Chapter Text

Prowl was starving because his last meal was three days ago. Or four days ago? With his mind controlled by Bombshell, it took a lot of work to keep track of time. For sure, it was a couple of days; he knew from the gnawing feeling in his Energon reservoir and the pinging of drained systems.

Rage coiled in his empty tank. All the mechs except for HIM in the Autobot camp could get Energon from the dispenser. Prowl arrived late to the queue; unfortunately, when it was his turn, no food was left. The mech in charge declined to open a new canister just for him and told him to wait until morning. The Tactician knew better than to complain loudly and make a fuss because the Autobots were wary of him. A year of mind control took a toll on his relationships. They probably thought he was still under the influence of Decepticons. It didn't help the matters that a combiner team he was forced to be a part of, the Constructicons, decided to follow him. 

There was crusted Energon on his upper lip and his temple. 40% - Prowl's fuel tank pinged, but he dismissed the notification. His systems initiated auto repair, and he was aware that it would burn more energy. Prowl retreated to a makeshift wall in a dour mood and attempted to plan things ahead to live through the long night. He leaned on it for a long moment, cheek pressed against the rusty surface, dejected and exhausted in a way that rushed straight to his spark. There was a constant dull ache at the bottom of his skull, making him lost and muddled. He slumped against the barricade and folded his arms. He had to conserve energy. There was nothing else to do. 

Thinking was difficult as his empty tank constantly diverted his attention. The Autobot reached into his subspace, searching for a snack bar. Right. Prowl had eaten it an hour ago, but his stomach felt just as empty as before.  He noticed a trace of pink on the ground. It was a shiny piece of plastic, but his gaze kept darting around it from that moment on. A ping popped up on his HUD. He dismissed it.
 
The sunset was beautiful, but he did not care. Instead, he huddled, ignoring the need and distant ache in his internals. It was the worst feeling. The first time, the Praxian combined felt like a knife tore through his optics, blinding Prowl. Whatever calm darkness Devastator had to offer was long gone. Deep, visceral pain ebbed long after the separation, leaving Prowl covered in a cold sweat, clutching his abdomen. His protoform was burnt, cut, scraped and bruised from what it did to him. 

Now, it just hurt. A mindless, neverending pounding ache crawled around his cables and neural network. The ex-SIC remembered Constructicons, who were in far better shape than him. In fact, they seