to talk, because he didn’t immediately answer you, and those wings are slowly starting to arrow backwards. You’re not sure what that means, but you don’t know, you don’t know, and your anxiety demands answers. If he can just reassure you one way or another, you can get your stupid brain to shut up and stop deliberating which emotional chemical it needs to dump into your systems right now because the answer is probably neither this is just a normal ass software lesson, fuck.
He’s still staring at you, unblinking, lazer-focused. Oh sweet mercy someone kill me now
“I-I don’t, uh, download stuff like you guys do,” you babble with a nervous laugh, because Mirage’s reaction to learning that you have to learn everything ‘analog’ had given you the impression human minds weren’t… very… well thought of. And though sometimes Prowl being the Second in Command and lead of all things Tactical is easy to forget with how casual and familial the Autobot mannerisms are?
At other times, like right now, all you can think of is how just being in the same room as this guy feels wrong. You don’t belong here, certainly not at his side, on his desk, helping him do work that’s probably going to be used to do something that would help win battles and the mere idea you could introduce a teeny little fuck-up with your human flaws is enough to make you feel like there’s a Decepticon K-class banging on the base’s hangar doors.
You’re not a fool; you know you’re good at your job, but you also know that your life experience and Prowl’s life experiences are so far apart from each other, he might as well be the God of War come to Earth, because this mech knows things you would never fathom.
It’s not that it bothers you to know that Prowl is literally worlds smarter than you. He’s been to multiple planets and everything, and can do things you’d never even have dreamed of until meeting the Cybertronians. What bugs you is wondering if you’re inadvertently pissing this guy off by being so slow for his species’ standards, because Prowl’s engine has started to make occasional, unpleasant sounding clicks in his engine, like a gear is skipping.
More familiar with that kind of noise coming from Bumblebee when he’s wound up in a foul mood, hearing it coming off Prowl is about to make you lose your nerves entirely. It’s also trying to make your brain tell your tear-ducts to start working because the emotional anguish of thinking you might be failing him is enough to seek escape before it melts you from the inside out.
Do. Not. Cry. Fuck! I’m fine!
“I am performing simultaneous tasks,” he states as you seriously begin to wonder if your period is coming up, because hot damn are your emotions hard to wrangle today. “This is simple. I do not need much CPU to perform the task of teaching you the program. Tap faster,” he adds with a subtle shift of voice that clues you off to the fact he’s responding live-time to something observed. That little shift of lightness in his tone, almost absent-minded-- less focused on how his voice comes out to you composed and stern, and more worried about simply conveying information he feels is worth sharing. You blink. “You are three-millakliks off of-- You are point-three-zero-three seconds off of,” he corrects abruptly, like that’s gonna mean anything to you, “the range of command failure. Tap faster to lower the risk of confusing the program with faulty input.”
You freeze with a finger over the screen, having been in the middle of copy-pasting the cells you’d wanted to move into a more agreeable arrangement on a new sheet you flip between.
“Oh. Uh… Okay, wow, that’s really cool,” you breathe. “You’re-- You’re tracking how fast my finger moves to tap?”
There’s a soft vent of whole-body expression behind you, accompanied by what clearly sounds like him parting his lips to sigh. What makes the difference between them sighing only through their nose and mouths, or expelling warm, gusting air out the vents that riddled their bodies, you have no idea.
Either way, you appreciate and loathe the wave of warmth that crashes over you, because it reminds you of the fact his office is cold. Not enough to actually be a problem, but just enough it’s not very comfortable. Gripping the warm datapad in your hands helps considerably.
That warm puff of air, though, brings you momentary comfort before the icy chill drops in, enhanced by the sharp comparison of temperature drop. Dammit.
“I am tracking everything in my visual feed as well as numerous peripheral processes,” he explains, in exactly the same tone and pace as he has all other instructions so far. “You are… Impressed by this?” he asks, almost hesitantly, and you turn around just in time to see his flappy wings do a funny looking flutter, before they stand at high perkiness, and quiver.
Prowl. How are you capable of cuteness. You are a walking, glaring death machine. What the fuck, that’s adorable.
Trying hard not to actually look at them dead-on, suspicious now that this dude can probably track the exact angle of your eye direction, you watch his wings practically vibrate, before they flick and go abruptly still. Even so, you can’t help the impression that he looks like the cat that caught the mouse; he’s pleased. If you were to ask Jazz, you kinda think he might even suggest Prowl was happy.
“Uh, yeah,” you say, kinda flabbergasted he might think you wouldn’t be. “That’s insane, man. Like, I knew you were pinpoint precise, but I didn’t…” you shake your head. “I didn’t realize you were actually precise. That’s amazing.”
Nothing in his expression changes, and yet somehow, you feel like his mood is getting brighter. A subtle shift in the atmosphere of the room, or maybe just wishful thinking on your part; you’ve learned, however, to trust your intuition. He’s happy!
“It… Can be overwhelming, at times. As you said; an overwhelming amount of data.”
--Oh.
And that’s a line of vulnerability you weren’t expecting, hadn’t ever expected, and are absolutely going to treasure like the sacred gift it is, because you blink and meet Prowl’s eyes, and absorb the realization that this dude just admitted a weakness to you. Perfectionist Prowl, capable of something as mundane and ordinary as information overload.
“Do you… Ever get headaches from it? Like-- How does that feel for you?” you wonder hesitantly, unsure if he actually wants this to be a conversation or if he just wanted you to absorb the statement and move on.
His door wings flick with a short, brief, backwards rotation before lifting up and settling with a decisive click, and you think he just tried to lock them in stasis. You give it less than three minutes before they’re wiggling around like a cat’s restless, telecasting tail again.
“I cannot say whether the experience is truly analogous to what you have described, but I believe there are… Similarities. It is not… pleasant. It becomes easier to be distracted; it becomes more difficult to regulate what information I collect and actively think on,” he explains, and from the slight shift of his weight on the chair and the soft scrape of metal from behind, you think he’s curled his arm a little tighter towards you on the desk. “Now that you have distracted yourself pursuing irrelevant information, demonstrate to me that you remember the last eight commands I have shown you.”
Holy shit office jumpscare. Not fair, Prowl!
You blanch, alarmed. “Wh-what?” You don’t want to check him on numbers, you don’t want to argue it with him, and you definitely do not want to tell Prowl that he’s counted wrong. The fuck are you missing, here, though? “But-- But I thought there were only six…? What did I miss--?”
“Demonstrate what you remember.”
You gulp. You look at the device, then start showing him the newly taught commands for how to duplicate a cell with (and without) format preserved, how to copy the text and access a text editing menu, and generally how to navigate the program.
By the time you’ve landed all the way back at the first thing he taught you, which was how to set up an auto-save feature so your work was not lost, and how he wanted you to title the document for archiving, you are ready to start crying.
That’s emotionally overreactive though, so you choke that back with fierce willpower and tell your hecking brain to calm down it’s fine it’s fine mistakes happen it’s fine--
“That is all you remember?” Prowl asks mildly.
You wilt.
“Um…. Yeah.”
You hear his doors flick. Hah. Guess it took longer than three minutes for them to unlock.
“Hmm. You are certain?” he prompts, and you suddenly feel your metaphorical hackles raise as your eyes narrow, and you turn to meet his gaze.
Is this… A test-- Within a test?
His blank face offers not a single clue on if he’s messing with you or not.
You take a deep breath, and tell him the same thing you told Jazz when the poor guy managed to trigger a factual panic attack you both agreed to never ever talk about because your superiors definitely didn’t need to know. There were a lot of things they naturally had to have their noses in, this was one of those things you could handle yourself. Usually.
Having clear boundaries in place was one of the ways you neatly navigated life without triggering emotional dysregulation to the point of, as Jazz had put it, ‘glitching out.’
“Prowl, I need you to know that I really, really don’t react well to being given the wrong information from a trusted source. I take things literally. If you’re messing with me just to see if I’m confident in the number six for how many datapad commands you taught me, then I’m gonna tell you this ain’t a good teaching method for this particular student,” you assert stiffly, and tap your chest, hoping it hits home.
He quirks a metal brow at you.
“Understood, and not surprising. However, that was not my intent; consider, that I never said the commands were limited to the device lesson.”
--YOU AFT.
You gawk at him, then grimace, then finally, scowl, and glare down at the datapad.
“You’re gonna hate me, but no, actually, I don’t,” you grumble. “I know in general but the order of them gets mixed up in my head. Like, I know all the things you taught me today-- but I can’t tell you the order it all happened in with full accuracy unless you let me sit down and put it all out on paper and sort it.”
“That… Is a miserably inefficient method.”
“Yeah, well, it’s more efficient than me trying to verbally report it, because you’ll get it out of order until I figure out what’s what.”
“You amaze me.”
You nearly drop the datapad from newly numbed fingers, because that frank compliment was so easily given, and--
“How you have managed to survive this long…” Prowl honestly sounds confused, like you’ve disappointed him so thoroughly he must be questioning how he mistook a lump of coal for a diamond. “My best Processor is held together by a mess of glitches.”
You stare at him.
“Ex--Excuse me?” you repeat, well aware that’s not a nice thing for them to say of someone. Prowl’s arm curls a little closer on the table as he stares down at you with open consternation.
“You are practically defenseless, even amongst your own species,” he says, like this is a terrible fact as you feel the heat raising in your face. Sure, you’re no martial artist, but you can throw a punch, you have taken some self defense classes, and you always have a nice sharp, pointy pencil in your hair bun that could take an eye out or puncture a throat. You are not defenseless, and comparing your fragile carbon-based bones to his stainless steel and titanium is totally unfair.
“I’m not a soldier, I’m a desk worker and an artist,” you quip, unwilling to let his alien standards color your self-worth. “I don’t need to walk around with armor and weapons.”
“You…” Prowl shakes his head, his flippy doors lifting an settling back like he’s distinctly agitated. “Are too much like me.”
--Wait, what?
That arm circles in even closer, the soft sound of scraping metal alarmingly close, causing you to spin in place to stare and clock the fact he’s not just near, he’s practically right next to you. A wall of polished white gleams and reflects off his desk as you suck in a breath, because your prior impression of him sitting like someone protecting their tray in a crowded cafeteria feels right on the money.
“I-- Wh-what?” you splutter, turning your head to look up at his face again, feeling lost and overwhelmed and not sure why this is affecting you so much to begin with. Cripes, keep it together. Breathe B r e a t h e --
His eyes are closed as he takes a deep, deep invent, then lets it out as a whole-body sigh. Warm air gushes over you from the vents on his chest, swiftly replaced by a cool wash that leaves you feeling frigid.
“While specifically suited to your function, you are none-the-less handicapped by that very talent also inflicting consequence that hinders. You are, compared to your peers, far weaker and less dangerous. It is not an insult; it is merely fact,” he outlines plainly, voice so level he could be reading from a text-book about something truly dull. “My TacNet insists that you are both a liability, and a critically coveted asset. It also insists that you have a despairingly high chance of being offlined. While the percentages differ, the base comparison is equatable; we are both valuable liabilities.”
“Oh,” is what you say, because it drops off your stunned lips like a breath, an automatic response given because some part of you is aware you’re supposed to reply in a conversation. The rest of you, however, is entirely caught up on the whirlwind of ups-and-downs Prowl’s mini monologue has sent you on, and the implications of the fact he’s finding you to be a relatable person.
What that says about you is a little worrisome to ponder, seeing as Prowl has the reputation of someone not much liked on base, and you would wager to guess is deeply loathed by at least a handful of individuals. You’re not really sure what your own reputation is, because you don’t really care what people think of you except the ones who matter, like your boss, your immediate co-workers you have to get along and co-exist with, and…
…and what friends you have made, aren’t what you would call close friends. That doesn’t diminish the relationships or how much you cherish them, but it does put a firm visualization on the boundaries and limits of them. You can only push so far before risking something breaking, and the consequences of any fractures are too high a probability to risk triggering.
“I apologize, I have brought us off topic,” he says abruptly, and you catch the reflection of light flashing as his wings lift, and the glass shimmers prettily with the movement. He’s so shiny--
Shut. Up. Brain!.
“I-it’s fine, this is… Important stuff, too,” you try, not wanting to see him bail on you from emotional vulnerability and hide behind that cold office composure again. “We’re gonna be working with each other, um, hopefully for a while. So… I-- Like getting to know you,” you admit.
Even if sometimes he scares you more than maybe an actual life or death situation would.
His optics seem to cycle-- those faint glimpses of circular rings within the cerulean blue begin to rotate and adjust, just barely flickering to perception, before he blinks and his gaze shifts to the device in your hand.
“We shall proceed,” he states, as if he hadn’t just been shockingly transparent with you just moments ago. “Select a test cell, then open the format editing menu.”
Tap with one finger, tap with two fingers, and you have a little menu open as you hide from his gaze in the safety of the datapad’s glow.
Chapter 6: Double Date Done Dirty
Notes:
So I'll be honest, I loved this chapter title so much I just had to keep it, even though over twenty pages into this thing I realized my original plans had been thoroughly sabotaged by Spec Ops. Ain't that ironic?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Good. Now exit the program, and power down the datapad,” Prowl instructs after you’ve dutifully explained to him where you’re at in the spreadsheet organization. “I will send the document to your personal device later.”
You blanch.
“Er… My personal device, or my work one?” you check, startled he’s having you close out, because you’d really gotten on a role now that you’re getting familiar with the most used commands to navigate the alien spreadsheet program.
Prowl’s engine makes a funny clicking noise that startles you further, and you look up from the now-dark screen to stare at him. The clear glass of his black and white doors are held high and perky, and you think he’s gearing up for something.
Please don’t steamroll me with another mind game--
“I suppose you do distinguish,” he says like it bugs him he hadn’t thought of that himself. Somehow, that doesn’t sit well with you-- the idea that your alien friends are so immersed in their war and survival, that they don’t have anything but tools used for work. “Your work-issued datapad. I doubt your personal technology has the same programs downloaded to it.”
Unable to hold his level stare, you jerk your gaze back to the one in your hands. Before you can think of anything to say, his other hand that’s been resting most probably on his lap for the last hour or so, comes up to lay down flat on the ground beside you.
“I will take my datapad back, now.”
You immediately perk, and walk the few steps it takes to set the device down on his palm, eyes locked onto it. Is it gonna do the--?
As soon as he’s slid his hand like fifteen feet away from you on the desk, the tiny device that looks so comically small in his hold suddenly ripples and distorts, then starts exploding inwards-outwards on itself as the parts flip and rotate, and stretch.
In less than a minute, you have both hands over your mouth as your heart hammers, and you try not to let out an actual squeal of excitement. That was so cool, and better yet, the red lights that decorate the frame are glowing once more, and doing their sparkly light show. Prowl looks it over for a moment, before he brings the device in close towards his chest, and--
--what.
You stare, excitement forgotten and replaced by a deafening, suffocating flood of awed confusion, because it just-- it just fucking vanished. What the--?!
“Where did it go?” you ask, stunned. Did-- Did you really just see that?
Prowl’s wings flick like he’s pleased about something.
“It is stored securely in my Subspace.”
“Your what-now?” you ask, turning wide eyes up to his level gaze. That blank poker face isn’t fooling you; the high perk of his door-wings, even though they’re still, is enough to make you convinced he’s feeling smug or something.
Prowl places his hand knuckles-down on the table top in front of you again.
“Subspace. An efficient means of storage,” he explains unhelpfully. “It is time to go.”
“Go--?” And then you remember, right before he answers your blurted question. Right. Energon depot. Wow, it’s almost nine o’ clock already?
“I have a flask of Hi-grade to collect, and you have a courtship attempt to negotiate.”
It’s a good thing that Prowl took the datapad from you, because you’re suddenly tempted to throw something at him as your face turns flaming.
“It’s-- It’s not courtship!” you fluster, but dutifully march over to his black-painted palm and hop up, then plop down criss-cross-applesauce in the dead center. Cripes, he makes it sound like you’re trying to plan a marriage in the late 1700’s. The focus of his gaze leaves you as Prowl stands with steady care, pushing his office chair back before walking around his desk to the sparse, open space before it. “It’s just meeting someone to hang out,” you insist. “It could become that if I decide I like him that way, but I don’t even know his religion or if he wants-- Specific things out of life. For all I know, I’m not what he wants, either.”
Not something you really want to think about just now, because picking at your self-esteem with the unfairly broad wealth of evidence that might suggest you aren’t a suitable partner, is--
Yeah, shut up, brain.
“Where do you intend to go with him?” Prowl asks, as he slowly kneels down on the ground.
“Dunno,” you admit. “Figured I’d ask him when we met up.” Hopefully, his ideas will be better than yours, because you genuinely don’t know anywhere cool or interesting to go on base that isn’t intrinsically work-related. And your personal favorite place to be is completely off-limits; there’s no way you’re getting Jackson into the Spec Op’s lounge. You’re not sure you want to risk attracting Swindle’s attention while you’re on a maybe-maybe-not date, anyways, even if you could get that permission for access.
Prowl’s hand below you transfers the faintest vibrations of the contact of him setting his knuckles down on the metal floor. You unfold your legs and turn, ready for him to--
--yep, he tilts his hand, and you’re ready this time as you use the momentum from the gentle slide to hit the ground in a smooth walk towards the door.
Only to nearly jump out of your own skin when his other hand quickly moves to hover in the air ahead of you like a wild animal he’s trying to coax from running off on him.
“Stay still,” he orders. “I do not wish to injure you.”
“UH?” you blanch, sending him an alarmed look. Yeah, yeah I’m STANDING STILL BUDDY, that’s a smush-me-flat semi in the shape of a hand. “What--?”
Prowl doesn’t answer you. Not right away, or at least not verbally.
You stare with a wildly confused expression as the massive mech lets his other knee drop to the floor as he places his lifted hand down, and you realize he now has both palm-down on the ground. Before you can ask why he’s on hands and knees like that’s not a wildly undignified position for a mech of his rank, you drop your jaw, and just about actually start crying.
Because… Because this is amazing. So out of this world, you can’t function for the moment except to stare with wide eyes at the twister of moving metal parts that clatter and click and hiss as car-looking parts flip and rotate. Prowl’s head folds and dips as his shoulders come up and forward with a shrug, and his entire torso lowers down towards the ground as his knees bend. His pedes flip up and in on themselves in a way legs shouldn’t move, but Prowl isn’t human.
He’s Cybertronian.
And if you were to use the human-given name, he’s a Transformer. This megalithic giant shape-shifts right in front of your eyes with an electronic sequence of digitized melody. The four-note bwop-boop-oo-boop rings in your ears like someone tapped a fork to glass to quiet a room, and you just stand there with a slack jaw.
It only takes you half a heartbeat to realize that he’s shrinking. He’s shrinking down like the datapad had, and--
It all happens way, way too fast. A strong draft of air caused by his massive form shrinking so fast actually yanks you towards him a step as you stumble. You catch your footing at the same time Prowl drops down onto four tires with a bounce of his suspension, and you’re no longer looking at a bipedal cybernetic being.
You’re looking at a cybernetic being who’s disguised as a cop car, because Prowl’s shiny plating has reassembled itself into a view as familiar to you as a WacDonnies on the highway or a tow-truck hauling some poor car to the mechanics. Something that belongs here, almost. You have the most uncanny feeling of recognizing what, or rather-- who you’re gawking at.
The passenger-side door opens like magic, an obvious invitation, but you’re stuck frozen in place, feeling like he just cast a spell on you.
Prowl’s not just a ‘cop car,’ which had been an easy guess based on his door wings having the whole ‘POLICE’ and ‘HIGHWAY PATROL’ written on them in all caps. Prowl’s not just disguised as a sleek paneled machine meant for catching bad guys or transporting officers. Prowl’s alt mode is a scan ripped off a fucking classic car model, because this two-door, sporty configuration is really doing something wrong to you. It’s impossible to tamp down the immediate giddiness and excitement at the thought you not only get to look at but touch the pretty machine before you--
--and have to bite your own tongue until you taste blood, to remind yourself that you’re not staring at a ‘machine.’
Prowl’s door opens wider, much wider than you think the original Earth vehicle would have been able to do. His front end is long, with the cab set back so far that the windshield is at nearly the middlemost point of his entire vehicle-form’s length. The window of which tilts back at an aerodynamic angle, with a minimal canopy that almost immediately drops into a severe slant, meeting up with his tucked-up bumper.
Prowl’s door wiggles impatiently at you, and you startle and jump in place like a frightened deer.
“Get in.”
“R-right, sorry, sorry, I-- Just-- That was amazing,” you stammer, too stunned for more eloquent praise as you jerkily start forward, torn between the equal commands of run right at him in excitement and walk sedately like a normal, professional person. “You-- You never told me your alt mode was so-- Um. Is it weird to say you’re gorgeous?” you ask honestly, wildly unsure how to translate your awe and admiration into something that’s not going to offend the guy who’s not actually a car.
“I do not care what you think, so long as you do not make us late,” he retorts. And somehow, that manages to help you get a grip on your racing heart, as you hesitantly approach his door, almost afraid to touch him. Your body is gripped by the instinctive revulsion of putting a single fingerprint smudge on such a glossy paint job, and the pristine upholstery is throwing you for a loop as you duck down to see a vintage cabin space that looks like something out of an old movie. You half expect to find a cop with an outdated uniform and a big, fat cigar and donuts when you look at the empty driver’s seat, and there is, hilariously, an ash tray built into the center console, set barely three inches back from the seemingly leather-girded clutch.
“Dude, you cannot take a compliment,” you remark, far more used to his brusque personality now as you take a breath and climb inside. It’s strange to get into a car that looks brand new with none of the new-car scent; the air is thick with the soft musk of metal and car parts, not unpleasant to you. “I think I’m going to freak out, I am literally so excited right now.”
You have no idea yet what the three dials above the center console and radio mean, or the one to the upper left of a classy, slim steering wheel.
“Most individuals are not excited to get inside a law enforcement transport,” Prowl remarks as he waits for you to sit down, and the door shuts after, sealing you inside a space that feels like you’ve been yeeted back to the seventies. It feels distinctly strange to feel so low to the ground, and you settle down into a deep-scooped seat with criminally comfortable padding. Which prompts the immediate question of wondering how a living being made of hard, unyielding metal could-- don’t think about alien biology while in the alien. Oh sweet mercy I don’t think I want to know those answers.
“You’re not a law enforcement transport, you’re you,” you answer, struggling to remember to actually put volume to your voice as your eyes can’t help but dart around his cabin, taking in the circular wells of his gauges that match the deep-set headlights on the end of his hood. You’re half tempted to ask him what would happen if you touched the controls, but figure that’d probably approach something impolite, and--
--you nearly scream when something touches you OH FUCK THAT’S WEIRD.
A seatbelt snaps itself smartly over your chest and lap, diagonal, and at first that’s fine, okay, it startled you but you can handle this--
The noise that whimpers out of your throat goes best unremarked on as Prowl nearly scares the piss out of you by pulling you flush to his seat.
“Was that painful? I apologize, I did not think-- You are softer than I expected,” he says immediately, and you’re further disconcerted by the restraining straps going nearly slack, loosening as you look wildly around the cabin-space, wondering where his gaze is, where you should look to address him, but he’s everywhere. This isn’t a car. Not a normal space. Not familiar not expected not--
“NoyeahI’mfinenopethanksit’sgoodyeah,” you rattle off. It only takes a moment for you to consciously register the fact you just tried to say four things at the same time, and you catch your breath when the clutch and steering wheel begin to move like there’s an invisible person piloting them.
“That is a more familiar reaction. Breathe.” When that doesn’t snap you out of the mid-grade panic attack, he adds, “You are not under arrest. Relax.”
“Y-yeah. --Wait. Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?” you blurt, mind snared on the belated realization as you sit stiffly on who-knows-what part of his alien body, keenly aware that the seatbelt is not a seatbelt it’s alive. Is this weird? This is totally weird.
“You have reminded me why I abstain.”
This time, he tears a spluttering laugh out of you, quite by stupefied force.
“Uh-huh. You should do it more often, makes it easy to imagine you smiling,” you remark, thinking of the time you’d clocked an honest-to-Gods smile on his stern lips. Sweet maker, were you actually breaking the ice with the iciest of mechs?
Prowl doesn’t say anything for a beat, and you realize abruptly that you’ve been given a severe disadvantage; you have no idea how to read Prowl’s body language when he’s folded up into car-mode, and his doors are firmly shut. The sudden idea that you might startle him enough to make them snap open is disconcerting, to say the least.
“What else has Jazz told you, under threat of death or disfigurement?” comes a question straight out of left-field, as you go stock-still again on his seat.
“Uh--”
The seatbelt wrapped around you tightens slightly.
- IS-- PROWL IS THIS A THREAT. DUDE. DUDE NOT FAIR NOT COOL--
The doors click with an audible latch as the locks engage, and your eyes go round and wide.
“A-are you trying to scare me?”
“I want an honest answer.”
You, trying not to hyperventilate yourself into system shutdown, restlessly shift on the seat you’re hyperaware is not a seat, distracted by the grip of two wide bands holding your body prisoner in a living mechanical being’s shell of armor. I take back everything I thought about being excited to ride in the pretty cop car.
“Prowl, Jazz is gonna kill me. You’re asking me to tattle!”
“He should have been more careful than entrusting sensitive intel to someone so easy to pry it from.”
“--Are you challenging me to keep it a secret even from you?” you demand.
“No, though I am certain Jazz is.”
~*~
-=[ Delegating; assign security detail on TerranD69; secure asset ]
The tiny string of text sits neatly in the upper left of Ironhide’s optic feed, overlaying a miniscule portion of his vision as he reads the terse note. He’s used to Prowl requesting things out of seeming nowhere, but this one has him frowning mid-meeting as he listens to Optimus and Ultra Magnus talk politics with the humans.
The fact the silent message comes flagged with a priority tag high enough to shotgun it past Ironhide’s filters against distraction is significant enough. It only takes him a moment to send a reply.
-=[ Acknowledged; request clarification; hold or follow? ]
He gets an immediate reply.
-=[ Follow ]
Alright, so the fleshie probably wasn’t in immediate danger. That left just one more question.
-=[ Why? Roster’s tight. Need all hands. ]
Any doubt he has in the tactician’s unusual choice is erased with Prowl’s reply.
-=[ Jazz made a friend ]
With context and knowing their up-tight Second’, Ironhide doesn’t need to ask if that’s sarcasm. Prowl’s serious. He mulls that over with a frown, gaze occasionally flicking around the room as he checks through his feed on proximity sensors. They’re scattered through this secured meeting room and the halls leading to it, painting a ghost-like sensation of vast space around himself just waiting for a pede or dainty little human boot to step foot into his zone of awareness.
-=[ What kinda friend? ]
He shoots the message off more out of curiosity than necessity. A portion of his processor is already dedicated to sifting through the current roster of mechs with idle hands or a task low enough on the never-ending list of priorities that Ironhide can swap them out.
-=[ Possibly peripheral ]
Ironhide’s glad he finished his Energon a while ago, or he’d have spilled his cup with how fast he sits up, ignoring the meeting in earnest now as he tries to ring the SIC up on an audial frequency.
It gets rejected. Brat.
-=[ The frag he tell her? ]
At least Prowl doesn’t keep him waiting. He gets another terse message that Ironhide has to fight to keep his engine from onlining with a deep, unhappy rumble as he reads.
-=[ Wheeljack’s lab; Red Energon; Cybertronian social biology; suspect more. Interrogating now ]
Well, what the frag?
Ironhide huffs as he leans back on his chair, adjusting the rifle in his arms and wishing for one of Hound’s cy’gars. Sucks to be him, he couldn’t indulge even if he wanted to. He was a little busy making sure ‘Prime didn’t die, not that he expected trouble this deep in their territory.
One could never be too careful.
-=[ Security detail; assigned; deployed. Suggestion; relocate lodgings? ]
-=[ Approved ]
Ironhide’s barely laid out his options to consider when he gets another message from Prowl.
-=[ Query: locate where? ]
Ironhide huffs. Give me a minute to think you slagger.
He doesn’t have terribly many options; the map he’s looking at in his head as he rotates the model around doesn’t offer any pleasing choices, and in the end, he supposes he’ll just have to go the same route they handled Bumblebee’s human.
I feel like I’m tasked after making the Sparklings feed the Cy’dogs.
Not the worst thing to be assigned, it didn’t make his headache of it any easier as Ironhide ran through his next set of decisions; Wheeljack wouldn’t be on base again for another week at best, but he could apply to Perceptor to whip them up another portable habsuite. The question remained, where to put it?
-=[ Calculated: six viable options ]
Ironhide’s not amused at Prowl’s follow-up text. Of course you’re running the numbers even though you asked me to. Fine, then, if you’re so impatient about it.
“Optimus, sorry t’ interrupt,” he breaks in, not actually that sorry as Ultra Magnus fumbles to a halt, and looks at him with narrowed optics and an unhappy expression. He says nothing, however, displeased by the lack of decorum no doubt but Ironhide’s not wasting more of their time with empty manners when he can waste less by just doing his job. “Got a question that can’t wait.”
“I am listening, old friend.”
Ironhide huffs, warmth making his Spark feel like it glows at the warm acknowledgement.
“Prowl wants a security detail on a human Jazz made honest ta Primus friends with. Figured I’d handle it th’ same way as Bumblebee, but who’s gonna be Jazz’s second for human-sitting duty? He’s off base more than ‘Bee is.” Ironhide’s voice is purposefully leading, as a smile creeps out over his faceplate. He already knows who he wants to assign.
“Who would you recommend?” Optimus asks patiently.
“Put her with our SIC. The safest place for Jazz’s human is on base, and Prowl don’t ever leave. He’s already proved he’s good with pets,” he jokes, before remembering their company as Colonel Will Lennox makes an odd coughing noise, and he hears a derisive snort from the other high-brass humans that stand with their dark uniforms with sparkly accents. Those polished buttons sure do shine pretty.
Ironhide likes those ones. It makes humans easier to spot when they have things that flash or shimmer.
“I defer to your judgement,” Optimus agrees with amusement in his voice, a lightness that Ironhide’s glad to hear.
“Great. I’ll make it happen.”
Ironhide ignores the censuring glance he gets from the little trio of humans on the catwalk as he refocuses on his internal software, and sends a message.
~*~
-=[ Assignment: TerranD69, habsuite module relocation; Jazz and Prowl. Sort it out ]
Prowl nearly brakes in the middle of the hall when he gets the text, stunned. What? Impossible. There was simply no way-- 67% --he could do that. Shut up TacNet. The distraction and responsibility alone was ridiculous to consider adding to his already substantial work load.
-=[ Rejected. I don’t have time ]
He gets an immediate reply.
-=[ Orders from Optimus. Green needs a friend, and you need a break. Make time for the human. I’m in a meeting. Sort it out ]
A thin excuse, because Prowl knows exactly how Ironhide prefers to spend his focus during ‘meetings’ and it wasn’t paying diligent attention to the participants unless they looked like they might get violent.
“There. Happy?” his current passenger states with an unhappy air as she shrinks further into his mesh, her strangely soft, malleable protoform molding right to every dip and curve of his disguised mesh. Having concluded telling him a laundry list of things she thinks count as death-meriting secrets, she’s thoroughly scandalized Prowl and soon enough, the rest of high command when they find out.
“No. If Jazz were anyone but Jazz, I would be issuing an arrest right now.”
She wilts further. Prowl sends a message to Optimus.
-=[ Can’t watch human. Suggest: Mirage ]
An ideal choice. Responsible, and provenly capable of taking care of another lifeform with due diligence.
-=[ Ironhide told me to say, ‘sort it out.’ I know you will not disappoint, Prowl. Thank you ]
“On a scale of one to dead, how badly did I mess up?” the human under discussion asks, before startling Prowl with the errant pluck of tiny, padded fingers plucking at his seatbelt strap.
He ignores the tickle as he replies to two conversations at the same time.
-=[ I am rarely in my habsuite. Human would be alone ]
“Assuming that you have been truthful with me, you have not erred. Jazz should not have told you any of what he has,” Prowl explains.
-=[ Sounds like a good reason to use your habsuite more often. ]
In other words, no, he was not allowed to reject the assignment or delegate it. Slag you, Ironhide!
“I mean how badly did I just fuck up my relationship with a guy who works in Special Operations?” his present company asks, sounding thoroughly-- 99.973% --miserable. “If you’re reacting like this, I can only assume he meant I shouldn’t have said anything, and even if it’s right for you to know, it’s still wrong for me to have betrayed his trust, and his job is literally keeping secrets for a living. I fucked up.”
Prowl isn’t certain she wants to know the numbers his TacNet readily, and somewhat frustratingly, provides.
13.973% chance Jazz reacts poorly.
<85.973% chance Jazz anticipated this would happen.
67.973%.973^.97--{{end script}
-=[ human causes glitches. Request: reassign ]
Not what he wants to admit, but it’s both legitimate and practical. He’s not keen on being around her in a place meant to be his haven from stimuli, Green non-withstanding. The friendly Flyt was hardly a distraction by this point, and so long as her bottomless stomach was kept happy, was content to be quiet, acceptable company.
-=[ Glitches? ]
Not what he wants to talk about. Unfortunately, his best chance of avoiding being saddled with an extraneous task he doesn’t want are highest if he does. A solid 93%
To his human company, Prowl answers;
“It is likely that Jazz anticipated this happening.” A thought strikes him, and just like that, the numbers adjust.
0.973% chance Jazz reacts poorly.
97.973% chance Jazz anticipated this would happen.
8--{{end script]
Prowl terminates the sequence before the prior glitch can stab through his train of thought again. There’s a frustratingly high-- 97.973% --chance that Jazz wanted the human to make mention to Prowl of her deeper knowledge, because Jazz no doubt understood exactly what would result.
Extra protection for the human he so favored.
Slag you, Jazz. You are creating more work for us.
-=[ Numerical string errors. Human too unpredictable. Already pinged Ratchet ]
-=[ Considering the effect Jazz has on you, I can only reinforce my decision ]
And what the frag that was supposed to mean Prowl’s not certain-- 3% --but he is determined not to let his TacNet crunch the numbers like a hungry Sparkling on their first Energon cube.
~*~
If Prowl was trying to ruin your mood before your maybe-maybe-not-a-date, then he definitely succeeded. However, you’re sure he failed to take into consideration how stubborn you are, or willing to bet he miscalculated his own percentages. You’re not going to ask and argue over it with him in numbers. You’ll just let him reconfigure his theoretical math formulas when you prove him wrong.
I am going to have fun, I am going to be myself, and I am going to get to talk about pretty rocks with a dude who could teach a college-level geology course. I’ll worry about what Jazz will think, later.
You think this, you reinforce it in your mind’s focus-- and you’re aware that little nugget of unease isn’t going anywhere any time soon. It nestles into the back of your thoughts like a cold rock, uncomfortable no matter how you twist and turn in mental battles around it. Fortunately or not, you are well practiced at ignoring things that really don’t want to be ignored, and shut out that unhappy little buzz of discontent to instead focus on your excitement.
You tick the things you appreciate about the day off in your head as Prowl drives with blessed silence down what you sure hope is the last hall. There’s mixed reactions from those he drives pass; for the most part, no one even looks his way, or sends only a cursory glance.
But then there’s the people who stop what they’re doing to stare, most definitely in appreciation of Prowl’s pretty alt mode.
I can’t believe I called him gorgeous, you think sourly. More like a trap.
When Prowl pulls up to a bluntly ended hall that ends in a thick-framed, buffed steel door that takes up the entire wall, you figure you’ve arrived. Four guards in full uniform and rifles angled down remain posted on either side, and that doesn’t include the security systems you can glimpse, peeking down at all who dare enter this guarded hall.
There’s an office to the immediate left, and more doors to the right, human sized, and at least one garage-style door that looks sized for a truck to enter. They’re all closed, or at least the ones you can see in your quick glance around.
“We’re here?” you guess, eager to get out of this super-tech vintage nightmare.
“We are.”
You wait for a beat, and when nothing happens except Prowl sits parked with an idling engine, you fidget, and tug at the seatbelt.
“Uh… Can I get out?” you prompt pointedly, then yelp when the seatbelt snaps flush to your chest, the slack cutting out as your eyes go wide and you freeze, startled.
“In about eleven seconds, you may.”
That has you sending a glance around the windows, trying to figure out why he’s being so specific.
“Uh. Why eleven--?”
“Your security detail is en route.”
You splutter.
“Wh-what? My what is en route?”
“Did you already forget?” he asks, actually sounding concerned about it.
You gape at his radio, then twist around on the seat as best you can while restrained, trying to find a camera or something to glare at, hoping he can see your eyes.
“I-- Well, yeah, but now I remember. Are you really siccing a guard on me on base? Seriously? I--”
“Do you want to see what happens when Jazz loses a friend? I do not.”
“You make it sound like someone’s going to try and kidnap me from the heart of Autobot command,” you say, discomfitted, just as you hear wheels start to echo in the hall behind you.
You’d recognize that tiny, revving engine anywhere. Like a lawnmower powered by jet fuel. However, any delight you’d have taken in it is drowned out and smothered like a sad fire, Prowl’s words the bucket of ice cold shock you never wanted but probably need.
“Considering that I myself have had exactly that happen in the past, I am unwilling to dismiss the small percentage of risk when it can be accounted for.”
You really, really wish you knew where to look so you could at least feel like you’re staring at his face with your shock and alarm.
“You’ve--?” You can’t say it. Can’t get the words out, the danger he’s implied suddenly feeling way, way too real and present in a way that’s hard to put your finger on. Prowl’s not the first person you’ve gotten to know who’s admitted to some pretty traumatic past events, but this is the first time you have someone, let alone a metal space alien of nearly unfathomable power, telling you they were outright kidnapped.
And knowing Prowl, he is not joking.
He’s dead serious.
“Oh.”
“Do not make their jobs harder than they need to be.”
“R-right. ‘Kay,” you agree, and the seatbelt holding you down releases with a soft snick, then slithers out of the way as you shudder, and try not to let the ticklish sensation linger.
It hangs around anyways, that soft, kevlar friction brushing over with faint drag against your clothes as Prowl opens his door like the gentleman you’re convinced he isn’t.
“Thanks for the, um, the ride,” you manage as you quickly duck out from his low cabin, and get away from the door so he can shut it. Instead, however, Prowl flips his other door open, and you stumble several steps backwards as Swindle comes skidding to a halt well behind you, drifting past as his wheels squeal.
You’d like to look at his showy entrance. You’re even well aware that Swindle most likely hoped you would, because that mech loves showing off more than Jazz and Smokescreen do, and that’s saying something.
You’d like to… not nearly as much as you want to watch this.
You’re a little busy having a front-row seat to sci-fi magic unfold before your eyes, because after Prowl’s opened his doors up, his trunk pops open and the hood of his long front end lifts a fraction, before seams burst like straight-lined lacework all over his smooth, flawless body. The illusion of a nineties Dasun model becomes a whirlwind of rotating and flipping parts that readily expand and contract in on themselves, and you can’t help it. Nevermind that Prowl just pissed you off, scared you nearly witless, and made you fib to him.
Okay yeah he’s amazing, credit where credit’s due, you think with barely stifled awe, mesmerized at the way his familiar form assembles itself out of chaos. It’s an odd thing to see someone you see as representative of near flawless order and control; someone so capable of tracking patterns down to the most insanely precise of measured data, literally embodying the visual representation of pure chaos.
You’re sure there’s predictable and trackable organization in there somewhere, as panels flip and stretch and warp, and as his door wings seem to shudder and shake themselves out like butterfly wings, fresh from a chrysalis; they get bigger with each flick and twitch, and before you’ve even quite wrapped your mind around the realization that you’re watching Prowl transform, the last piece of his plating is slotting down into place with satisfying snicks and a whirring noise like spinning servos.
The noisy affair quiets down after the grill guard that spans the bumper adorning his chest locks into place and adjusts with a roll of Prowl’s shoulders, like someone settling the seat of a coat they just pulled on.
His nearest foot takes up the space where once he’d been a human-sized car.
Prowl, you making fucking physics look good.
You barely notice Swindle’s transformation sequence until you realize you’re belatedly aware that much more quiet, dainty little clicks and snicks sounded off behind you, and now you turn at the sound of his pedes clacking with piston-softened scuffs on the ground as he walks towards you.
“Awww no fair, you didn’t see my slide!”
You try not to fluster, unwilling to find out just now if it’s considered weird to them for you to be so fascinated by what they take for granted as an ordinary function of daily life.
“I… S-sorry, I was-- Uh, distracted. I’ve never seen one of the big guys transform before,” you admit.
“Wait, really?” Swindle asks, curiously.
You shrug.
“Spec Ops are already in bipedal mode whenever they come into the lounge,” you point out.
“Huh. Well, wait until you see hound transform. That’s somethin’ t’ see. Anyways, why’re you flagged as a high priority asset?” he wonders, scrutinizing you openly. Used to Swindle’s forward nature and his knack for changing topics on the turn of a dime, you just shrug, this time, feeling an odd mixture of sheepish and guilty.
“Er… ‘Cause Prowl thinks someone’s gonna try to kidnap me, I guess.”
Swindle scoffs.
“Not with me an’ Rewind tailing your aft. Hey, Prowl,” he calls, looking past you and drawing your reluctant gaze to turn towards the stern face of the mech you’d just been riding with. Prowl’s doors arrow behind his back with a comfortable, alert ease, offering no nuanced hints into his current mood except that he’s not remotely sleepy.
Having gained the SIC’s attention, Swindle abruptly puts an arm around you, and tugs you close to his side as you squeak, startled.
“Swindle,” the tactician acknowledges, as you try to remember how to breathe, because you’re swamped, once again, by conflicting emotions overwhelming you; the fierce joy and pleasant surprise of the warmth and posessive protection in Swindle’s grip, and the instinct-charged fear of realizing you’re caught between a metal frame and arm that could pinch your skin, crush bones, or generally maim you even quite by accident.
But he’s not.
You can smell the machine oil and clean grease of his fine-tuned mechanics, and you can hear the softest whispers of alien harmonic sounds that linger just on the edge of perception, muffled in part by his own rumbly engine. Delicate pistons make soft little adjustments as the servos in his complicated body rotate and adjust, and the articulated fingers curved over your upper arm feel absurdly comforting. Smooth, warm metal, gripping with restraint but without force. You could move away, if you wanted to. You could step out from the hard press of unyielding armor plate at your back where Swindle’s arm contacts your shoulder blades, or the bump of his thick elbow joint on your spine.
You stay put, quiet as a mouse, unsure how to process the seemingly sudden shift from ‘highly desired employee’ into ‘resource-guarded asset.’ You’re getting a one-armed hug out of the deal, though, even if half of you feels like you should remind Swindle you don’t really like being touched without warning.
You normally don’t, but you’re happy to let him stare up at Prowl’s face as blue eyes meet red lenses, and his little engine hums like he’s gearing up for a race.
Or maybe a fight.
“What’re the odds I’m lookin’ at?” Swindle asks plainly.
Prowl is silent for a moment as he holds the Minicon’s gaze.
“Zero-point-zero-two percent risk of immediate danger from infiltration.” Swindle’s grip on your arm relaxes as you hear the plates of his armor shift quietly, just the softest friction of smooth-moving mechanics and a quiet click of metal as he shifts his weight. “Expected range of two to three percent by the end of the week,” Prowl continues, but Swindle’s shoulders remain relaxed as you glance to the smallest of the mechs on base, trying, and failing, to picture that impish face in the midst of true danger; you hate imagining them fighting for their lives, hate knowing that the reality will always be worse than anything you could ever think. You… Hate the taste of bile in your throat, a sudden burn that comes twisted with an agonizing chill of dread down your body. The mere thought of Swindle in harm’s way is enough to hurt your heart, but the thought of him in danger because of you? You’re starting to wish Spec Ops hadn’t taken more than a passing interest in you as a peripheral asset, especially as Prowl keeps on doing what Prowl does best; killing you with numbers. “Thirteen-point-seven percent risk of social-based disruption, a fragile estimate; be on your best behavior, Swindle,” Prowl orders severely as you watch the exchange with wide eyes, and try to remind yourself that breathing is something that should be continuous but maybe not that fast. “Shall I provide you my predictions on how likely that is?”
Numbers man doing his number magic. Also, Prowl, the fuck do you mean expect that to jump to two to three percent risk?!
“Um… W-why will it get more dangerous with Swindle babysitting me?” you ask, alarmed. Swindle scoffs, but unlike you’d have expected, he doesn’t rise to Prowl’s bait. His engine rumbles unhappily, but there’s no heated quip or dismissive flippancy falling off your favorite prankster’s smart mouth.
It doesn’t escape your notice that the fingers carefully cupped over your arm flex slightly, like he wants to pull you closer but knows he can’t, because you do not bend the laws of physics like they can.
Prowl’s gaze meets your own from far, far above, staring down at you over the protrusion of his fussy bumper.
“Because you will be recognized as a desirable asset. It is unavoidable.”
“Oh…”
“C’mon, let’s go back to to the lounge,” Swindle urges, trying to turn with you as the tires in his shoulders start to rotate like he’s agitated. “Wanna debrief everyone and get you set up with Payload for new digs.”
You want to go to your room, close the door, and hide from the world. You’ve reached the NopeNopeNope.gif levels of nope today.
“That… Will not be necessary," Prowl interrupts, distinctly stiff as his door wings arrow back in a short, halted gesture. “Jazz has been assigned responsibility for arranging new lodgings.”
“New lodgings?” you protest, startled. “Wha--!”
“We handling it like Witwicky?” Swindle challenges flatly.
“Yes.”
Abruptly, the mech beside you perks, and his hand slides down on your arm before Swindle gently tugs, using the pressure on your elbow to urge you to side-step in front of him. Which you do, tongue too tangled up in all these big life changes happening way too fast. Jazz, I’ll never spill another secret again, I swear, you think numbly as two metal hands lay on your shoulders, Swindle standing tall and probably very proud looking behind you, because that’s how he is.
You don’t want a super soldier guarding you. Not that you don’t like Swindle or anything, but there’s something frighteningly real about this that makes the distant war seem far too close to home. Like it’s inside the walls, like no-where’s safe.
Unfortunately, Prowl’s very good at seeing the difference between a want and a need, and you’re not willing to tell the super-old-space-soldier that you know what’s best or what’s safest.
I never should have taken this job.
“Should I take her to Perceptor, first?” Swindle prompts. He’s gonna make the thing, yeah?”
Why are we going to nervous science man? Why am I getting new lodgings?
“No. Jazz will make those arrangements,” Prowl says as his tattle-tale wings lift slightly, and you can’t help but get the feeling he’s hiding something. Also, what does he mean, two to three percent?!
“A’ight, cool, so we’re foot-loose?” Swindle wonders.
“She has a social engagement. I am otherwise unaware of her schedule beyond working hours.”
“I’m-- I’m right here,” you blurt, trying to get a wrangle on your stunned-stupid state. “Why are-- Am I changing rooms?” you lament, because the current bunk room you had was literally perfect, insofar as a room on a military base could get. You had reliable warmth, a decent amount of noise suppression, and best of all, it was located exactly between the bathrooms and the secondary bay where your golf-cart waited, parked for you.
“Yeah, I ain’t--” and Swindle falls silent, turning to look towards the office door. Prowl’s already gazing at it intently as his doors flare a little wider, and you follow their attention to it, expecting to see Jackson or some other uniformed employee coming out.
Three seconds becomes five. Five, becomes eight. Before you’ve hit eleven, you start to wonder what’s wrong that they’re both staring at an empty door, before you see a familiar face appear behind the slim, latticed-reinforced window pane. Jackson’s easy smile is no-where to be seen until he steps out and finds your gaze after a cursory glance to your far more otherworldly company.
“Hey, wasn’t expecting company,” he greets pointedly, with a glance to Swindle.
“Don’t mind me,” Swindle quips, patting your shoulders. “I’ll just be doin’ my job,” and then he goes and nearly breaks your brain like Prowl’s so good at doing.
Oh. Oh… Jackson does not look happy. I am so not scoring a date today.
Swindle lets go of your shoulders before you hear a hiss of pistons and the whine of gears, and turn just in time to feel a rush of wind skate up your back as the red mech jumps.
You look up just in time to see him flipping and rotating in the air like a tiny tornado of shrapnel, all magnetized in on itself as it explodes outwards then sucks back in, and… Holy shit, Swindle. What?
You fumble with a startled jolt as shaky hands catch what drops out of the air, because you’re holding a tiny cassette in hand. Like. Like the old-timey kind that would go in the cassette player Prowl has on his fake-vintage interior. You’re holding what looks like space-age retro tech in your hands, because even though you recognize the distinct shape and form of this rectangular image, Swindle’s very… Very obviously still swindle.
His red, glossy plating is just as shiny and bright with a luminous glow of well painted gloss, standing out smarty against the black accents that peep out from every little seam. Two large, silver gears with red lights winking at you from three points within, make you wonder if he’s actually able to connect with a device like this.
“I don’t care what pocket you put me in as long as you’re not sitting on me,” comes his familiar voice, albeit quieter, like his voice was playing on an open speaker before, and now it’s projected off a tiny earbud.
“Um… Woah. Okay,” you say, fingers carefully curling over the warm plates of flattened armor, mind boggled. You… Were wildly not prepared for this. Somehow, you’re going to have to pretend you are, and you lift your gaze up to find Jackson, clearing your throat. “S-Sorry, I uh… I kinda had some work stuff come up today. Swindle’s, er…”
“He knows discretion.” Prowl’s clipped voice doesn’t seem to impress your work friend overmuch.
Some part of you would like to point out Prowl just challenged Swindle on his conduct not even twenty minutes ago, and the rest of you is aware this is the balance of their working relationship; Swindle’s personality lends itself to prompting him to cause tension, but no one doubts he knows how to do his job.
And his job…
…is guarding you.
~*~
Swindle’s gotta admit; this is probably the comfiest guard posting he’s ever taken, because he can’t remember a time he was surrounded by softness. There’s no harsh clicks or clacks against his plate that would send vibrations through his tight-wound joints; he doesn’t even need to feel any worry about if he’ll get scratches, not with the careful way a rubbery, padded texture grips him with a gentle firmness like floating on a cloud. Or at least what he always thought clouds should feel like, but touching his first one hadn’t been all that great an experience. Neither had the rust infection that followed, though that was less from the cloud itself than from his situation afterwards, wounded and alone.
So, yeah. He likes this a lot better. Likes a little less when he loses all sense of the environment around him but for a vague impression of space and depth, fuzzy on the edges, weighted with fake temperatures. Prowl’s not actually a cold being, but his mind can’t help but associate the way the razor-focused Cybertronian’s Spark with something clear and sharply cut, distinctly defined like winter’s crisp lines and stark brightness.
Then there’s the person carrying him. All warmth and shapeless form, her Electromagnetic-field hazy on the boundaries, bleeding hints of mood and status at him, and he doesn’t like most of it. She’s always so scared, but now she’s really scared. Whatever Prowl had told her, Swindle’s sure he did it with all the delicacy of a mallet to glass. They’re moving all of a sudden, easy to track his own sense of position in the environment through his coordinates matched to his own personal scans of the entire base, sections pulled up ready for his use in his local environment. Swindle would prefer to be on his own two pedes, but he can’t deny he isn’t curious to go along for the ride. The squishies always get comfortable, after a while-- forget he’s there.
Then he really gets the low-down on how things are actually going and what people think.
“...Alright, I can tell when something’s above my paygrade,” Jackson Wiles responds, and Swindle starts recording. “Well, let’s get the transfer handled. Klark’s waiting for the paperwork, I’ve got the barrel staged.”
“Y-yeah, uh… Right here,” and Swindle feels himself be pushed in his sightless existence, clocking the friction of soft fabric and heat against his plate. The weird, alien pressure of her skin brushes against his edges, before he hears the sound of paper being pulled free of cloth. “Feels a little silly; you gave it to me and now I’m bringing it right back,” his human friend jokes with an obvious attempt to ease the tension, but Swindle doesn’t much care if she recovers it or not.
Not after the message Prowl sent him on his drive down. Speaking of-- Swindle owes the shiny bastard a reply.
-=[ So aside from making my whole week before deployment ]
And he sends it off, well aware Prowl hates long messages because of how the string clutters his visual feed, and equally aware that the mech likewise hates when Swindle sends multiple in a row, he cheerily continues on, following up with;
-=[ Why do you suddenly care about our human? ]
He doesn’t wait. Swindle sends another message, listening to the sounds of his human walking as her uniform chuffs and rustles quietly, but loud against his micro-sized audials. Jackson’s making small talk and the door to the office is open, and Swindle wonders if they’ll make a stink about him being concealed or not.
-=[ And don’t tell me it’s because she’s a ‘critical asset’. What changed? ]
He’s surprised he doesn’t get an immediate reply from Prowl. Instead, he’s left hanging in suspense, listening to the squishies talk.
“Hey, Klark. Yeah, this is her,” Jackson introduces as Swindle feels out the room-- buzzing electronics that all match where they’re supposed to be in his mind’s map of the place. “Got a tag-along, but they’re not going in the depot, so it’s fine.”
“Tag-along, really? Which ‘bot?” comes the interested reply, and if Swindle had a face just now, he’d scowl. Instead, he has to restrain the urge to uselessly spin his gears.
It’s never gotten any easier, feeling like he’s treated like an object. Wasn’t easy to swallow down on Cybertron and it sure as frag hasn’t been easy facing it all over again, from an alien species only half-evolved from primordial goo.
“Swindle,” comes the honest answer. Aww, sweet Primus you’re too pure, Swindle thinks with only mild disgruntlement. Gonna have to teach you how to redirect, can’t be tellin’ everyone who’s with you just like that. “I mighta got my best friend sicced on me for being stupid,” she says wryly, like it’s some easy-peasy matter that’s got him riding along in her pocket.
“You got in trouble?” the other clerk asks, as Swindle casually runs a search through his limited cached data, seeking a match for the vocal imprint. Klark Dwainson. Yeah, that checked out.
“Sorta. Let’s just say I mighta got myself another Prowl-sanctioned lesson on expected work conduct. Apparently, my good manners aren’t quite to his lofty standards yet.”
Ooooooh I’m so using that against him. Nevermind, newspark. Keep talking.
-=[ Hey. Shorty’s being creative. Cover; remedial training. Also, answer, yeah? ]
This time, Swindle gets a rapid response.
-=[ 01111001 ]
Oh, frag. Prowl’s glitching? The binary response of a simple confirmation is as minimalist on conversation as the mech could get. It also painfully explained the delay in response. Swindle far rather would have had Prowl just being a purposeful aft in delaying, than actually be riding the struggle-bus.
-=[ You gonna see Ratchet? Want an escort? ]
He gets another rapid response as the humans do something with what sounds like sheaves
-=[ 01111001 01101110 ]
So, yes, and no. Which meant that it was bad enough for him to be concerned about it, but not so bad it was a real problem. Yet.
Except…
…if that were the case, then why was Prowl spitting binary pings at him, instead of talking normal?
~*~
Probability of--{{end script}
Prowl sends the command again, mentally grappling with the struggle of closing down a cascade of ping alerts and error notices that are flagging his logic tree. His TacNet had tried to run too great a scope of predictions on far too little data, resulting in instable formulas that shattered and readjusted with every variable tweaked, and there were no real constants.
23.973% instability.
His door wings want to droop to relieve some of the strain he’s under by the minute relaxation of his sensory net; Prowl keeps them locked into alert telecast, not wishing to broadcast his mental agony as he shuts down his TacNet with a forced reboot. The immediate result feels like an echoing antechamber in his head, the loss of some crucial, frame-deep part of himself that makes his nerves feel the discomforting sting of a loss of firm grounding. Like a foundation has been taken out from beneath his pedes, leaving him on unsteady, uncertain ground.
He remains standing in place, waiting, eyes trained on the door before flicking about the environment, taking in the empty hall and quiet security systems. There’s a resounding lack of input at the brief glance-- 87% reduction of data input. Processing reboot, initiating--{{end script}
Prowl nearly puts a hand to his helmet, before his wings twitch at the faintest of vibrations. A few moments later, and the door to the little office opens, and Spec Op’s Processor walks out, looking flustered.
89.9--{{end script}
Stop. Just. Stop. It’s irrelevant.
Negative; 97% priority tag. Conclusion: relevant.
I don’t care!
Nega--{{end script}
“Well, mission accomplished. Need me, to, um, stick around?” his company asks as she looks up at him.
“No.” He has no mental focus for more explanation. He just wants to get what he came for, and leave.
“Oh. Okay. Um… See you around, then. How far is it to walk from here to the main hangar?”
At this, Prowl looks away from the large door at the end of the hall, to the diminutive organic standing barely a two hand’s width from his pede. He weighs his options-- ##.973%^ string error 40%4%%%--{{end script}
Prowl opens his eyes, realizing he’d shut them with the mental barrage of another cascade of errors. TacNet is trying to force-reboot, drawing on CPU as he tries to cancel down the logic trees again.
“We are traveling in the same direction. Remain put; I’ll drop you off in the main hangar.”
Her face goes blank. Prowl suspects that-- 67.973% chance of flight. 7--{{end script}
Instead of addressing her, he simply starts walking towards the armored blast door as he catches the first tattle-tale vibrations of the internal mechanisms releasing their massive locks. He stops just outside the hazard tape that marks the gate’s moving hazard zone, and waits. Moments later, the door peels apart and swivels towards Prowl, before massive arms with swivel joints pivot it to lay up flush against the hall.
Behind him, in the softest of whispers, Prowl tilts his wings to better catch the fragile vibrations that tattle on the words so softly spoken. No doubt, the human thought he wouldn’t hear.
“Swindle, can we just go on a lift? There’s one in the last bay before this hall.”
That alone is irksome. I have offered safer means of transportation. The message he receives from Swindle a moment later, is even less pleasing.
-=[ Dude, she’s scared of you. The frag you do? ]
He’s not inclined to explain himself. He did nothing wrong.
-=[ Frag, ice man. Dude, she’s gonna cry. ]
“C’mon, please?” comes that quiet, pleading voice in the hall behind him. Prowl ignores it as he strides forward and into the main loading dock, eyes glancing to take in the heavy turrets set into the corners and the deep grooved grates below. This entire room hums with unpleasant currents of primitive electricity, and he can smell the heavy, metallic sweetness of Energon in the air. In front of this square inset that leads to a larger hall and room beyond, a single cart is being driven forward by the same human who’d supposedly been so eager to woo the femme now looking for an early egress.
-=[ Prowl you slagger! She’s crying. My human’s glitching and it’s your fault ]
That was unfortunate.
“Screw this,” comes a tiny curse, as Prowl tilts his wings, then restrains the urge to rotate them with the restless shift of cycling in his engine as he scowls. Indeed. No one wanted this headache, except perhaps Jazz. After a moment of reflection, his eyes tracking the cart on approach as he idly calculates the time he figures it will take for her to reach the end of the hall in an attempt to leave on foot, Prowl adds Swindle to that list.
“Alright, big guy.” Hardly a proper address. Prowl’s learned not to argue with every human on it, and the sooner he gets what he wants, the sooner he can leave. He has no desire to extend this exchange with conversation. “One keg of the good stuff… Don’t think I need to tell you how to use it, with Ratchet signing off on it.”
Ratchet, the chief medical officer whom the weepy Processor behind him had gone out of her way to contact, heading off follow-up work on a secondary approach with supportive evidence in hand. Prowl had not realized the medic’s voice would hold such sway with the humans; it certainly hadn’t before.
Which leaves him to acknowledge the most obvious difference.
With her speaking as our voice, they listen to our needs.
“Thank you,” he says simply, picking up the keg, and promptly tucking it to his chest to slip into his Subspace until he feels it click against his stored emergency rations. Unlike the femme he’s upset, this human doesn’t react to the feat, well used to it.
Prowl almost wishes he did. That flat, distrustful look is far less appealing than dazzled amazement.
With nothing further to say, he turns, and begins the process of walking out of the bay, waiting until the door has shut behind himself before he leans forward, and drops towards the ground with a light push of his pedes.
~*~
You’re tempted to start running when you hear a newly familiar, larger-than-life version of alien transformation echo down the metal hall from behind. That four-note melody plays just the same as it has before, and you can practically feel Swindle’s little boxy cassette-shaped self vibrating in your uniform’s inner pocket, like his engine’s somehow still online. Despite being able to fit in the palm of your hand.
I need a long, long nap. Too bad Prowl’s the only one with booze right now.
“Look, just let him take us to the hangar. We’ll get there so much faster than a lift, and those things have the worst sounding engines.”
His tiny voice should probably be making you laugh or giggle just now, but you hit your emotional endurance’s limit. The wet smears on your face that you’ve hastily dried on a sleeve are evidence enough of your broken composure, and all you want now is to find your bed and sleep.
“I don’t…” you shut your mouth as you hear tires rolling up behind, and the sound of a loud, not-so-idling engine as Prowl’s sleek form pulls up on your left. You shoot him the side-eye. “...I don’t want to. Thank you, but no.”
“It wasn’t an invitation,” Prowl asserts with a seemingly disembodied voice, if you could in any way shape or form get your brain to go back to the simple misconception that you’re looking at an ordinary vehicle. You’d so much prefer if the only exceptional thing about seeing what you are, was the fact Prowl looks like a rare classic car model in very much the same shape as the sporty forms you favor.
His passenger side door opens, and you twitch, coming to a stop, and stare at the beige interior with a flat expression.
You could be difficult about this. You could insist on walking next to him instead of getting inside, maybe piss him off enough he has to resort to picking you up, or irritate him by the slow pace of your tiny little human legs.
“Okay… Fine. But no seatbelt,” you state flatly, resisting the urge to wipe your face again, aware that will only draw more attention to your recent tears. You are not going through the mental gymnastics of your anxiety over a living restraint and his passive-aggressive habit of squeezing you for emphasis.
“That would be illegal, so, no. Get in.”
Oh my gods Prowl. You’re not actually a car or a cop, so car laws shouldn’t apply here!
“Hah! No, no, ask again. Ask the cop-bot to break rules,” Swindle chirps from your chest, really driving home the absurdity of your life in this moment, just now. I’m talking to a car with an alien in my pocket.
Prowl’s not actually a car, but that doesn’t make the image any less weird.
“I mean it. No seatbelt, it’s weird. I don’t-- I don’t want to feel like you have an arm around me or something. You have no manners with your straps,” you manage stiffly, but take a step towards the newly dreaded entrance of his low cabin. Prowl’s door opens just a little wider, flinching away when your fingers dare to come to touch the handle, before you remember yourself and jerk back.
“I am unaccustomed to human passengers. I will adjust.”
“Awww, don’t like a little bit of alt-mode bondage, guys? C’mon it’ll be fun. I’ll record the whole thing and we can ask Jazz to--”
Swindle’s crude humor is cut off by the sound of Prowl’s engine revving like a muscle car packed with an extra engine, nearly causing you to jump away from him.
“Enough. Get in, you are wasting my time.”
Aw, heck. Dammit.
You know what’s about to happen. Can feel the hot, stinging burn in your tear ducts as your face gets warm, your nose starts to tingle--
--the first fat teardrop slides down your face as you quickly look away from him.
“No seatbelt. You’re not a car, and the law says I have to wear a seatbelt when I’m in a car.”
There’s a long beat of silence. Swindle doesn’t say anything.
“Fine. Now get in.”
Without hesitation, you duck down and plop onto his passenger seat without any grace, just flopping down with what you hope is a rude lack of care. It only takes a few moments to arrange your skirts and tug them out of the way of prowl’s door, and then its swinging shut. You’re once again sealed inside this queasy time-trap of disguised bio-tech, and can’t resist the urge to bring your hands up to fold them protectively over the warm spot on your chest, just over your heart. You’re deeply glad Swindle hasn’t chosen to make any jokes over the fact he’s technically in your breast pocket, but if the mini-sized Cybertronian has any thoughts on the matter, he hasn’t said.
You do, however, feel oddly better with his warm hum under your hands as you try to settle down, fidgeting on Prowl’s seat, feeling absurdly short compared to your massive surroundings as he rolls forward with smooth grace.
“I take it that you have altered your plans for the evening,” he starts after a few minutes of silence, and you scoff lightly. No shit, Sherlock.
“Yeah. Pretty sure I had help ruining it,” you mutter, looking out the window and pretending it’s not still technically looking right at him, since you’re sure the seeming glass before your face isn’t actually glass. Can he feel that if I poke it? Probably.
“An unintended outcome.”
“Says the guy who runs probabilities like it’s a hobby,” you grouse, mood blackening as you feel yourself grow sour again. At least anger is much more manageable than the emotions that had been squeezing your tear ducts like lemons.
You try not to, but a sniffle escapes. You hate that runny feeling in your nose.
“I will admit that I knew it was a possibility.” Which means you could have taken pains to avoid it, you aft.
“Someone wanna fill me in?” Swindle chirps in his tiny voice, and you lift your hands slightly, letting the sound escape from the pocket you’ve tucked him safe inside.
“I was gonna hang out with a friend,” you state flatly. “It’s better this way anyways,” you say, bitter, and even though some part of you actually agrees with that sad logic, the rest of you is railing against it. I was so happy. I was looking forward to that. “I’m not exactly good dating material, anyways,” you mutter.
“Wait wait wait, hol’ up,” Swindle chirps, as you slump in Prowl’s seat until you can only just barely peek out through his window, not wanting anyone to see you sitting inside his cabin. “Dating material? You were tryna’ get hitched?”
A puff of breath leaves your nose.
“No. I was open to the idea, though,” you admit, lamenting the way Jackson’s face had been so closed down the entire time you were there. Uncomfortable, you think, with your unexpected company. I promised him it’d just be Prowl. I guess I’m good at breaking promises today. Who else could you manage to piss off before bedtime? So far, you were two for two, three if you decided to count Prowl, but Prowl was always pissed, or so you’ve been told.
After his attitude today, you’re inclined to agree.
“As you said; it is better this way,” Prowl chimes in, driving your temper right back into a sparking fuse as you glare at his radio, watching the gauges above it move.
“Shut up. I don’t care what you think.”
“That is exactly the opposite of what you said, walking into my office earlier.”
You want to throw something at him. Restraining yourself from childish tantrum, you cross your arms tightly to avoid the temptation to find out what happens if you smack his clutch.
“Yeah, run me the calculations for how likely it is my opinion of you has dramatically changed since this morning,” you growl.
“Ooooh yeah, you pissed her off, Prowl.”
“Your commentary is not helpful, Swindle,” you snap.
“Fine, fine, don’t pay attention to the combiner in the room. I’ll play dumb grunt muscle.”
“That’s not what I meant,” you say with a sigh, closing your eyes, and leaning back into the cushions. I need to find a real Dasun to ride in. Then I could actually enjoy the comfort.
You’re not sure what good grace Prowl finally found within himself, but he stays quiet the rest of the drive. You’re only half surprised he doesn’t stop in the hangar; your temperamental chauffeur brings you directly to where your golf cart had been left, parked outside his office.
“Thanks for skipping the seatbelt,” you say as you get out, because you can’t bring yourself to thank him for the ride itself. Even if it was much faster than walking to a lift station, and waiting for one of the platform carts full of rows of bench seats to arrive and haul your ass through the tunnels of this massive base.
Prowl says nothing. Without a word, the door swings shut with a soft latch and quiet whomph of air pressure as he seals his cab, and then he drives off like you slapped his bumper.
“Prick,” Swindle chirps from your shirt. “Hey, I’m sorry you’re all weepy and I can’t like, hug you or something. But don’t let Prowl get under your skin like that; he’s this way with everyone,” your shrinky-dink’ed friend tries to console you as you climb into the driver’s seat.
The steering wheel feels oddly cold and lifeless under your hands. The engine doesn’t sound right, as you key it on, and ignore the firm, plasticy feel of the hard seat you’re now sitting on. You hate to admit it, but it was much, much more comfortable to sit in the warmth of Prowl’s cushioned, vintage-themed cab.
“Yeah,” you say, dejected. “So I’ve heard.”
Notes:
I'M SO SORRY IF YOU WERE EXCITED FOR A CUTE JACKSON SCENE
I WAS SO READY TO WRITE A HILARIOUS COMEDY OF THEM GOING ON A NOT-DATE WITH SWINDLE AS A LIVE COMMENTAORanyhow i'm happy with how this went instead. Jackson will get more screen time later, but for now, he and Reader can try to navigate their little hitch of expectations, hehehe~
Chapter 7: Swindle
Notes:
Swindle, our beloved asexual alien friend
Reader is, fortunately, familiar with Minicons being Minicons
Chapter Text
##.9--{{end script}
Rebooting
…system configured; request input
##.97--{{end script}
Rebooting
…system configured; request--{{end script}
Safe from scrutiny behind the doors and walls of Ratchet’s medbay, Prowl clutches his head in a hand, fingers scraping with soft clicks against his helmet. He can feel the hot spot beneath his palm, linked with the correlating sensation of a glitching helm-ache. He keeps his right optic clenched shut against his TacNet’s attempts to hijack data from the reconstructed organ; unable to disable the program’s access entirely, Prowl can at least minimize the load on his CPU by denying stimuli.
“This is not working,” he says through grit teeth. “I would prefer if you simply disabled--”
“I am not terminating the only code sequence that keeps that fragging chip from burning through your entire cortex and shorting out your emotional processing center,” Ratchet snaps like Prowl has asked him to commit high treason. The medic throws something down in a bin with a harsh clatter, and Prowl doesn’t have to look to know he’s discarding scorched metal. Pieces of his circuitry that failed to handle being overclocked when his systems began cascade glitching. “Frag it all, Prowl, I don’t care what you think of your own lacking personality, I assure you, you have one,” the medic growls, and turns to check a monitor, then adjust a knob before he turns to check the cables connecting to Prowl’s frame.
He holds perfectly still, body magnetized to the slanted medical table, as the disconcerting feel of electrical connections tickle under his plating, connected to sensitive nerves. The hardline jacked directly into the side of his neck and the three separate lines running out of his chassis are far more uncomfortable, and no less familiar.
It’s not his first time letting Ratchet poke around in his code, tidying up messes not even Prowl could wrap his mind around solutions to.
“I am aware of the risk. That is why we have installed the pacifist protocols,” he responds flatly, unwilling to speculate overmuch on how he feels about the idea of becoming a mindless killing machine. A factual drone, piloted by an algorithm so complex as to appear capable of higher thinking-- and limited by its utter lack of a real soul.
TacNet, without any moral checks in place, without any guidance of how to set goals and what ones to choose from a range of variables prompted by external influence? It would default to base programming. It would default to whatever numbers were most favorable, and if Prowl’s processor survived the ordeal without shorting out entirely, then it would make use of his frame.
It was, after all, spliced into every single system in Prowl’s body.
He does not flinch when Ratchet throws a tool at the berth that bounces off the metal with a spray of sparks, aware the medic has flawless aim, and equally aware of how Ratchet chooses to display his emotions in theatric temper.
“As if the only fragging thing I’m worried about is making sure you don’t kill anyone else!” Ratchet shouts, not quiet yelling, but probably not far off from it as he expressively spreads his arms wide, the white and red plating catching the glow from his devices. The overhead lights are off, a small mercy for Prowl’s overtaxed systems. “Scrap. You clueless slagger, I don’t want to lose you, either,” he snarls, coming closer until he can glower in Prowl’s face directly. “I’m running the program again, deal with the helm-ache. Something in your memory cache is triggering an alert, but I lose it before the cascade errors clog the code.”
Prowl closes his only open eye, and lets out a deep, unhappy invent.
Running Ratchet’s diagnostic means letting TacNet have it’s way with his systems again. An unpleasant feeling like self-cannibalization of his code as it scrapes through his thoughts, his sensory input, every inch of his frame under sudden scrutiny because there’s something it wants to figure out.
Prowl’s just as happy to let it go.
~*~
“You wanna talk about it?” Swindle asks as you close the door to your room, having left your golf cart parked in the little taped-off space against a wall that you’d marked out when the thing had first been assigned to you. Getting permission to park it near the entrance to the human residential hall had been more difficult than anticipated, and you don’t feel too great knowing the effort is soon to be rendered moot.
Wherever your new room is gonna be, you doubt you’ll want your vehicle parked in the same spot. At this point, you’re tempted to get yourself a reliable two-wheeler, something you can more easily park in odd places and no one’s going to feel so bothered about it.
If the thing’s parked behind your chair in your office, no one walking by is going to have a complaint to say, because they’re not going to see it at all.
“Not really,” you admit, trying to gauge how you feel right now, having company in a space you’ve never brought someone into. Your room is a spartan affair, what little knick knacks you possess all arranged on the thin shelf that runs from one corner to the other just below ceiling height on the short end the wall. The rectangular space holds only a bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and a massive bean bag you’d won in an office game.
I should have kept my old office, you think glumly, miserable to think you’d actually be willing to hear Witwicky’s unpredictable pen clicks again, if it meant untangling yourself from this messy situation.
Unfortunately, that’s a daydream.
“So, my plan is to get ready for bed then zonk the fuck out,” you explain tiredly, toeing your shoes off by the door before you pad over to your bed, and sit down on the rumpled blankets. You’ve accumulated quite the collection since moving in; none of them match, and all of them are completely different kinds of fabric. The pile of pillows by the head of the bed are just as eclectic. “What do you wanna do? Sorry you’re stuck on babysitting duty,” you apologize softly, slipping a hand into your uniform top. Your fingers dip down into the long locket, and you deftly fetch your miniaturized friend, wondering what it’s like for him to be so… So small.
Is it at all like how you feel, being around his larger kin?
“I’ve got some data to process so I’ll hang out. Rewind already bugged your room so even if I do decide to run a defrag cycle with some recharge, no one’s getting by us.”
A chill runs down your spine. Your voice comes out hushed, even though you know you’re theoretically alone.
“By ‘bugged my room,’ do you mean there’s like-- microphones and stuff in here, now?” That’s distinctly unnerving, and causes you to look around the space you’d thought was wholly untouched.
Someone was in here touching stuff? I can’t even tell. That’s kinda freaky.
“Two cameras in here and three in the hall, and a few mics. Nothing much,” says the little spymaster you’ve been carrying around in a pocket.
Nothing much? Yeah, Swindle, we have different definitions of that.
You sigh. You’re not really that surprised at this point, and you’re too exhausted to feel much more than a resigned acceptance that you don’t like it, but it is what it is. The lion of your temper can’t even bring itself to lift its head off crossed paws.
“Alright. Well. Um. Where do you want me to set you?”
“Your pocket’s fine,” Swindle’s tiny voice chirps. Is he planning on staying a little cassette the whole time?
You blink.
“Oh. Um… I mean, I could set you by my pillow? I don’t sleep in my uniform. I’m going to get pyjamas on.”
“Oooooooh you’re gonna change your kibble?” Swindle asks, sounding eager. “Can I watch?”
All your thoughts screech to a halt at his innocent enthusiasm. A second later, you mentally pinch yourself with the reminder than Swindle’s an alien who shapeshifts.
“Um… Does ‘kibble’ mean clothes?” you wonder hesitantly, pretty sure he’s not asking you about dog food.
“All the fussy stuff that makes up your visual aesthetics, your outfit,” he confirms.
You clear your throat.
“Most humans would probably freak out at you for asking that,” you start carefully, aware that you were one lacking iota of restraint away from embarrassed offense, yourself.
“Huh? Why? No one’s ever complained about it,” he answers, sounding truly baffled. With images of Swindle peeking into people’s rooms as they change, you put a hand to your face, and give a whole-body sigh through your nose. I’m too tired to deal with this.
“Most people associate nudity-- not wearing clothes --as either sexual, or just deeply intimate. It’s very… vulnerable. In this country’s culture, men and women usually change in separate rooms.”
There’s a long pause.
“Is this ‘cause you’re a femme?” he asks, like he’s suspicious about something.
“...Yeah, kinda,” you admit.
“Uh-huh. Well, jokes on you, I don’t actually have a gender,” Swindle says, surprising you. “All cold-construct here, and I don’t really care what I get called, so humans saying my voice sounds male is whatever. Speaking of,” he continues, as you blink rapidly, “Ya keep saying ‘most people.’ So, what’cha actually think? You, not some spacy statistical average. You’re as bad as Prowl.”
That makes you flinch, taken aback, staring at the glossy little alien cassette in your hand as your brows furrow.
“I’m not spitting numbers out at you.”
“Maybe not, but you are dodging my question with an info-dump.”
You roll your eyes. You’re not dodging his question, you’re trying to get yours answered, too.
“I don’t really care, as long as it’s not sexual. I change in front of friends I’m comfy with, it doesn’t bug me. Figure drawing classes kinda yeeted that squeamishness out a window. Bodies are just bodies, context makes all the difference.”
“Yeah, I don’t got any interest in that,” he dismisses with ease that honestly, soothes what little nerves you had prickling up over this. “Whatcha mean about figure drawing?” he wonders immediately.
You rub your ankle with a foot through your socks, flexing the stiff joints. There’s a few disconcerting clicks as it pops with release, freed from the confines of your shoes.
“I used to be really big into wanting to be an artist when I grew up-- Unfortunately, doesn’t really pay the bills unless you can make yourself stand out from the crowd, and the world has no shortage of artists,” you sigh, wistful. “Anyways-- Figure study classes had nude models who would pose so we could draw them, and learn how to draw people. I was so nervous signing up for the class, but honestly? It was chill.” You shrug, then admit, “That said, kinda feel weird you asked to watch; I can guess, but… Why does it interest you?”
Though Swindle has a crass sense of humor, he’s never struck you as a flirty mech. He likes saying things for shock value, and he’s never once given you the impression of gunning for an interspecies entanglement of the intimate kind. Thank goodness. That’d be so weird.
“We might change forms, but our armor is always the same. What we turn into is always the same,” he answers, not really surprising you. “But you guys change your frame coverings daily, and you have so many! It’s wild. That’s like… Golden ages of Cybertron type stuff, when mechs actually had time for scrap besides killing each other and not dying.
“So, yeah, it’s pretty freaky and kinda fascinating,” Swindle summarises. “If I wanna change my armor out, that’s a trip to the lab and like a week of re-learning how all the parts move. I’d offer to turn around if it bugs you, but Rewind’s gonna see you on the cameras anyways, sooo.”
You snort.
“As long as you’re not sending the videos to Prowl, I don’t care,” you decide with a roll of your eyes at the thought, getting up. Rewind isn’t a mech you know well, but you’ve met her in passing and know she’s more interested in collecting knowledge than sharing it.
Swindle lets out a sputtering laugh.
“I mean, wouldn’t do that unless there was a reason to, but now I’m curious. You coulda said anyone, why Prowl?”
Ba-bump. Your heartbeat feels very distinct, all of a sudden.
Swindle has this lovely way of asking questions about behaviors you weren’t even consciously aware could mean anything deeper than something to move on from. Inconsequential.
The sudden beating of your heart as it starts to race, is about as alarming as it was to have the mech himself bluntly tell you to hold still so he didn’t cause injury, transforming into his vehicle mode right beside you.
“I mean, I don’t want you sending clips to anyone,” you mutter, tilting Swindle in the light cautiously. “Is this weird for you? Being a little cassette-looking thing. You’re so… Small,” you remark, resisting the urge to rub a thumb against the smooth plates. What does this feel like, for him? Being folded up into a little device without face or recognizable features beyond base material?
“I meeeeeeeean it’s normal for me ever since I swapped my drill mode for this. Way easier to make reports and get around unnoticed. Just make sure you never put me somewhere I can’t fit if I transform, I doooooon’t like being trapped. Kinda claustrophobic. Being locked in a tool box for half a millennia will do that to ya.”
You’re vaguely aware that Swindle’s earliest memories of life aren’t… Kind. Being used as a workshop tool and kept forcibly locked into alt mode didn’t sound pleasant, and you can’t even begin to imagine how bad its messed with his psyche.
“Only nice, open spaces for you, then,” you agree.
“Nah, I like being cozy. I just don’t like being trapped,” he distinguishes. “Hey, pop me in an actual cassette player sometime! I’ve got some cool songs you’d like, and Jazz and Blaster gave me their newest mix-tape release.”
You want to pursue that train of thought, but the bed beneath you is calling your name, and your mind feels like every thought is traversing through sluggish goo.
“Mm’kay,” you agree. “I’m setting you on the pillow for now. Imma change,” you decide, but before you can so much as stand, Swindle’s little cassette form ripples.
You yelp as it starts to wriggle and fracture apart like a pixelated fractal, rapidly expanding as the panels keep folding outwards like infinite origami, the red plates expanding and reforming. The miniature whirlwind of metal all but leaps from your hands, probably a good thing since you were upsettingly close to dropping him in surprise.
This is never not going to be so freaky-cool.
A moment later, and Swindle’s got two pedes on the ground and his head is flipping up from inside his expanded chest, before everything starts snugging up tight to his sleek, war-built frame.
“Oh woah, she wasn’t kidding, it is kinda dreary in here,” he remarks, looking around, and cluing you in to the fact Swindle probably hasn’t seen inside your room even though Rewind most certainly has. Also, you don’t think he can see anything while in cassette mode.
“I… Didn’t want to waste money on decorating,” you admit with a shrug. It’s hands down the most spartan residence you’ve kept in your entire life. “I’m saving up so I can buy a little house someday. I’ll put my energy into making it all pretty, then.”
“Huh,” he remarks, then with a familiar lack of any sense of boundaries, starts poking around your room.
If he were anyone else, Cybertronian or not, you’d be so annoyed right now. Since it’s Swindle, and Swindle’s Swindle, you just watch for a moment as he curiously flicks the switch of your desk lamp a few times, then picks up different objects to scrutinize them. You twitch when he opens the slim, suspended drawer on the minimalist, work-issued desk, then raise your eyebrows as he picks up an entire sheaf of papers, and casually ruffles through them, before setting them back down exactly where he’d taken them from.
“You uh… Just gonna make yourself at home, then?” you ask, remembering the day he’d done exactly the same thing to your new office.
“I’m updating my spacial files, can’t see stuff when I’m in cassette mode so knowing where every little thing is and what it feels like helps me match sounds and vibrations to stuff. Also, yeah, I’m totally snooping,” he says without shame, closing the drawer before picking up your pen holder, and rattling the utensils in it. He sets it down just as quickly, then crouches down to look underneath the desk, staring at the underside of it. Not the space under it, the actual underneath of the thing.
Bemused, you leave your alien friend to his explorations as you get up and walk to the tall, beige wardrobe. Nothing special, it’s certainly functional enough as you open one side of the wide cabinet, and are met with the sight of shelves and half the visible hanging space. Folded clothes and a few pairs of your favorite shoes are neatly organized, and you don’t see a single thing amiss. Listening to the sounds of Swindle picking up your pillows to examine like he’s fluffing them out for bed, you open a drawer that’s dedicated to absolutely nothing but whatever set of nightwear you’re using at the time. Right now, you pull out a long shirt and a pair of loose shorts, the fabric soft and slinky as you set them on a higher shelf for easy reach.
“I’m gonna warn you now, don’t open the box under my bed,” you tell your nosy company as you start undoing the eye-hooks that keep your split uniform top closed. “I’m not responsible for scaring you for life.”
“Psh,” Swindle says, and you hear him abandon your bedding as the sound of metal clicks and hissing pistons say he’s walking a little further from you, and crouching down. The soft scrape of cardboard on tile floor follows.
You’re gonna learn things about me you never wanted to know, Swindle.
You shrug the over-shirt off, leaving yourself in a white tank top as you shake the fabric out, then open the other side of your wardrobe and reach for the empty hangar from this morning.
There’s a soft scuff of a lid opening, and then Swindle’s engine sounds like it stalls, the gears grinding as his pistons hiss, and you hear your box of personal belongings be snapped shut and slid right back under the bed.
“What the frag!” he cries.
You can’t help the smirk that crawls across your face as you peel the tank top off, then grab your oversized T-shirt you wear for a nightgown. The voluminous fabric feels like wearing a blanket as you give your hips a shimmy to free it from gathering on your waist, and then you discreetly unhook your skirt from underneath, letting the fabric drop. Completely covered by your shirt, you pick up the shorts.
“I warned you,” you answer with amusement, feeling your face warm. “That’s what you get for going through a ladies’ stuff.”
“Yeah, no, that’s gross,” he whines. “That thing won’t even fit, why do you just keep it in a box all creepy like? It looks like you cut off someone’s spike for a trophy!”
You splutter out a wheeze. From context, you can guess what a ‘spike’ is, but his reaction is far too rare an opportunity to pass up. Swindle, flustered? Didn’t think anything could phase this mech.
“Contrary to your assumption, I have it because it does fit,” you say with satisfaction, stamping down your own flash of embarrassment in favor of making him regret causing it to begin with. “It’s in a box so it’s not just sitting there on my desk for anyone to see. That’d be even more awkward.”
“Ugh. Alright, fine, I shoulda listened. That’s in my memory files now, ugh.”
You snicker, in a slightly better mood from humor as you slip on your shorts, then start rifling through your hanging clothes, trying to decide which skirt to lay out for tomorrow.
“I’m gonna go use the bathroom, then it’s bed time for me,” you announce, pulling down a long, shimmery black skirt that has enough fabric it twirls when you spin in it. You lay the heavy fabric on the upper shelf that holds a neatly stacked pile of folded tank tops, then close the wardrobe. A thought strikes, and you grimace. “Please tell me I’m allowed to go to the bathroom by myself.”
“Psh. You’ll have as much privacy as you can get,” Swindle says, and you turn around just in time to see him flip forward into his transformation sequence, and his little shiny self falls toward the bed. He hits the blankets with a deceptively light landing, certainly not the weight of his full sized self.
Physics, why do we even bother trying to define you like you care about rules?
“Can you see things in this form?” you wonder, hesitant.
“Kinda, but not really. It’s not like seeing things with my optics-- Imagine closing your eyes but you still know the space you’re standing in, even if you can’t actually see it. I know the general area around me and I can tell who’s moving in it as long as they’re not cloaking their EMF.”
Passingly familiar with the term, you nod. Dude has electrical sniffy senses.
“Alright, that’s fine, then,” you agree, and pick him up. After a moment’s consideration, you open your wardrobe and grab a garment you’d bought intending to wear in the fall; it’s pretty blue wool has languished in your closet, neither up to code for your work uniform nor needed since you haven’t left base in months. Pulling the comfortable trench coat style jacket on, you slide Swindle into the right-hand pocket. “Comfy?”
“Liked the other pocket better. This one smells like dust and dry wood.”
You snort, amused, having never once had a reason to consider the pockets of your clothes through the eyes of a real estate agent.
“Sorry. More discreet than just holding you in my hands though. My pyjamas don’t have pockets.”
“Whatever. Hey, before we’re out in the hallway, I gotta ask-- What exactly happened between you and Prowl? I ain’t seen him that worked up in a while, and you’re good at canning emotions, but I think you were like one wrong word away from totally glitching out today.”
Your good mood immediately plummets.
“Yeah, see,” Swindle continues before you’ve even properly absorbed his request for information, “That’s what I mean. Your ‘field is as sad as Bumblebee getting told he can’t leave the garage at Witwicky’s.”
You’d much rather ask about that than answer his question.
“Witwicky lives off base?” you wonder, surprised.
“What? No,” Swindle scoffs. “That was like five years ago, when he was still in highschool. Things have been way better on ‘Bee since his squishy friend moved on base, I think even Optimus was ready to intervene at that point. But that’s not what I asked you,” he follows up, dashing both your concerned curiosity, and your illusions of having redirected the Minicon’s focus.
You close your wardrobe up, but don’t move for the door to leave, just yet.
“He just… Pushed too many buttons, today,” you mutter. “Things were fine until we went to see Jackson to pick up an order that needed brass to authorize,” you hedge, unsure if Swindle knows what, exactly, Prowl was there to pick up. “He…” you hesitate, unsure if you should say anything, then sigh again, dejected. “He made me tattle on Jazz. I guess Prowl wasn’t included in the bubble of secrecy.”
“What?” Swindle sounds confused. “Hang on, I’ll comm him.”
“Wait, what--?!” You immediately panic, and fumble for your pocket, pulling Swindle out to hold in front of your face as if that will make him understand your panicky expression what-so-ever. “No, don’t call Prowl!”
“Not Prowl, Jazz,” Swindle chirps.
“Don’t-- Don’t tell Jazz!” you practically wail, and pull Swindle close to your chest, heart hammering, not sure what to do as you curl around the tiny Minicon who’s about to initiate social armageddon way too early. “I-- I wanna tell him myself.”
“Phft. He probably already knows.”
“I--”
“Dude. If Jazz got you in trouble with Prowl, then he probably meant for it to happen.”
Chapter 8: Panic! in the Medbay
Notes:
Ratchet being Ratchet and Prowl being Prowl
the only thing this chapter is missing is a flipped table. Hmmm, one day.... one day I'll get to write that scene....
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Prowl.”
He doesn’t open his eyes at Ratchet’s flat voice. His audials feel like they’re ringing with phantom noise he knows isn’t there, a result of the electrical overstimulation that’s overclocked all his systems.
“Prowl. For frag’s sake, answer me, or--”
“I am awake.”
The medic lets out a huff of relief as his vents discharge a blast of tension off his frame, and still, Prowl keeps his optics shut.
“Good. Tell me if this does anything,” the medic instructs. Prowl has no idea what was changed, but he knows the result.
Agony.
He jerks on the table, gears winding uselessly against the force of the magnets keeping his back firmly secured as his arms jerk, and fingers seek out the strange twinge in his chest. It feels like a current shorts out inside his Spark chamber.
“Pain.” It’s all he has the focus to get out, riding the aftershocks as whatever Ratchet did shotguns through his systems like a virus.
Ratchet scoffs at him.
“Well, I have bad news and I have good news. Which do you want, first?”
“Bad.”
Ratchet’s engine rumbles in time with the medic’s deep chuckle, and Prowl immediately realizes that he’s not going to like what’s said. More than usual.
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with you.”
The state of my current condition would suggest otherwise.
Prowl onlines his optics to give the medic a flat stare, ignoring the stinging pain and alerts it causes to clutter his HUD as he dismisses them as a batch.
Ratchet ignores his unamused glare, busy looking at a datapad as the medic’s silver finger idly scrolls down whatever document he’s viewing.
“Your TacNet’s flagged something in your cached personal packets as critical, but you have it flagged as a restricted asset, and it’s causing a loop of errors; TacNet is trying to access the packets, and your native firewalls are preventing the access.”
And you said there was nothing wrong. If he had the energy to, Prowl might consider rolling his eyes.
“And?” he prompts, impatient. The longer he stays in medbay, the more he’ll have to catch up on when he leaves.
“Well, that’s the bad news,” the medic huffs. “I can’t fix something that’s working the way its supposed to, and I can’t suppress your TacNet’s fixation on it.”
“The good?” Prowl prompts, letting his eyes drift shut again as his helmet rests against the medical slab, engine sluggish.
“This isn’t the first time this has happened, so I already know how to address it. You’re certain that it’s the little human prompting the glitch in your code?”
Prowl scowls.
“Yes.”
Ratchet hums. When he speaks, he sounds thoughtful, but that doesn’t ease Prowl’s growing dissatisfaction any.
“Then we’ll handle it just like we handled the errors Jazz threw up in your TacNet. Microdose on the stimulus until your systems adjust.”
Prowl’s scowl deepens. He suspects Ironhide’s influence, and opens his optics again to glare at Ratchet.
“I disagree. Jazz was worth the effort.”
Ratchet spares him a flat, unamused look.
“And how did that requisition for Hi-grade go for you? Heard you had some help prying some from the humans’ oily little fingers.”
Prowl’s engine kicks on with an unhappy rumble before he shuts the response down, sorely missing his TacNet’s suppression of his emotive responses. A waste of Energon, spinning his gears for no greater purpose than to unwantedly telecast his internal thoughts.
“Before you answer that,” Ratchet interrupts as Prowl opens his mouth to speak, “I’m going to remind you the alternative is opening the archived data packet”
Remembering the last time they had done exactly that, Prowl recoils on reflex. He remembers the pain of overwhelming emotional intensity, the confusion; he remembers feeling like something crucial about himself he’d never known was suddenly revealed outside appropriate context of the memory itself. Disconnected. Jarring. Like learning something he should have known, should have known, but it was so outside the realm of his daily experiences, even acknowledging he’d felt such things felt like a lie. The incongruency of factual data contrasted against his own perception of himself was so disjointed, it simply wasn’t worth the helm-ache.
Or the weeks of uncertainty and doubt it had left him to muddle through, frivolous and unnecessary thoughts turned loose in his conscious cortex like a swarm of scraplets.
“No.”
Ratchet scoffs, unsurprised.
“It’s your choice,” the medic says like he very much wishes it wasn’t, “But I’m going to remind you, from past experience, we both know avoidance doesn’t work. Do you really want to fight this for months on end like you did with Jazz?”
Something twists inside Prowl’s chassis, and he bars his teeth in an open grimace, fangs flashing in the dim light of medical equipment. Metal scrapes harshly against his palm, until Prowl remembers to relax his grip so he does not crush his own plating with the force of clenched fists.
“That was… Different.”
Ratchet’s engine cycles over into a downshift of gears before revving right back up into an irritable idle. He falls nearly silent, then, and Prowl’s engine immediately cycles up with temper as the medic lifts his gaze from the datapad, and meets Prowl’s optics.
Don’t you dare say it.
“Right. And so was Praxus.”
Something pulls painfully as Prowl jerks against the magnetic table in reflexive need to sit up, before he reaches with a free hand to hit the button on the side of the berth to de-magnetize himself.
Ratchet moves to step in front of him, blocking the way out with his bulk, expression stony.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he starts, watching with open distaste as Prowl starts decoupling the lines from his body, closing down his firewalls around each intrusion as he pushes the medic’s invasive programs out of his systems. “But use your head, Prowl. Think for a moment.”
“I am thinking of going to my habsuite for recharge.”
“A good plan,” the medic agrees gruffly. “But first, consider that my point here is you don’t know what is in that file, and it could be important. Better you view it in a safe location, with some control over the matter, than have your TacNet rip it open without choice.”
Unlikely.
TacNet was persistent, but Prowl’s aware that the most likely outcome is simply being sent back to Ratchet’s med slab for cleaning up cascade glitches, isolating the logic trees causing errors.
“Move.” Prowl yanks the last line out from the side of his neck, cool air rushing in over the bare connections with a stinging tickle against the hot metal. A klik later and the port cover seals over, and he rolls his shoulder to dissolve the lingering irritation as he lets Ratchet’s diagnostic cable swing free, dangling from the ceiling mount.
“You realize I have the authority to order you to address this?” Ratchet presses, blackening Prowl’s mood as he narrows sore optics. “In fact, I should. You’ve said it yourself-- You’re too valuable to let something like this risk causing an interruption in your duties.”
Prowl opens his mouth to speak, and Ratchet talks right over him.
“Tell me TacNet’s calculation for how likely it is this is going to be a continuous problem.”
It’s like being hacked through signal instead of hardline. One moment Prowl’s thoughts are clear of TacNet’s influence, and the next, he can feel the sudden puncture into his conscious thinking. Intrusion. The hungry program scraping along his thoughts as Prowl’s eye twitches and his engine revs, and he yearns for some way to express the pent-up emotion, the sheer, impotent rage and frustration he feels at being so helpless. His one, shining strength, his only function of any true purpose, the reason he’s where he is in Autobot command--
--and his mind, his greatest asset, is buckling under itself.
~*~
Ratchet isn’t afraid, exactly, of being between Prowl and his objective. More accurate would be to say that he’s wary, because he knows that between them, it’s not much of a chore for Ratchet to put the light-frame tactician in his place, right back on the med berth. He’d far rather avoid such a struggle, however, because it usually resulted in Prowl’s sensory array taking the brunt of impact, leaving door hinges sore and, if he really thrashed, possibly damaged and in need of repair.
For all Prowl’s reputation as a mech of cold, Sparkless logic, Ratchet knows better than any the truth. He’s very emotional. A mech of his discipline did not stick with the painstaking path they’d chosen without some kind of guiding compass, without conviction, and Ratchet knows the Second in Command is as passionate as any of High Command.
He’s just better at hiding it.
Right now, however, Ratchet’s wondering if he should let the Commander walk out the room at all, because those blue optics normally full of distant ice look more like the hottest part of a flame, the blue intensity over-bright and casting a steady glow over the mech’s faceplate. His red biolights are so bright, Ratchet can see the faintest glimmers along his sides where an abundance of luminous circuitry has been covered up by careful paint.
Always trying to hide away from the world.
It makes Ratchet sad to see, a mech hiding a natural part of themselves. He knows better than to comment.
Fists clenched tight at his sides, hot air steaming out of Prowl’s overworked vents as his engine revs with warning, that livid glare tries to slice right through Ratchet’s cables, as if looks alone could kill.
When Prowl finally answers, he spits the number out like it’s a curse, metal squeaking from the force of how tight his hands are fisted.
“Eighty-seven-point-nine-seven-three,” he all but snarls.
Ah, the famous number string. The ‘Jazz glitch’ as it’d become known. Ratchet wishes he knew how to convince this mech that it’s a good thing they’re seeing repetition; it suggests the problem is fixable.
“And you want to gamble on a twelve percent chance?”
“Twelve-point-zero-two-seven,” Prowl corrects. Ratchet huffs.
You and your numbers. Alright, then, you under-framed brat bucket.
“Calculate how much today’s visit has interrupted not only your shcedule, but mine,” Ratchet growls. “You think I want my forseeable future peppered by repeated interruptions I am perfectly well aware we could do something to prevent?” By the end of his statement, Ratchet’s aware the volume of his voice has grown to nearly a full bellow, only in part due to this riled temper. The uncertainty, the worry, the fear-- All of it, wrapped up and hidden inside a brusque, rough-plated shell of anger.
The rest of it is because he has to shout just to be heard over Prowl’s thunderous engine. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that the quiet tactician had once been an Iconian Enforcer, with a frame designed for speed and power over brute strength. An agile flexibility that was supposed to be enhanced by the battle computer spliced into his systems during forging; the mech standing with impotent fury before him was, in cold truth, the result of an attempted recipe for building a super-powered agent. The government had given up after barely a vorn of effort, and even before the fall of Praxus, there were few Praxians left still functioning who’d undergone the invasive surgery.
Unfortunately, cold temperament didn’t stop the hot engine beneath that sporty hood, and Ratchet’s not looking forward to dealing with the worst kind of ‘grounder.
One who wasn’t just angry, but was capable of thinking while angry.
One second Prowl’s standing in front of him, and the next Ratchet is trying to grapple with the most childish of mechs as Prowl feints to his left, then takes advantage of the momentary jerk of gears in Ratchet’s hip. He should have expected this-- Ratchet knows that the tactician is well aware he has a slight hitch in his old struts that make turning left easier than right-- and that miniscule sliver of reduction in speed is something that his unruly patient uses to advantage.
Prowl darts forward at the same time he leans and twists, dodging Ratchet’s reach as the Commander drops and bends his knees, then jumps. Ratchet’s hand on solid plate suddenly feels like it’s grabbing onto a bag of rubble as transformation begins, and in less than two full kliks he’s no longer grappling to hang onto Prowl’s arm.
The sleek alt mode of a Dasun 280Z slips through Ratchet’s grip like liquid mercury, but Prowl only gets three feet from the door before Ratchet’s dropped his foot on his back bumper.
“Dammit, Prowl!” he snarls. “Get back on the berth, you-- HEY! SLAGGER!”
~*~
He might have overreacted. The pings lighting up Prowl’s HUD as his tires squeal in the hallway say as much, and he doesn’t much care that he peels out with his back tires breaking loose from traction as he takes a corner and drifts around the sharp turn, startling Bumblebee as the Mech nearly jumps out of his own plate.
Messages start flooding his processor as fast as Prowl dismisses them on reciept.
-=[ GET BACK HERE ]
No. I am done with you poking around in my code, Ratchet.
-=[ You okay? What happened? ]
He has no answer for Bumblebee, just now. The only thing Prowl can spare is a single, terse ping that translates to ‘all is well.’
-=[ SO HELP ME PROWL. WE ARE NOT DONE ]
He’s let the medic do as much as he’s willing.
-=[ Prowler. Ratchet’s in a mood. Need me there? ]
It's a moment of weakness, of acting without proper thought given to the consequences, when Prowl sends his gear-jerk reply to Jazz.
-=[ I always need you ]
~*~
Jazz just about drops his cube of Energon. He doesn’t, obviously, because its reflexive as breathing to simply override the reflexive response with the higher priority flag of don’t waste the fuel. He was a mech that prided himself on the illusion of flawless control or at least being favored by the whimsy of fate, because he made chaos look good. Jazz’s audience couldn’t tell the difference between the act and the real thing, so if an event of seemingly unexpected occurrence had him making all the right choices to react?
Well, maybe he’d been caught with his plating open and maybe he’d fully expected it, and sold the illusion of surprise well enough no one clocked the actual target.
This time, Jazz is just surprised. Alarmed, even, especially since it’s Prowl of all mechs spouting something as sappy as ‘I always need you.’ How hard did Ratchet clock him on the head? Did he finally make the medic snap and really lose his temper, falling back to old habits from darker times?
Sometimes a good konk to the head was the best way to shut a mech up for treatment. Especially when the alternative was being wide awake without any sort of neural net suppression when the medic opened up their chassis to manually find the pain override controls, the only accessible means of pain relief available to an empty-wallet doctor tending equally wealthless patients. After a good hundred vorn of that, it kinda got hard-coded into a mech.
Speaking of hard-coded, Jazz throws back the last of his fuel in two deep gulps, no longer interested in savoring it. His glossa gives the inner glass a swift, efficient sweep, catching the last droplets before he’s tossing the clear container onto his berth, where it lands with a soft womph on the bare mattress.
Prowler, what’d ya get yourself into, this time?
He ain’t got time to waste. Jazz is on his pedes and leaving his chair sitting haphazardly spinning to a stop in the middle of his small habsuite, calling up a mental map of the base and the live feed of tracked personelle within it. Coordinates materialize as visual dots with straight lines to a glyph tag that marked only what he needed to know most. To his imagination, each one also looked more than a little like a music note, one made of data and connected visuals.
The symphony of their military choir, all mapped out like dimensional music in his head as Jazz threw on an appropriate song for the drive ahead.
-=[ On my way ]
He slaps the door controls and steps through with a light push off his back pede, going onto the tip of his front foot as he lets momentum tip him forward in a graceful arc, before Jazz is transforming.
His habsuite’s door hisses shut behind him as his tires hit the ground squealing, and Jazz rockets off down the hall.
~*~
-=[ Negative. I’m fine. ]
Prowl’s not surprised Jazz dismisses his rejection. He’s halfway to his habsuite and tired of having to cruise by the humans with their gawking stares, clueless to his irritable ‘field that plainly broadcasts his desire for them to get out of his way. But, no. Slowing to a gear-churning speed to weave between the busy going-ons of the open rooms as base personnel regularly cross the marked roadway, he eagerly picks up speed in the next tunnel.
-=[ Is that why Ratchet’s blowing a gasket on the command line? You’re ‘fine’ mech? ]
Prowl’s engine nearly steams when the coolant hits heated lines, driving an aching burn and a need to increase the throttle as he rips down the hall, aware he’s in more wheels-friendly zone of the underground base, now. The East Cybertronian wing, where humans didn’t like to go and had little need to ever be.
No one was carelessly crossing the roadways without consideration for drivers, here.
He ignores Jazz’s baited query, or at least, Prowl intended to end the conversation there. The persistent TIC, however, merely sends another response.
-=[ Well, you ARE a fine mech. But that ain’t what I was asking ]
If anyone were to ask, Prowl will say he responds because he’s aware that further attempts to ignore Jazz would only result in rapid escalation; diffusion at the earliest possible signs of a countdown to dramatics was critical.
He certainly wouldn’t tell them that he didn’t respond on pure, startled reflex. Before he could even catch up with his own thinking, so stunned by what was sent.
-=[ What? ]
He can hear another engine echoing down the hall, as Prowl passes Spec Op’s lounge entrance and down through the residential block of soldier barracks. He just barely glimpses Smokescreen moving crates in an open storage room, organizing a recent delivery.
He wishes he could take the message back. He wishes he didn’t recognize the high pitched warble of the zippy engine rapidly coming closer as Prowl slows his speed down, and debates whether he’d rather drive forward, or change his mind and try to evade. Maybe he could--
0% chance evasion
His TacNet realizes the outcome before Prowl remembers why he can’t avoid Jazz. Unfortunately, shutting off his transmitter would actually cause a panic in Autobot Command, because Prowl’s not supposed to fall off the radar of certain mechs. Knowing exactly where he is at all times is as crucial to their military defense as it is to know where Optimus and Ratchet are.
Besides, Prowl’s out of time to think. He should have known better than to even think it would matter; while he was busy deliberating what to do, Jazz was already in action. That familiar bumper and cheery set of headlights comes into view around the corner as he catches drag and drifts gracefully around a harsh turn, wheels squealing. Prowl can easily imagine how hot his engine’s running with the sound of that high-noted rev, a fast vibration in the air like a buzzing star as Jazz drives towards him.
It’s awful to admit. It’s a terrible weakness, an unwanted response that puts terrible truth to the unwanted words he’d spoken. That he needs him, because he just isn’t as good without the presence of the brightest Spark’ed mech Prowl has ever known. A blue like living ice appears from within the shell of his armor as Jazz transforms mid-roll, metal scraping with friction sparks as his pedes slam the ground and take on the skid. Twisting up with the grace only a Polyhexian crafted frame could manage, Prowl’s nearly slowed to a halt as he feels his own Spark start to settle, feels like his world is set right again.
Jazz is here. All is well.
He’s not even returned from a mission, but the effect of the saboteur's arrival serves like a placebo effect; Jazz always brings good news, even when delivering devastating reports. None of them, however, are ever as bad as they could be.
Because Jazz is here.
And if Jazz is here, then that means Prowl is safe. If Jazz is here, that means Jazz is alive, and Jazz is good at not dying. Jazz comes back from odds that Prowl isn’t even willing to admit his TacNet calculated, and he’s safe to put his hopes into, trust with fragile yearning, because Prowl’s not used to his statistics being wrong. He’s not used to his worry being unfounded, put to death by the arrival of pleasant surprise instead.
He likes when Jazz proves him otherwise, usually.
Right now, however, he’s devastated at the realization Jazz isn’t approaching him with the intent to comfort, maybe offer to walk back with him to his habsuite where they could talk in the privacy of closed doors. Prowl has exactly half a klik to register the angle and tilt of that blue visor is getting lower to the ground as the mech bends forward at the waist.
Jazz could comfort him, like he has in the past. Or, Jazz could be Jazz and not behave ever as Prowl expects him to, because the greeting dies on his vox as an indignant yelp when the mech’s hands scoop up under his undercarriage, and lift Prowl off the floor.
~*~
“Put me down!”
With Jazz’s thumbs and fingers pressed tight to Prowl’s transformation seam’s primary break points, the struggling TIC can’t possibly get out of his predicament. Not unless he really wants to get his finish scratched, because they both know Jazz is capable of a firm, relentless grip when he wants.
And right now, he wants to get this slagger back to Ratchet’s med bay before Prowl burns his Processor out and starts leaking melted metal out his mouth and optics.
“Nah-uh, Ratchet’s orders, and you know how I love disobeying Ratchet’s orders,” Jazz quips with false cheer as he tucks Prowl up to his chest like a favored toy, if one were to consider his strategic restraint a game. Yeah, you’re not going full raging bitch mode on me until we’re behind some nice, thick doors, mah mech.
“Jazz, I am ordering you--”
“I do love it when ya get bossy,” Jazz quips, not amused, “but ah’ve got a medic in my ear yellin’ about cascade glitches and failure t’ follow proper close-out protocol for medical programs, and blah-blah-blah.” He presses Prowl a little tighter up into the crook of his arm and chassis when those fluttery door-wings try to pop open as the Second’ wriggles, tires spinning uselessly in short bursts, trying to get a grip on Jazz’s plate.
All he succeeds in doing is making Jazz feel ticklish where the rubber grinds down against his armor, sending a harsh buzz through his plate. Unpleasant, but hardly enough to phase him.
“Jazz, I-- No, I don’t want to.”
Jazz lets out a bark of laughter.
“Wow, using your contractions! Yeah, I’m definitely taking you to Ratchet.”
“Jazz--! Put me down! Not like this, I can’t-- I don’t--”
Aw, hell, Prowler. Twist my arm and everything, why not just run a blade through my Spark, why don’t’cha?
Jazz stops in the hall, frowning severely.
“Ya better give me one hell of a good incentive to set you down on all tires, mech, because it’s my plate on the line if I don’t take you right back to Ratchet’s med suite right now. Ya got thirty kliks to make me change my mind. Go.”
Prowl wastes eight of them probably just thinking of what to say.
“I will see him when I am not at risk of-- I need space. I need rest.”
Jazz snorts.
“Yeah, ‘cause you rest so well when he ain’t knockin’ yer aft out with a forced reboot. Try again. Eighteen seconds, mech.”
Prowl’s engine whines uselessly as hot panels nearly burn against Jazz’s upper arm, where his plating isn’t as thick as what protects his main vitals.
“Fine. I’ll see him in my habsuite, tell him to come over. But only after we’ve talked.”
“You mean ya wanna talk with me about it, first?” Jazz asks seriously, already sending Ratchet the message.
-=[ Prowl’s hab. Don’t come in until I say so. Bring medkit. ]
“No, I don’t. Necessity however dictates that I must.”
There’s my prim and proper aft of a friend, Jazz thinks ruefully. Literal bastard.
“Well, ain’t it your lucky day. I’ve got a mountain of reports that are just begging to be put off ‘til later,” Jazz decides, turning on a pede and shifting his grip on Prowl. “I ain’t letting you go ‘til we’re in your hab. Stop squirming, mech.”
“Stop gripping my doors so tight.”
“So you can pop ‘em open and break something trying to wiggle free? Nah.”
“I have already agreed--”
“And we both know you’re a lying aft,” Jazz asserts, almost snaps, more ill at ease than he’d like to admit to see Prowl like this. It’s never good when the most collected mech you know is acting like a scared newspark, especially when that mech is responsible for making decisions that could get a lot of the wrong mechs killed with the slightest error. “Alright, we’re here,” he announces, not needing to glance down the hall to know they’re alone as he stops in front of Prowl’s door. He can see the little dots moving on his mental map, and Jazz angles his torso as he shifts his weight, then releases Prowl to drop into the air in front of him, pushing with his chest to make sure the Commander doesn’t drop straight down, but gets some room from him as he arcs forward.
Between the wall and Jazz’s arms, Prowl transforms.
Jazz is only shoved back a bit, as the empty space between the arm he plants on the wall to forstall escape and the one he keeps ready to grab in case the SIC actually stumbles and needs support, is suddenly filled with the prettiest black and white plating. Door wings in Jazz’s face, their height difference is really the most beautiful whim of Primus in the world as he resolutely ignores the proximity of one of the most sensitive parts of Prowl’s body, being in glossa licking distance.
Too bad licking ice just gets your tongue bit by frost.
An easy thing to ignore, because Jazz is used to ignoring his own needy yearning for something that just can’t be.
The Commander’s eyes match the ice that he’s so often compared to, as Prowl looks over his shoulder to meet Jazz’s gaze through his visor.
Hello, gorgeous. Miss me?
“Move. You are in my way of access.”
Jazz scoffs.
“Mech, ah ain’t forged yesterday. Open the door, controls’re right here.”
Prowl’s gaze narrows.
“I am referring to the fact I cannot bend my arm without catching your armor, which would halt the gesture.”
Jazz yanks his arm back like he’s been burned, and Prowl calmly lifts his hand to press his palm to the flat, nondescript panel. With a short ping, the door to one of the most restricted rooms on base slides open with a loud hiss.
“After you,” Jazz solicits, gesturing to the open entry. Without a word, Prowl strides inside, and Jazz follows him in before the SIC can try to close the door.
Notes:
And of course, Jazz being Jazz
Chapter 9: Microdose Faster
Notes:
:)
this is a wildly nsfw chapter. Enjoy. i'm not responsible for your face starting on fire if you read this in a public space. Pls keep water on hand and read responsibly. (i'm cackling btw)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It’s been a long time since Jazz has seen Prowl this worked up. Most would say the formidable, stern, and blunt-to-the-point-of-tactless Second’ was the least emotional mech they’d ever met, but Jazz knows better. He knows what it feels like to have everything you’ve kept so carefully under wraps, come bubbling up and out quite without permission.
He’s also familiar with Ratchet’s terrible bedside manner about it.
-=[ Tranq him I don’t care; get him back to medbay ]
A familiar order, unfortunately, though it was usually being used on one of Jazz’s trigger-happy mechs when it wasn’t him himself as the target. When survival protocols were locked firm in place and refusing to let go their hold on a mech’s script, everything became unsafe. Everything was a possible tool to hurt you, hurt the mission.
So Jazz doesn’t reach for Prowl, even though his fingers itch to touch and try to provide comfort. He just had the mech trapped in alt mode, he doubts that Prowler wants his hands on him again as Jazz watches him pace. There’s little more to this room than a bed with a built-in cabinet, and a single desk and chair. Spartanly furnished like Jazz’s, the only difference is a lack of any personal belongings what-so-ever. There’s not even a blanket on the bed.
Jazz leans against the frame of the door, not bothering to ask for the overhead lamp to be turned on as he watches the brilliant lines of Prowl’s biolights pulse like volcanic heat. He tries not to stare; aware the former Enforcer is still just as sensitive about his natural flare as he was in the days of Cybertron, there’s some things Jazz has simply learned to leave be.
And contrary to popular belief, he is capable of restraint when it really matters.
It takes nearly three full breem before Prowl starts talking, coming to a halt mid-circle as his door wings flutter with restless agitation.
“I apologize for my conduct. I am-- I was-- I do not want to open the packet. I cannot afford the distraction,” Prowl explains like that explains much of anything at all, but Jazz is good at both reading between the lines and jumping to usually-accurate conclusions.
Ratchet pushed some buttons, huh?
Jazz doesn’t say anything. Prowl starts pacing again, wings held high, the right one starting to twitch with repeated flicks as his hands gesture.
“I have too many important tasks requiring my focus to be wasting processor power on inconsequential things, yet he insists that instead of patching the problem, I must meet it head-on. You were worth the effort,” he asserts bitterly, startling Jazz with questions he doesn’t dare interrupt with yet. “It took me a full vorn to stop the glitches from tearing through my programming every time you entered the room or someone asked me questions about you or your insane missions, and--”
“Wait, what?” Jazz blurts, unable to help himself this time as all his ideas about what’s really going on here wither like scorched vegetation as he uncrosses his arms, startled. “I caused ya glitches?”
Prowl casts him a look over his shoulder that’s gonna be appearing in Jazz’s dreams, he’s certain. His anger shouldn’t be pushing all the right-wrong buttons in his frame just now, but it’s hard not to admire the sleek lines and chiseled face when it looks ready to eat him up alive.
Just, y’know, he’d prefer that energy taken out in the berth than with fists, as Prowl’s clench back into being, and his wings flick.
“...Yes,” the SIC admits, before his gaze slides from Jazz, and he faces the wall, engine rumbling. “You were… You are so unpredictable. TacNet crashed just trying to run even basic calculations. It is not the first time this has happened,” he says, still refusing to turn back around as Jazz debates whether or not he should come closer, or stay put by the door. He knows what he’d like to do. “But it is… The most persistent.”
“Is that why you always had a look on your face like ya drank sour Energon?” Jazz wonders, mystified. How come the bastard never mentioned this? How come Ratchet never mentioned this?
Like a flash of lightning, Jazz realizes why.
Because it’s personal. The kinda personal that even Ratchet will try to keep under wraps, ‘cause he don’t think there’s actually anything wrong, so it ain’t his place to say.
Prowl’s engine chokes. Jazz feels like he just threw back a shot of premium Hi-grade, making his own chassis feel all… tingly, like his gears are about one klik away from cycling everything in his body up to high-speed.
“That is… Likely.” Somehow, Prowl manages to sound like he’s only telling half the truth. Jazz can’t resist anymore; he dares to take a step forward.
“A’ight, sorry ah interrupted; ya were tellin’ me about what’s goin’ on now.”
Prowl’s shoulders tense as his vents spit out a whole-body sigh.
“Ratchet wants me to do the same deconditioning to… Unpredictable stimulus, with the requisition specialist your team so favors,” he bites out, ‘favors’ being emphasized with the kind of distaste usually reserved for speaking about a ‘Con. Jazz would like to knock him on the helmet if he weren’t so afraid what that might do to Prowl’s fragile, fussy processor. “I cannot commit to that. She will be dead and aged out, if she even survives that long, well before I can expect any alleviation of symptoms.”
Jazz blinks.
“Wait. Wait--” he holds a hand with a finger up, even though he knows Prowl can’t really ‘see’ him; those door wings twitch at the motion. “Yer tellin’ me that our little office lady is what’s sending your code into cascade glitches? The… same way I did?”
Do you have any idea what that might imply, mah mech? Jazz can’t help but grasp at fragile hope, as thin and delicate as copper wires in his grip, trying not to yank them out entirely while still keeping firm hold. Tangible. Grounding himself with a slip of fantasy into his actual factual reality, because he knows Prowl, and he knows that little dainty femme is important to him. Important enough to single her out from an entire office of squishies. Important enough to go out of his way to introduce her to Jazz himself, if only indirectly.
Important enough, she’s causing glitches in his code like Jazz himself apparently does, and Jazz doesn’t think it’s just because he’s difficult to predict. Lots of mechs are unpredictable, but he doesn’t hear Prowl complaining about Smokescreen and Bumblebee causing him a processor meltdown.
Prowl’s engine cycles down a shift in gears as Jazz’s mind whirls, either marginally calmer with it all out in the open now, or just simply getting a better handle on himself as silver hands start to flex in and out of their angry curl.
Jazz eases a step closer as those pretty door wings flick again. He’s keenly aware that anyone else, Prowl wouldn’t let see him like this. Wouldn’t let them come close like this, as Jazz fights off the urge to reach for him, move in all at once, too afraid to scare Prowl back into defensive shut-down.
“Yes. She is too…” Prowl hesitates. “She is too much like you,” he asserts, putting all kinds of ideas in Jazz’s helm as he fights not to let his engine cycle online with an excited rev. “Excellent at her job, in ways I never would have expected. Going above and beyond despite all evidence suggesting an interest in minimal effort, only to prove otherwise. Contradictory, yet… Reliable. Somehow.”
Mah mech, you sure ain’t convincing me there’s a problem here, Jazz thinks with growing confusion and no small amount of wonder. The jump in his Spark at that kind of praise from Prowl of all mechs, the most judgemental and detail-fixated person Jazz knows, goes unremarked on but certainly not ignored. It can’t be this simple. Can it?
Jazz eases another step closer, near enough now he could reach out and touch Prowl, if he wanted to. If Prowl wants him to.
Please tell me you want that.
“So ya found someone ya like just as much as me,” Jazz surmises, struggling to keep his engine from kicking on with a gusty rumble. “An’ yer biggest fear ain’t figuring out what’s makin’ her do that to ya, it’s knowing she’s gonna be gone before ya can even really try?”
Prowl’s silent for several seconds as Jazz tries not to get distracted by the way the delicate servos in his wing joints rotate and adjust with minute twitches. He tries even harder not to focus on the tragedy that is having any sort of feelings for someone in a species that lives less than a single one of Cybertron’s full seasonal rotations.
“...That is approximately the issue, yes. And in the meantime, it will cause no end of disruption to my work. The only viable solution is to terminate contact and deal with her through a mediator. Ironhide and Optimus, however, have different plans,” he all but spits with growing temper, that frigid voice turning acidic as Prowl’s wings start to arrow back, until Jazz nearly has to move or get bapped in the helmet by them.
And wouldn’t that just make Prowl oh-so-comfy just now?
“Yeah? What kinda plans?” Jazz prompts, mind whirling as he tries not to pay attention to the fact his head is happily between both of Prowl’s glossy, angular wings as the sensory arrays quiver. Prowl, you’re killing me here with this point of view, buddy.
“Someone ensured that the human became the keeper of sensitive intel without any proper means of protecting that intel,” comes the level, frigid response. It’s a little bit of a buzz-kill, Jazz will admit, hearing Prowl actually angry and not just annoyed at him.
He’s not even sure telling him the truth, objectively speaking what Prowl wants, will improve this fussy mech’s mood.
Oooooh yeah, about that, Prowler.
Jazz lets a chuckle escape, frankly amazed at this point, even though a solid third of his instincts are flagging all kinds of warnings for how well Prowl in a temper tantrum might receive this kind of delicate information.
“Yeah, well. Didn’t wanna see my favorite mech’s favorite squishy get splattered.”
“I do not care that Smokescreen--”
“I meant you, ya dense aft,” Jazz cuts him off, crossing his arms as he lets out a long ex-vent, engine cycling on this time. “Yer wings get all fluttery every time her name gets dropped, and ya can’t shut up about her ever since she got hired and your numbers got real happy. She kept yer office friendly when everyone wanted ta tear each other apart, just by bein’ her happy little self, ya went out of yer way t’ introduce her to us even if it was through work, an’ ya wanna tell me she ain’t your favorite squishy out of the whole ‘lot of them?”
And sweet merciful Primus, Jazz wants to kiss him when Prowl’s dumbstruck voice answers. Absolutely everything he just said, everything he just implied, and this is what comes out of the mouth of the smartest idiot Jazz knows?
“I am… your favorite mech?” Prowl asks. He sounds truly bewildered.
His door wings go perfectly still. Ish. Jazz, with a nice and close up-front view, sees the way the servos in their delicate joints turn the tiniest bit, twitching upwards in short, barely-there jerks as Prowl no doubt sends command line after line to try and lock them into stasis.
“TacNet likes them online,” Prowl had told him, sitting in the mess hall with a cube of Energon half-drank. “They provide the most critical data of my surrounding environment in ways my other senses simply… Can’t.”
Prowl’s bane and Jazz’s holy grail of blessed Energon, because his mech is struggling not to show what has to be a happy perk.
Jazz weighs his options for less than a klik. He gives into impulse, sliding forward to cautiously touch his fingers, then palms, to Prowl’s upper sides as those door wings jerk up and quiver. Oh, we liked that, did we?
Jazz feels like he might just short his own circuits out with too much giddiness as his mind whirls through rapid re-examination of every recent memory he’s had with Prowl, wondering how he’d missed this. Do you…?
“Prowler, ye’ve always been mah favorite mech,” Jazz tries to affirm and soothe in equal measure, because he’s painfully aware of how poorly Prowl accepts ‘subjective evidence.’ It wasn’t enough to simply tell him something was so; and Jazz is pretty hopeful that by now the fragger will realize he means it. “Wouldn’t let just anyone else hold my leash, now would I?” he prompts, feeling like he’s running an interrogation for critical, war-ending intel here as his Spark threatens to spin faster in its cradle. Easy, now. Security mods keep his systems running cool, level, humming with the smoothest purr as Jazz cautiously steps in close, amazed Prowl’s even letting him.
Glitches in yer code, huh?
He keeps his head tilted as his bumper comes into contact with Prowl’s mid-back, maintaining view on those fluttery sensory panels as they twitch.
“J-Jazz…”
Oooh, glitches in yer vox, now? Was what he thinking here really the case? Had Prowl really just had a literal code-hangup on him this entire time? Jazz can’t figure it, but then, he has no other explanation for why the prickly mech is letting him get all close and cuddly, because Jazz’s hands slowly continue their slide forward, metal digits clicking musically against the polished plate of the finest armor Jazz has ever laid eyes on. Was it the kinda stuff that got torn open in a fight gone wrong? Oh, yeah. Jazz doesn’t admire it for its defensive properties.
Prowl makes standard-issue Praxian framing look good.
Jazz sure loves the fact it’s got little seams and pockets he can dip his fingers into, though he doesn’t try to push his luck just yet. It’s enough to let his thumbs dip down naturally into a particularly wide gap by Prowl’s hips and midsection, barely brushing the inner seam and tension cables that he knows peek from within, before he’s lacing his fingers together in front.
“Yeah, Prowl? Wanna tell me somethin’ about how I’ve been on yer mind more than ah thought?” on a spur of inspiration, he continues, “Wanna let me… Help ya relax? Take yer mind off things? I’m better than a shot of Hi-grade,” he murmurs, feeling the fuel-flush hit his engine like a shot of spiked Energon. Easy, now. Don’t overdo it, frag I don’t wanna overdo it. Just enough to tease him…
His fingers dip lower, really stretching his luck now as Jazz tries to keep himself from pushing too far, too fast. C’mon Prowler. Make both our vorns.
Prowl’s engine kicks up in gear like he’s getting ready for a race, and Jazz hesitates with his fingers on the very edge of Prowl’s pelvic plate below his waist, not sure if that’s an ‘I’m horny and wanna frag like animals’ noise or a ‘get your hands off me you filthy degenerate’ warning.
“You-- You do not have to-- I will be fine,” Prowl answers stiffly, but those quivering door wings don’t fool Jazz as a real smile starts to crawl across his faceplate, and his engine begins to purr. “That is… Generous, J-Jazz. But un… Unnecessary."
Unnecessary, huh? I can read between the lines, Prowler, but Imma need you to tell me outright that it ain’t unwanted.
“C’mon, Prowler,” Jazz coaxes with a soft chuckle. “Yer sayin’ that like I’m not ready to beg you to say yes. Ya have no idea how bad I’m wound up inside, here. Like yer answer is the only thing givin’ mah Spark a reason t’ keep spinning. Make it go faster, will ya?”
Prowl’s breath catches as he goes stiff, before two hands settle over Jazz’s, dwarfing his.
To Jazz’s delight, Prowl doesn’t try to lift his hands off his body. He pins them in place, thumbs scraping the side of Jazz’s palms as he feels his Spark spin. Thick fingers idly work their way between Jazz’s as he lets his knuckles relax into the movement, marveling at the way they so effortlessly lace together.
He almost misses Ratchet’s message.
-=[ Arrived ]
With giddy glee as the softest hitch of gasping breath leaves Prowl’s vox when Jazz flexes his fingers, then starts pushing forward and down, Jazz sends a short reply.
-=[ Guard the door. Gonna talk things out with Prowl. No one enters ]
Jazz bends at the waist to tip his front bumper down to get his head closer to Prowl’s back, and wastes no time in pressing his lips to the strut connected just above Prowl’s wing joint. When he flicks his glossa out to tease a delicate groove, he’s rewarded by a needy sound that drops out of Prowl’s vox like a pleading curse.
-=[ Alright. Good luck ]
Thanks, Ratchet. I’m feelin’ pretty lucky. With a trusted mech outside as guard, unwittingly or not, Jazz has far less hesitation on his plans to make sure Prowl’s convinced this isn’t a huge mistake. His hand cups over a boxy, hot plate of metal as he presses up tight to that pretty Praxian back, and he listens to the roaring sound of Prowl’s engine as Jazz chuckles.
“Little wound up, Prowler?” he teases, using a finger to trace lazy circles over Prowl’s modesty panel, smirking when he leans back into him as if on reflex, door wings quivering as they jerk and seem to try to find a way to settle.
“I--I-- Y-yes,” Prowl answers, and Primus, the vulnerable surprise in his voice is nearly enough to melt Jazz’s Spark right through its cradle. “I-if I had known you would-- I-I didn’t realize…”
“What, that ah’ve been droolin’ in yer shadow for like, three millenia?” Jazz asks, pained. Some things are worth the wait, mech.
“F-five.”
Jazz freezes at the number.
“Five… What?” he prompts, then tips his exploring hands to the side of Prowl’s covered array, exploring the deep dip in the seams between his thighs and hip joints, finally getting his fingers between the gaps of plating he’s been fantasizing over for what feels like a whole-ass lifetime.
“F-five millenia. That I’ve… A-admired you,” comes the stiff, skilless confession as the smile on Jazz’s face grows.
Primus, mech. You met me five millennia ago. This whole time? This whole time--?
“Awww, Prowler. Coulda saved us both some desperate self-service by fessin’ up sooner. Ya wanna move to th’ berth before I make yer legs give out?” he asks, lowering his voice, paying attention to the way Prowl’s body is vibrating with servos and gears resetting like an anxious cadet on the first day of training. “When’s th’ last time ya had someone in the berth with ya?”
“I… Have abstained since--” Prowl’s wings twitch funny, and Jazz worries for a moment he’s somehow managed to frag things up, scare him off, and the immediate worry is nearly enough to still his hands from teasing at the wires under Prowl’s hip plate, looking for the sweet spots. “...Since Praxus,” comes the soft admission, and Jazz’s engine nearly chokes.
That long? Jazz was expecting a while, but this? If possible, he thinks he falls in love a little harder.
“Well… If ya let me, I’ll make that wait worth the sentiment,” he murmurs, wishing he could press in closer, wondering when Prowl will be ready to turn around so he can get his lips on his.
“A-are you-- Are you certain? I am… Th-this--”
“Mech, all I need is a straight answer outta you,” Jazz stresses, shifting his grip to grab Prowl’s hips firmly. “Let’s get real for a sec and acknowledge th’ fact that between us both, ah’ve probably got th’ most recent experience in knowin’ what I do an’ don’t want in the berth, and who I do an’ don’t trust,” he stresses, careful not to try and imply assumptions on what Prowl’s experience may or may not be. “I’m certain. So, yes or no, Prowl? Ya can change your mind at any point, tell me to stop if--”
“D-don’t stop, I-- I want this, yes,” comes that breathy stammer, and Primus, Jazz is already starting to feel like his plating is getting uncomfortably hot. “I just-- is now the best time for--? Should we--?”
Jazz grins.
“Yes and nah. Think ah know a better therapy for ya than whatever Ratchet had mind, so… How about invitin’ me into yer berth, Prowler?” he asks, slipping a hand out from under Prowl’s as he fans his fingers out, and lets them click against the segmented plating of Prowl’s front, until his hand comes up under his chassis, fingers toying with the deep, guarded seam that lets him find access to soft, flexing mesh.
“O-of course, Jazz, I… Y-you can-- I mean, we can, I-I… Oh…” and Jazz pauses, confused for half a click as Prowl stiffens at the same time the plates on his body ruffle and then snug up tight, with soft clicks and a sharp, audible snick. Prowl’s door wings go utterly still after nearly smacking Jazz like a metal sandwich, and the broad hand not covering his lifts up. Prowl plasters it over his own face, engine stuttering.
Is he embarrassed, or nervous? Frag, let me see that pretty faceplate so I can tell the difference, Prowl.
“Ya… Okay, Prowler?” Jazz tries uncertainly, still not quite ready to fully trust that Prowl, Prowl of all mechs, is really letting him coax him into bed. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully.
Please please please please please--
This definitely wasn’t on Jazz’s agenda for the day, but he’s more than happy to put Prowl first on his exhaustive To Do list, and might be more than a little devastated if his Praxian code hangup backs out now. He’d understand, he would, because Prowl is Prowl and Jazz is Jazz and-- And he’s hanging on the edge of his own cabling, waiting with a whirling Spark for Prowl’s answer.
“I… I am--” Prowl clears his throat, drawing the suspense into what feels like a fine, sharp blade pressed tight to Jazz’s fuel lines. “I am… Simply e-embarrassed, and…” Oh, thank Primus-- and? And what, Prowler? “I am u-uncertain if you-- If you have certain expectations of procedure, in… In this sort of affair,” Prowl pontificates, and if Jazz could believe it possible (he does), his Spark twists up that much faster for this brilliant-dumb mech as he lets out a low, slow ex-vent.
You’re adorable, Prowl.
“Mech, ah ain’t really caring what we do so long as you feel happy n’ safe an’ so do I,” Jazz assures him, resisting the urge to press kisses to his back when he wants him to know he’s being serious just now. “Somethin’ comes up, we can talk about it and work it out, a’ight? Ya wanna try somethin’, we can talk about it an’ try it,” I wanna try all kindsa things with you. The thought alone nearly cripples him. “So, ya wanna tell me what’s up right now?” he prompts, trying for a gentle tone. “Movin’ too fast?” Jazz wonders, before biting his glossa to stop the barrage of his own anxiety-driven questions, wondering if he’s messing up, if Prowl already doesn’t like doing this with him as much as he’d thought he would, if--
“My… My a-array is-- I-is already, ah, o-open,” Prowl admits in that same reluctant, downright hesitant voice that Jazz had once heard him use when Optimus asked why Prowl of all mechs had managed to destroy a crucial piece of evidence in a fit of temper, flipping the table it happened to be on. At the time, Jazz had laughed and said it was proof Prowl had feelings underneath all that perfectionism.
In this context, with the added delight of a flustered stutter to the mech’s vox, Jazz feels like an earth shark that just scented blood on the water, and he presses up tight to Prowl’s back, reassured and confident.
Ya like my touch that much, ya can’t even keep yer panels shut? Ya need me that bad? Oh, Prowler…
“Now that’s an invitation,” Jazz purrs, and listens with delight to the way Prowl sucks in a sharp breath as Jazz brazenly glides his fingers along the grove of his hip and down, down to the boxy center of his pelvis. He doesn’t deviate, wanting Prowl to feeling only his confidence and certainty in what he’s doing, because it’s so much easier to show him than try to put it to words.
Jazz fingertips find hot, yielding metal, and he slips a hand around the base of the spike he can’t see, but oh, man, does he love already. Warm, smooth metal beneath his seeking fingers as Jazz flicks a thumb along the side in quick exploration, checking for any bulbous sensor nodes. He finds none, but the segmented plate his fingers feel out is gonna feel real nice moving inside him, if Prowl lets him do more than just look and touch. “Feelin’ impatient?” he teases, loving the way that Prowl sucks in sharp, short breaths like Jazz has him on the final stretch, not barely getting started. A little sensitive, are we? His grin turns wicked, and Jazz drags his palm up the length of Prowl’s thick spike, amused when he reaches the start of the blunted head far sooner than expected.
Short to the point and blunt enough to make ya wanna scream, Jazz thinks with humor he’s not sure Prowl would like hearing or not just now, so he keeps the amusement to himself. He curls his fingers around the smooth shape of it, exploring, tugging lightly when Prowl starts trying to rut up into his hand with restless fidgeting, hips jerking.
“J-Jazz I-I am-- W-wait, a-ah-- Too… T-too m-much,” Prowl stammers.
Jazz stops immediately, hesitant to let go entirely as he waits for Prowl to catch his breath and think. Scrap, did I frag up?
“S-Sorry,” falls off Prowl’s lips in panted breaths, dousing Jazz with a heady dose of relief and mingled concern. “I… I was not ex-expecting you to-- T-TacNet is trying to… predict… What you will do,” he explains, sounding a little like he’s starting to catch his breath again, and Jazz uses an admirable amount of will to not take advantage of how easy it would be just now to rile him right back up. He’s been patient for millenia, he can be patient as long as Prowl needs. Prowl, who leans back into him not-so-subtly, door wings fluttering like he’s flustered as his vents cycle hot air off his frame with a steady rush of current. “I’m trying to keep it offline. Can we-- Let us move to the berth? I-If that is still agreeable?” Prowl’s fingers flex on Jazz’s arm where he grips him for support rather than restraint, and Jazz lets out a relieved vent. Exhilarated, even.
“Yeah, Prowler. C’mere.”
~*~
It would be inaccurate to say that Prowl hasn’t done this in forever. ‘Forever,’ however, has a funny way of existing in the span of moments, just as easily as it stretches out over the span of centuries. He’s not sure how he ends up standing in the middle of his room with Jazz’s hand around his spike, to suddenly being tipped back on his normally quite lonely bed as that same mech crawls up over him, chassis tilted so Jazz can press past the breadth of their bumpers to find his lips. It should feel awkward, uncomfortable perhaps, but Prowl doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the fact Jazz’s armor is rubbing against his own with a harsh scrape of paint he can feel all the way down to his mesh, and it only takes a thought to start reassembling things for more… strategic positioning, as his front grill guard folds and slots down tight beneath his hood and over part of his upper sides, giving Jazz more room to work, needing him closer.
“Now tha’s a nice trick,” Jazz whispers, hushed like he’s trying not to get caught, and something about that is winding Prowl up tighter and faster than he’d have ever expected.
Which, TacNet unhelpfully informs him was about a sixty--Don’t care.
Prowl doesn’t want to think about numbers right now. He doesn’t need to know the exact angle of Jazz’s chassis to his, or how likely it is that Jazz’s hand is going to slip against the waxed surface of Prowl’s priorly flawless armor. He doesn’t need to know the exact depth of mere millimets for how deep each scrape and scratch in his paint goes, doesn’t need to know how many times he’s heard the gears of Jazz’s engine rotate in the last breem, but he knows all that, anyways.
Prowl can’t help it.
Just like he can’t help the way he gasps for air like Jazz is choking him of breath, his systems seizing up in the most pleasant kind of overstimulation. A broad, strong hand finds its way between Prowl’s legs, hooking smooth sculpted fingers around the lip of his armor. Jazz’s palm grazes the inside of Prowl’s thigh as blunted fingers tease along inner mesh, tugging, massaging, exploring. Prowl’s tension cables draw taut and release, sending his legs spasming as he tries to catch his breath, HUD flinging pinging warnings for--
Prowl offlines his HUD and all the alerts for warnings of circuit overloads as he feels the electric charge ramp up in his own frame, skittering along beneath his plate like wild electricity. He’d forgotten what this felt like, the loss of control, the wild rush of being so overwhelmed there was nothing but being wholly present and locked into this exact moment of time, and never the one just past or the rapidly nearing or far out future.
All he feels is Jazz’s hands and legs and the rev of that small, powerful engine vibrating against his own rumbling chassis as Prowl pants for breath, trying to figure out where to put his hands. One of them grips uselessly at the bare berth, trying to steady his heaving frame as he struggles to relax, tries to get settled, but all he can think about is how every touch on his body is sending his neurological system into critical malfunction in the best of ways. Jazz’s lips glide against his in another deep press, before he’s drawing back and leaving Prowl dazed.
Wait-- His protest dies barely formed into a thought, optics going wide as he realizes Jazz is leaning farther back, pushing up and away from him. That easy smile of his turns into a salacious smirk, reassuring Prowl he hasn’t bored his company.
Then Jazz scoops a hand up under Prowl’s left leg, all the way to his knee, and bends it up towards Prowl at the same time he jerks on Prowl’s opposite wrist, and Prowl feels his back thud onto the firm mattress as his sensory array smacks the surface with a muffled whomph.
“Oh-!” he gasps out as he registers the way Jazz hooks Prowl’s lower leg over his shoulder like he weighs nothing, easily shrugging on the weight as Prowl tries to lift his pede up to assist, feeling and hearing the way his own engine stutters with surprise at the unexpected position. Before he’s fully acclimated to the change, Jazz’s smirk and glowing blue visor vanish out of view as the mech leans down closer to Prowl’s body, and shrugs a shoulder to force Prowl’s knee up tight to his chest. “A-Ah, J-Jazz, what are--? Oh. Oh,” Prowl lets his helm drop back onto the cushion as he drops his jaw and mutes his vox on an embarrassingly instant moan, frame seizing up before relaxing at the blissful sensation that crashes through his focus. Oh, his glossa is perfection. Impossible to ignore. Incredible and novel enough to snare his processor’s focus as Prowl gives in, reminding himself dazedly that this isn’t a fantasy.
And he only gets one chance to make it worth his partner’s while, because the thought of never feeling the way that teasing tongue licks deep into his valve with a wet squelch is nearly enough to make him offline entirely.
Prowl unmutes his vox so Jazz can hear the expressive sounds he’s making as those lips he’s quietly loved and loathed for so long glide over the underside of his spike, abandoning his valve, causing Prowl’s fingers to fist and dig into the mattress as his other leg opens up wider, his hips trying to shift for more friction.
“J-Jazz, Jazz please,” he pleads, unsure what even he wants to ask, but Prowl knows he’s being teased, and he can’t bear it. “I’m g-going to--” and Prowl yelps, jerking up with a hitched breath with confusion, because half his frame insists that he wants Jazz to do that again, and the other half is alarmed he just felt the sharp prickle of a fang graze against something particularly vulnerable.
“Aw, shit… Prowler, I just got assigned a new mission,” Jazz laments, grinding all Prowl’s gears to a startling stop as his engine chokes. The sudden flood of coolant provides a heady rush, and an almost ticklish chilling sensation through his sensitized frame. The spymaster pops up into view, casually shrugging Prowl’s leg off his shoulder as he settles between Prowl’s hips, one hand still firmly latched around his spike, despite the words leaving his vox. Contrary to what he’d just said, the mech sure looks like he’s getting comfortable in a new position, rather than getting up to make himself presentable for departure.
The smear of pink on Jazz’s lips is, truly, a good look for him.
“I-- What?” Prowl manages, realization slow to crash in as he struggles to cope with how devastated this makes him feel, alarmed by how strongly he’s physically reacting to the emotional response. Like his Spark might just glitch into painful static. No… Jazz is leaving? Now--? Now, of all times?
He’s half a klik away from sending an embarrassingly reckless, reproachfully selfish request to Optimus to delay whatever orders were just given if at all possible, when he realizes that Jazz’s hand is slowly gripping his spike tighter as he drags it up the wide shaft, drawing another involuntary gasp out of Prowl as his mind reels. Wait. Wait-- Jazz is-- Jazz is too happy to-- He’s happy, isn’t he?
Prowl’s barely started trying to think and reason through the conflicting information, when he hears, beneath the roaring engines and cooling fans-- when did mine turn on? --and the sound of his own plating clattering with his heaving breaths and squirming, clacking against Jazz’s plate, a soft, tattle-tale snick.
His Spark starts to spin faster.
“Yeah, it’s ah real hard one, too,” Jazz continues smoothly, the cadence of his voice changing into something downright mesmerizing as Prowl belatedly realizes Jazz is… being Jazz.
He’s messing with me.
And Prowl likes it.
“I-is it?” he manages, struggling to string a straight thought together as Prowl finds Jazz’s shoulder with a hand, before he startles when a smaller grip closes around his wrist, turning his palm off of smooth armor until firm lips touch the knuckles of his fingers.
“Ya let me know if it’s too hard for ya, Prowler, yeah?” Jazz asks, and Prowl opens his mouth to reply, to assure him that, yes, he will tell Jazz if anything is actually too much, or painful, or really anything at all.
He meant to, anyways.
Prowl’s words are ripped out of his vox with a loud cry, maybe half a syllable of Jazz’s name in there somewhere in that short, punched burst of sound, before he’s swearing and grabbing at Jazz’s shoulders, moaning for lack of words to speak. His processor scrambles to absorb what just happened as every nerve in his hips lights up like a field of landmines triggered all at once, and Primus bless him, Jazz actually gives Prowl time to think through it, catch up with him as he lags behind the present moment; he presses gentle kisses to each of his slack fingers as Prowl gasps and breathes through the shock of suddenly having a long, girthy spike shoved deep into his valve and forcing him open like a brand new glove. He’d forgotten how this felt, the blissful, welcomed intrusion, the way it chases all other thoughts from his mind, just focusing on this exquisit sensation he can’t possibly replicate himself. It’s never the same, never quite like this, and Prowl’s convinced he’s never had anyone quite like Jazz.
He can feel the way his sensory wings beat the mattress as he writhes, then whines, as Jazz holds patiently still, breathing with short, sharp in-vents. And then his hips are tilting as Prowl struggles to get the heels of his pedes finding any purchase on the bed for leverage, squirming for more friction as his hands grasp and reach clumsily.
More, his nerves beg, even as they crumple into ecstasy with each minute movement. More.
~*~
If Jazz had even slightly less control over himself, he’d give in to whim and a desire so strong it feels like a need, as he lets Prowl adjust to his sudden entry. He wasn’t expecting a slow push into the mech’s sopping valve to result in calipers clenching him so tight, the head of his spike was practically yanked inside before his hips stuttered forward, and that was that. Prowl’s fragging perfect. So perfect Jazz might actually cry, because this is so much better than everything he ever dreamed of.
He’s in. He’s in, finally, after deca-vorns of waiting, Jazz can say that Prowl’s tight valve is better than his fantasies, and it’s taking more than all his willpower not to simply start fragging him into a glitching stupid mess and hearing him make more of those delicious, vulgar sounds. The way he keens with need…. Nearly enough to undo Jazz before he was even inside the mech he’s really starting to hope is gonna let this be a regular thing, because Jazz could get used to this.
He could get used to seeing Prowl below him, condensation starting to gather on heated panels as his fans whine like they’ve been at this for hours, not breem. Frag, he’s barely touched him and he’s already so far gone, Jazz is pretty sure Prowl had been trying to warn him he was about to overload right in his face.
Jazz wouldn’t really mind that, but he’d much rather get to feel the way this beautiful Praxian is going to come undone for him with his calipers clenching his spike.
“H-ha...hah… J-Jazz,” Prowl stammers as Jazz slowly starts to drag his hips back, feeling out the drag. Prowl’s a wet mess for him, but he can still feel that touch of friction that suggests he still needs to get him physically worked up a little more. Or maybe just overload inside him and get the first round of lubricant that way, because when Jazz looks up from watching the way their hips meet, he just about overloads right then.
Prowl looks wrecked, optics dazed and glowing an over-bright, hazy blue like he’s overenergized, jaw slack with his lips parted as he pants for breath like it’s too hot and his vents don’t work, except Jazz can hear them working just fine.
“L-Let me-- May I-- Let me kiss you?” he manages, nearly sending Jazz right over the edge with the way his body reacts to that off-key static in Prowl’s voice.
Ooooh you can do anything you want to me, baby.
“Pull me close, why don’t’cha-- ah!” Jazz gives a tiny yelp of surprise, then a muffled laugh, before Prowl’s smashing their mouths together in a messy, artless kiss, but Jazz could care less. Especially when Prowl adjusts so quickly, tilting his head and shifting his jaw so his lips brush against Jazz’s like a steady promise.
The large hand cupping the back of his helmet is a welcomed restraint as Jazz braces himself over Prowl with an awkward bend at his waist, hearing his headlights click.
Glad ya moved yer grill guard buddy, but I was hoping to use that thing for hand-holds.
There isn’t any convenient spot to grip Prowl like this for what Jazz wants to do, so he settles for something softer than his needy nerves are demanding, and maybe that’s better. Maybe that’s best, actually, because the sudden way Prowl’s mouth drops open wide against his own as the mech let’s out a wordless whine, is quickly winding Jazz up so tight he could launch into orbit. His engine opens up the throttle as Jazz eases his hips back with a short, slow tilt, then rolls his hips up into Prowl with a sharp tuck.
“Oh, like that, do we?” he breathes, mesmerised by the way Prowl’s head tips back and his optics glitch, flickering for a moment like he’s got him on the edge of overload already.
“Y-Yes, Jazz, just-- Just like that, p-please, oh, please,” Prowl all but whimpers, and Jazz does his level best to keep the slow, steady pace he’s set as he watches the way Prowl’s stern features are softened with lustful daze, that open mouth so very appealing. He dips his head down to steal another kiss, until Prowl’s sluggishly moving back against him, jerking still with a muffled noise every time Jazz’s hips roll back up into him.
The dreamy sigh he gets out of him nearly startles Jazz into stopping, Prowl’s hed tipped back fully against the mattress as he struggles to keep his breathes even. Jazz nearly slows down, half-reminding himself to keep rocking against him, enjoying the rhythmic sensations from the slick glide to the way Prowl’s calipers clench and release. Suddenly, Jazz doesn’t just want to see Prowl react and come apart-- he wants to hear that soft sound again, the one that sounds like Prowler’s actually let his guard down for a moment to truly relax, the one that has his shoulders slumping on the bed, as lazy hands start gently exploring Jazz’s sides, his thighs, the hinges in his knees as blunted fingers slowly explore.
“This is… W-wonderful, you’re wonderful,” Prowl comments quietly, haze blue eyes locked onto Jazz’s visor.
“Ah’m certainly enjoying the view,” Jazz enthuses with a rough static chasing his lowered vocals. “Primus, Prowl. You’re gorgeous, ya’know that?” he asks, and revels in the way Prowl’s door wings try to snap up, and effectively just end up fluttering against the bed for a moment as his optics widen. Fragging adorable, too. “How’re th’ voices in yer head?” Jazz half teases, half checks, because he sure as frag hopes he can do better than a shot of Hi-grade in scrambling Prowl’s busy processor into gentled idle.
“I-- TacNet is offline,” he says, like he’s only just realized some major part of reality has shifted. Then, for all of three kliks, Jazz drinks in the look on Prowl’s face as the mech looks downright sheepish, optics darting aside. “I… Apologize, if I am-- A-an unusual partner, I know that’s… Not--”
“Don’t,” Jazz interrupts, nearly giving into the whim to kiss him to shut up that self-deprecating spiel. “Prowler. Can it. I know ya better than I know myself sometimes, an’ now we’re really gettin’ t’ know each other,” he purrs, then smirks, and abruptly picks up the pace of his hips, bringing them back farther so he glides further out of Prowl, before thrusting back up into him, slowing at the last second so he doesn’t clank the mech into the bedding.
Not yet, anyways. He’d really rather have Prowl so well fragged he ain’t giving a single thought to what his paint is gonna look like after they’re done tumbling around together.
“Tell me-- Tell me what you want me t-to do,” Prowl asks abruptly, optics clenching shut as he seems to gasp around another desperate need for breath, trying to stay afloat as Jazz knows he’s winding him up tighter, his knees slipping on the mattress before he digs the tips of his pedes in to anchor himself, determined to keep pace.
“Relax, Prowler, an’ let me hear that lovely song yer singin’ me,” Jazz requests, as his fingers trace along Prowl’s side, before he wedges them up into a gap of plating, and sends an electromagnetic pulse directly into a sensitive area of mesh.
Prowl jerks beneath him like he was slapped, but Jazz grins, because a klik later Prowl’s vox is spitting out a hiss of garbled static after a cut-off keening sound, and fine electrical currents dance along the seams of his transformation plates. The red biolights blaze as bright as a star, nearly pink before dimming back to a luminous scarlet as Jazz slows his pace, drunk on the way Prowl looks like this, surrendered in utter wanton bliss, trusting himself to him. His calipers are strangling Jazz’s spike so hard he couldn’t pull all the way out if he wanted to.
The pink splatter that’s been shot up his front like a slash of glow-in-the-dark paint is a nice touch, and Jazz wonders how much longer he’s gonna make it before he’s following Prowl in overloading.
“Feelin’ good?” he purrs, stopping with his hips pressed tight to Prowl’s, leaning forward to press a kiss to Prowl’s cheek, grinning. “Need a break?”
It takes a klik, but icy blue eyes online to peek open at him as Prowl catches his breath, engine still going like he’s fresh from a chase.
“I… am thinking,” he says, very deliberately, like he has indeed put a lot of thought into these words so Prowl can sound like Mr.SmartyProcessor as Jazz fights the urge to bite the tip of his nasal ridge, just to see what he could get away with. “That a revision of our schedules might be in order… If you… Are i-interested in doing this again,” he says, shifting forward as Prowl gets his elbows under himself, and pushes up into Jazz’s chest, bringing their faces closer as he holds his gaze, steady.
“Prowler… I’m that good I’ve already got you beggin’ for seconds?” Jazz teases, feeling the way his Spark jolts in his chest.
“And thirds, and fourths,” Prowl immediately affirms, leaning forward to steal a kiss between each one, optics half-lidded. “I am going to roll you over, now.”
“Hah, eager, ar-are w-we--!” Jazz splutters as his world is suddenly turning, and blinks rapidly up at Prowl as who he thought was a thoroughly fragged mech, looms over him with the focus of a hungry predator. There’s still a whisper of that dazedness to him, in the obvious looseness in normally taut, stiff shoulders; its in the way his faceplates don’t look quite so much stern as they do focused, and it’s in the way Prowl somehow managed to keep Jazz’s spike buried inside of him, mouth dropped open as he pants, letting out a hitched breath as they come to a halt in momentum. With massive hands to either side of Jazz’s head, he’s suddenly feeling very okay with this new positioning as a mech twice his frame caste gets comfortable, shifting his knees around for a moment before Prowl seems to find just the right way to kneel, straddling Jazz’s hips with the wide splay of pretty, white painted thighs.
“Ah could get used t’ this view,” Jazz grins, reaching up with his hands to feel along the curve of Prowl’s chassis, fingers looking for more sweet spots as Prowl shifts his weight--
--and then he drops himself back down on Jazz and grinds his hips forward with a short, rolling jerk, and Jazz nearly screams. Screams, because Prowl hits the exact right angle inside his valve to ram his blunt spike up against an internal node cluster, and one of those big hands moves from supporting his weight on the bed, to grabbing Jazz’s waist to steady him as Prowl lets his mouth drop, panting, gaze locked onto Jazz’s face as condensation drips down his plate, gleaming in the dim glow of their biolights.
“I could ne-never,” Prowl rasps, still staring down at him as Jazz tries to find leverage with his pedes so he can push up against each deep, rolling thrust, but Prowl’s both found a steady rhythm, and is using his weight to purposefully keep jazz pinned between the grind of his relentless thrusts and the firm mattress. “Never get used to this. You’re so…” he groans, tipping his head back, optics shut, riding Jazz for all he’s worth as Jazz wonders blissfully if Prowl’s trying his damdest to get Jazz to overload, or if he’s just got about six-ish millenia worth of repressed sexual tension to take out on him.
As the pace of Prowl’s hips nears something Jazz might dare to call frantic, he can happily say he’s entirely and so ready for that.
“Gonna-- Gonna finish tha’ thought?” Jazz manages between panted breaths, already feeling the tingling pressure as something exquisite inside himself twists.
Prowl’s so lost to bliss, his response comes out downright airy, barely-there with a softness in his voice Jazz has rarely heard before, and already craves to hear again.
“Perfect,” Prowl breathes. “You’re perfect.”
Praise Jazz has never before heard coming off Prowl’s stingy vox, he overloads in Prowl with a hoarse cry of his name, clutching at those lovely thighs like its the only thing anchoring him to reality.
~*~
Ratchet hums to himself as he tries to pretend he can’t hear the occasional, particularly loud clank or the gusty grumble of revving engines. He’s fairly certain Jazz thinks he’s being discreet, and he’s equally certain Prowl probably can’t string a straight thought together.
Finally. It’s about damn time.
Ratchet has been watching their quiet, simmering emotions bubble and boil for what he views as both a perfectly understandable and perfectly ridiculous amount of time.
Regardless of what complications may be in store for them, he’s at least assured of one thing.
They’re both going to find better recharge on base, tiring themselves out like that.
With an idle rumble to his own Engine that’s not so unusual for Ratchet to be making at any given point in time, he tries to keep his attention on the medical report on his datapad. When that fails, he opens up the ridiculous block game Bumblebee had introduced him to, which he’s determined to beat the high score on.
He really should be working on any other number of things, but Ratchet’s had enough of a helm-ache for today.
If High Command gets to literally frag off from work, then I get to play Tetris.
Notes:
This was not at ALL how i expected any of this chapter to go nor how i planned for Jazz and Prowl to come together BUUUT HEY OKAY
THIS WORKS TOO
they were very stubborn about it and I couldn't possibly say notrivia: originally, Reader and Prowl were supposed to get together first, then Jazz was going to be included in the mix later~
Chapter 10: Good Morning
Notes:
A shorter chapter, but so much fluff and comedy. I'm so sorry, Prowl (I'm not, I'm reeeeaaaaally not)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Warm comfort. It’s the first thing you register when you slip from dreams into consciousness; awareness of the shift in perception from the tangible sensation of being sunk into your piled blankets, and the knowledge you can feel something nearly hot resting against your chest, hands folded over it.
Swindle.
Memory trickles into you like a gentle sip of water. You simply remember yesterday, like you’d never slept, can’t even remember what you’d dreamed, if you even had. Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet, which means as usual you’ve woken up probably just before--
Cock-a-dOODLE-DOOOOOOOOO--!!
“HOLY SCRAP WHAT’S THAT?”
You groan and burrow further into the blankets, mindful not to let go of your hold on the Minicon you distinctly remember setting on his own pillow in cassette form last night. His tiny voice is surprisingly and impressively loud below your head.
“Alarm,” you mumble, listening to the recording of a very ambitious, overly loud rooster calling in the morning sun. “Telling me I have an hour before I need to be sitting in my desk for work.”
“Seriously?” Swindle chirps, oddly doing far more to yank your mind unwilling into the realm of wakefulness in full than the steadily increasing volume of your phone’s default alarm.
“Seriously,” you sigh, then push the blankets off with a hand, the other one adjusting to carefully cradle Swindle’s tiny, boxy form. “Uh… Sorry for smothering you,” you apologize with mild confusion, sitting up and tipping your hand down.
“Ya ain’t smotherin’ me,” he chirps. “You were mumbling in yer sleep, though. Bad dreams?” he wonders.
You blink slowly, absent-mindedly reaching with your free hand to touch the ‘stop alarm’ prompt on your phone.
“Dunno,” you admit with an unconcerned hum. “Sorry.”
“Warm enough?” Swindle prompts. You squint, partially at the words themselves and how odd it is for him to ask, but mostly at the note of concern in his voice that you don’t think your sleepy brain is making up.
“I’m holding a tiny heater and smothered in blankets, so yeah, I’m warm enough,” you assure him, and you’re not wrong; Swindle feels like holding one of those little winter hand-warmers you used when you once lived in colder regions.
“Cool, ‘cause you were shivering for a while, too.”
You blink again, aware that Swindle’s seeing a glimpse of the side of your life that no one simply has any need to know about. It took ages to warm your blanket nest up with body heat so the cool underground didn’t whisk it all away. Your room was at least well insulated, but you’d always been a poor sleeper, and you swear it takes an hour just to make your comfy blankets also warm blankets. Cripes, you miss the days of luxury when you could just toss a comforter in the drier and haul it right to bed. You get two available days for laundry, and by the time you carried it back from the communal laundromat, the blanket would have lost most the glorious heat in it anyways.
You’re kinda touched he noticed, though, and can’t really figure how to place how you feel about it more than it feels weird yet not unpleasant.
“I’m always cold,” you admit. Either too cold or too hot-- the eclectic pile of blankets allows you to push and fold and tug whatever ones happen to be working at any given moment to regulate your body’s faulty thermal regulation tendencies.
“Is yer office too cold?” he wonders curiously.
“I just wear the long-sleeved uniform.”
“Uh-huh,” Swindle answers in his ‘I think you’re treating me like I’m stupid’ voice. “Soooo Jazz’ll be here to meet us in like fifteen. That okay?”
Your barely turning metaphorical gears grind to a halt in your brain as you freeze, mid-way to turning to get out of bed.
Fifteen minutes?! No way! That’s not enough time!
“Uh. Why?” you ask, aware your voice came out an octave higher than you meant.
“‘Caaaaaauuuse we gotta set you up with new digs,” Swindle says with cheek you are not awake enough for. “And you wanted to tell him stuff.”
Oh fuck. Please no, not yet. I’m so not prepared.
“Swindle…”
“Hey, he could get deployment orders at literally any moment. Best to tell him while ya got the chance,” your evil, well-meaning friend says with wisdom you are also not awake enough for.
“M’kay,” you mumble, deciding to just go with the flow because there’s not much other choice, and you’re too tired to think right now. Food. And water. You need sustenance and maybe something sugary for a nice pick-me-up after the wreck of how yesterday ended. “You just gonna stay a little cassette all the time?” you wonder, standing up with him cradled in one hand, an unexpectedly warm comfort you might someday be able to begrudgingly admit to prowl is kinda nice. Probably not what he was expecting Swindle to protect me from, but loneliness is kinda hard to feel when he’s so present.
“I mean, I don’t wanna be in my smallest alt mode all the time,” Swindle hedges. “But it’s kinda nice bein’ carried. You’re way more careful about it than most are.”
That causes you to jolt more awake in half a second than the panic of realizing you need to get ready to go on speed mode. You are, regrettably, so not a morning person despite all these years of trying to be one.
“Dude. You’re a teeny tiny living being,” you state the obvious, more than a little alarmed Swindle is implying others don’t care so much about that crucial detail. “Of course I’m gonna be careful,” you stress.
Swindle makes a pleased little humming noise like he threw a muffling layer of foam over his normal sized engine, then dialed it back in horse power by about eighty percent.
Okay, that’s kinda cute.
“So, whatcha do for breakfast?” Swindle wonders curiously. “I ain’t normally seeing you in the mornings.”
You, who are likewise not used to talking to someone this early in the day, take a solid eight seconds to have a reply for him.
“...Food,” is your brain’s intelligent answer.
Swindle scoffs.
“Is yer processor still running defrag?” he questions frankly, sounding honestly curious.
You take a deep breath as lazy footsteps bring you to the boringly drab wardrobe, until you open it and are met by the explosion of textiles, colors, fabrics--
--you close one of the doors so the sight isn’t quite so overwhelming for your sleepy brain, really not needing to be slammed all at once with every single possibility for what outfit you could wear today, when, right, you were smart and did all that hard decision making last night. Despite this being regular routine, you forget to do it just often enough, that sometimes you forget you did it at all come morning.
I’m so not awake enough yet for life. Half an hour, I beg, you complain uselessly in your brain.
“Dunno,” you belatedly answer Swindle, as you set him up on a shelf by a stack of your shirts, before tugging off your nightshirt to grab a fresh tanktop. “Probably. ‘M not a morning person,” you explain.
“No scrap ya ain’t,” Swindle says like he’s amused and baffled in equal measure. “Also, why is your EM-field all panicky? Do you really not wanna see Jazz?” he wonders.
You close your eyes and huff, before remembering that, right, you don’t have time to loiter on absorbing every little nuance of mental or emotional impact.
Shoving all the anxiety aside, you at least acknowledge why it’s there.
“I do, just, uh… Wasn’t exactly expecting it to be sprung on me,” you grimace, tugging the fabric of your clothes smooth as you scoop up the shimmery black skirt, then toss it over your head. “Not a big fan of surprises like that. Also, he’s gonna be here in like, ten minutes now, and I ain’t even eaten breakfast yet,” you grouse.
There’s a peaceful pause of silence before Swindle answers, as you shimmy your hips to make the skirt un-bunch and flutter out to ankle-length, a nice, modest skirt that’s a little formal and a little fun, because the twinkly beads sewn onto it happily distract your eyes when you get bored.
Fully covered, you slip out of your shorts next, then reach for socks.
Which you promptly drop when Swindle announces,
“Okay, I asked him. He says no prob, we can just hit up th’ food court before we drive to Perceptor’s lab.”
Oh thank fuck. I don’t have to settle for Poptarts.
“--Wait, Perceptor?” you blurt, picking up your socks and quickly yanking them apart, then on. “Why are we going to Nervous Science Guy?”
“Because Nervous Science Guy is still a better choice than Wheeljack for making another habsuite, plus he’s here on base, and Jackie’s all busy and stuff.”
“Hab… suite?” you wonder, only passingly familiar with the term. Their rooms, you’re pretty sure. “Wait, why is he expanding the Cybertronian--?”
“Not for us dingus, for you,” Swindle explains.
Oh. Right. Because your awesome perfect room that you’ve finally gotten comfortable and feel at home in, is soon to no longer be yours. Fuck.
“Oh.”
“Aren’t you even a little excited?” Swindle outright laments, and you hear his tiny, alien engine vibrate with an annoyed buzz against the pressboard shelf as you reach for yesterday’s uniform top.
I’m really not sure what I feel.
“Um… Honestly?” you shrug a bit, before pulling the well stitched fabric on, liking the way the pretty scarlet on your sleeves nearly matches Swindle’s glossy, apple red. “I dunno yet. I’m still kinda adjusting to the fact things are changing so unexpectedly. So I guess I’m just… Confused? A little nervous,” you admit. “I don’t like change when it’s not… Planned.”
Swindle makes a little huffing sound while you button up, and then you’re reaching for him as he speaks.
“Nothin’ to be nervous about, all I see are positives,” Swindle chirps. “We getta spend more time together, you’ll be way safer, and I get to dodge helping Payload spell-check his reports,” he adds smugly.
You scoff with amusement as you slip him into your shirt pocket, wondering if he’s going to be a little blinding spot of light to anyone looking at you through thermal imaging. He probably would.
“Yeah, but I like my current room, it’s… Mine,” you shrug helplessly, not really sure how to explain. “I mean yeah sure I’ll adjust, there’s not really any choice, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Psh. We’ll make your room way cooler than this. Your hab is almost as lame as Prowl and Payload’s, Enforcers are so boring,” he whines, not the first time and most definitely not the last you’ll hear him complain about them over this exact thing.
“Not everyone likes to party,” you say, amused. “Besides, boring can be really peaceful. Why fill my room with stuff I’ll have to waste energy taking care of, when I’d rather spend that time with you guys?” you wonder, your entire body protesting with achy tire as you shove your feet into a pair of comfortable boots.
Boots, because they’re comfortable on all this hard concrete ground, and it’s not like anyone’s gonna be judging your feet for fashion sense when you sit inside an enclosed office most the day, and any people you deal with are usually standing behind a counter and, thus, cannot see your kickass shoes anyways.
“Okay, but how about some pretty lights or something?” Swindle wheedles. “And some speakers. You like music, we should put speakers in your room,” he asserts, and you freeze mid-lace on your boots, then blink.
That… Okay, that would actually be awesome, yeah.
“I mean. That’s really not necessary, but yeah, that’d be cool,” you admit, before frowning, brows furrowing. “Actually, it’d be cheaper just to get a nice bluetooth speaker, Ashley has this really cute one that looks like a cat.”
“Yeah, I seen it,” Swindle doesn’t sound very impressed with your Supervisor’s device. “It sounds like crap.” Definitely not impressed, then.
You, having heard music play on it, are stupefied.
“What? It sounds awesome,” you protest. “Way better than my headphones.”
“Those flimsy things you wear don’t count as audio equipment,” Swindle hisses. “I dare you to say that to Jazz. He might actually cry.”
“Okay, Jazz literally embodies music in living, sentient form. He’s a walking talking sound studio in one living mech, and there’s not a thing on the planet that could compare to Cybertronian tech, biological or crafted or otherwise,” you stress plaintively. “That’s so not a fair comparison.”
“Who said I cared about fair?” Swindle quips with a taunting tease to his voice. You roll your eyes as you finish lacing up your boots, then stand and smooth your shirt.
“Okay, Swindle the swindler,” you concede, amused. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised since you turn into a music device.”
“Hah, I record a lot more than just music,”Swindle chirps smugly. Ever the proud spy. “But yeah nah, I’m definitely spoiled. Blaster and Jazz made sure Autobots didn’t want for nice tunes if they want ‘em, and I definitely want ‘em.”
“How far is Jazz out?” you wonder.
“You’ve got like eight more minutes,” the warm presence in your shirt pocket assures you.
“Sweet. Lessgo.”
“What? I thought--”
“I’m ready now, and then we’ll be there when he shows up. Win win.”
~*~
“Love ya, Prowler, bye~”
Prowl barely comprehends the words spoken to him after a jarring, abrupt wake from the deepest recharge he’s had in what must be factual vorns. He’s barely aware and cognizant of the fact that he was woken up by Jazz abruptly rolling over him--
--and the memories of last night slam his processor as his engine kicks online only to immediately stall, and while his frame is busy with the ensuing, momentary seize, Jazz’s lips press lightly to his cheek, and then Jazz is gone.
Prowl sits up on his really quite marvelously ruined berth, somewhat dazed, systems sluggishly coming online as he lifts a hand. Blunted fingers touch his cheek where the phantom touch lingers, illogical; just a trick of yearning and recent memory cache… yet felt all the same.
Then, Prowl abruptly catches up to the fact that Jazz is gone, he’d fallen asleep when he hadn’t meant to schedule himself for a full recharge break until… however many hours from now is. It takes him several kliks too long to call up his chronometer, marking the time as Prowl lets out a low groan, then puts a hand to his helm.
I forgot to cancel the evening meetings. I will never hear the end of it.
When he gets far enough in waking up to have the mental thought to check his communications software, Prowl’s unsurprised to find a cluster of unread messages. He’s more surprised to discover that not a single one is a confused, concerned, or angry complaint or demand to know where he is.
The oldest one is a message from Optimus, that simply says ‘Meeting canceled. Have a good evening. ;)’
Prowl feels his Engine kick online with an embarrassed rumble he couldn’t stop for all the world, any more than he feels the way his sensory wings immediately start to flutter with nervous flicks.
Oh, Primus.
Everyone else’s congratulations are bad enough.
Optimus, though?
Prowl thinks his faceplate is at risk of melting off as he sends his superior a message with a stuttering engine.
-=[ I apologize for my lack of communication and tardiness. Reschedule? ]
The immediate answer he gets doesn’t spare his feelings any. Prowl feels mortified, keenly aware now of every little fleck of dried transfluid on his plate and gumming up his joints. No better than any number of mechs he’d personally scolded for exactly this sort of reckless conduct, he’s prepared for the worst, knows he deserves the worst. Completely going dark on High Command, it’s a miracle no one busted down the door to interrupt, looking for him. And wouldn’t that have just been a wonderful end to the evening?
-=[ Have no concern for lost time; I think it is being well spent. Reschedule at your convenience. ]
If possible, Prowl thinks he’s even more mortified.
More importantly, Prowl immediately takes a few kliks to check his schedule-- what he missed, what he can delegate, what he has to catch up on before his current duties--and decide what time he will make for Optimus. He boots a meeting with Perceptor on fuel preparations for the frontliners to later in the day, canceling a break to make space for it without jumbling anything else up, and slots a pending meeting note as early in the day as he can.
So he has about… Prowl checks the chronometer-- twenty Earth minutes.
Plenty of time.
-=[ Apologies. Reschedule request: t-20m? ]
He cringes as he drafts it, and sends it off.
-=[ See you then, old friend. ]
The immediate reply he gets at least spares Prowl simmering in embarrassment overmuch, wondering if Optimus would be deliberate about giving him ‘space.’ Jazz, who the frag did you tell, and why? He laments. It wasn’t that he’d expected for either of them to keep it a secret per-say, but waking up to ‘congratulations on getting fragged’ in various re-wordings, was not what Prowl had been expecting.
On reflection, he acknowledges reluctantly that perhaps he should have. Though an attempt had been made at being… quiet, insomuch as Cybertronian berth affairs could get, Prowl can distinctly remember when that restraint had fled entirely.
The way his mouth dropped open when I pushed inside him; the sounds his engine made.
Prowl’s gaze drops to the mess of dried, no longer glowing stains smeared on his berth and legs, splattered on parts of his armor in unlikely places. Some he even remembers how they got there. Most he couldn’t possibly predict, pleasantly enough. Jazz had been correct; he was far better than a shot of Hi-grade to scramble the processor.
The silence of TacNet is deafening in the most welcomed of ways. Prowl’s almost loathe to turn it back on, despite a greater urge to reconnect with a crucial part of himself he sorely misses the comfort of data from. The break was nice. I am awake, now. Which meant it was time to get to work, and he has…
…less than eighteen Earth minutes to get where he needs to be, and at least some of that time needs to be spent, putting his plate back to a respectable polish and shine.
Which means, he realizes with a deep, deep sigh as his wings droop, going to the wash racks. Now, if only he’d thought of that first and not belatedly, he could have given himself a little bit more time, so he could just wipe himself down in his room first with a modest pre-wash before the actual shower. Seeing as he’s wasted another two breem sitting here on the berth thinking about his own growing dread, he definitely doesn’t have time to do anything more than drive there, rinse off, and hope he’s dry enough by the time he has to hit the road again to make it to the meeting he himself scheduled.
He’s made his own headache this time, and Prowl is sorely tempted to blame the fact his TacNet was online while he made a hasty, but well-meaning, decision.
98.72% accuracy.
The instantaneous, reflexive feeling thought that affirms his own thinking with hard data nearly makes him scoff. TacNet’s online and he finds himself oddly relieved, oddly disappointed. Five more breem in bed would have been nice. Oh, well.
Finally awake enough-- 78.34% --to commit action to motion, Prowl pushes off of his berth and surprises himself by nearly stumbling over his own two pedes, unused to the loose way the cables stretched through his hips feel as he quickly adjusts his balance. He’s unsteady-- 89% --and he’s… Oh, Primus, he’s sore, in a wonderfully satisfied kind of way as tilting his hips to accommodate for his wobbly movements makes every little internal strain he put his frame through known. If he fancied giving in to the tiniest whisper of doubt that isn’t quite convinced he’s not locked in some marvelously crafted holo-dream fantasy, Prowl is certain this evidence would still erase that insecurity. He’s not certain he’s been bent that many different positions in ever, and Jazz had been a very enthusiastically curious partner, finding out forst-hand just how flexible a Praxian light-frame was.
The answer, as Prowl was shown, is ‘very.’
His engine stutters with the memory, and he feels his plating snug up tighter in response to phantom sensation as his nerves tingle with pleasant, not-there touches, like Jazz is still in the room with him.
…I feel overenergized, he thinks, cautiously resting his hands on his hips as he carefully stretches, tilting his torso this-way-and-that to re-calibrate his own stretched cables. It helps, yet it doesn’t quite erase the disconcerting and oddly pleasant looseness in his hips as he takes a few cautious steps towards his door, keenly aware of the likelihood-- 95.5% --someone observing him will notice exactly what his disrupted rhythm of movement tattles on, if they weren’t already bluntly aware.
And though he’s sure Jazz was keen to proudly strut down the halls wearing his paint transfers-- oh, Primus, is that how they know? (37.6%) --Prowl is finding his plating suddenly unbearably uncomfortable as he feels his entire helm growing warm from the heat of his whirling Processor.
Embarrassed. He’s embarrassed, and Prowl’s not certain when the last time he felt this flustered was, but Primus, there’s nothing else for it. He just has to get it over with. He has… Frag. Less than two minutes to get to the wash racks. I can still make that.
As long as he does not stop, allows no interruption, Prowl will not be late.
Prowl… Forgot to account for the persistence of their CMO.
He opens the door to his room, and the first thing Prowl sees before he can even think to drop down into vehicle mode, is the amused reserve on Ratchet’s silver faceplate. The medic stands across the hall from him, the smallest little smirk twitching one corner of the mech’s mouth as he looks over a datapad at him.
Prowl hears a tiny shutter-click, and strongly considers how much they really need Ratchet’s skills as a field medic and deep-frame surgeon. The number is regrettably high, but Prowl still has ideas on how to repay that.
“I took the liberty of scheduling a follow-up exam for you in your afternoon,” Ratchet cheerfully informs him. “If you don’t want this rare, once-in-a-lifetime gem of a candid shot shared around,” continues the most miserably ruthless of Autobots as Ratchet subspaces his datapad the moment Prowl starts considering how fast he could shoot the device, “Then be there, on time, and without complaint,” Ratchet asserts, and pushes off the wall to step forward, then points a finger at his chest as Prowl feels his engine rev with warning, embarrassment quickly eroding into anger.
This is blackmail. This is unbecoming of an Autobot.
That he’s used similar tactics himself is neither here nor there; Prowl’s not even thinking that far ahead of the present moment yet, even as TacNet quietly picks up errant tendrils of subconscious reaction, and begins gnawing on the data, running simulations of cause and effect against thousands of other instances, each with one or several variables… tweaked, just a little.
Prowl opens his mouth to retort, offended and shocked, and Ratchet quickly talks over him, the first flash of annoyance appearing on the elder mech’s face as he scowls with teeth bared.
“Don’t complain to the mech who stood guard all fraggin’ night to chaperone the unplanned lack of functionality in two of the three highest ranking officers in the entire damn army,” he asserts, and Prowl feels his mouth snap shut with an audible click. The anger does not relent, simmering under his hood with the volatile charge of his engine and a whirling Spark. “Now, you know I’m right,” 97% accuracy, “because you know I know how you are, so it’s only logical that I insist you return to medbay, because I want to be sure those programs shut down in your systems correctly,” Ratchet downright lectures, his tone levelling out into calm neutrality the longer Prowl lets him speak uninterrupted. “And I want to make sure you didn’t break anything, because Primus it sure sounded like you did the way you were howling,” Ratchet quips crassly, then offers Prowl a pat on the shoulder as he feels his engine stutter again, and coolant slams his systems to handle the rising heat. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go get some recharge, and pretend I never heard anything. You owe me,” he asserts without room for argument, and Prowl can’t find it in himself to get a single, even hesitant blip of static pushed out of his vox’s muted speaker.
And the medic turns away, leaning forward into a ponderous fall before his body shatters into the rapid transition for a flawless transformation into his ambulance mode.
Prowl watches him drive off, realizes he’s now going to be either outright late or walking into the meeting with wet plate, and wishes he’d stayed asleep longer.
Notes:
If you're wondering if Prowl's going to have lovely pink splattered and smeared all over his panels in alt mode
the answer dear reader is yes, yes he is. :')
and aaaaah yes, we get to see a tiny peek at some of his hypocrisy. Angry he's being blackmailed but would also be the first to blackmail someone if he deemed it logically necessary. Ratchet was really genius throwing that back at him because they both know it, lmfao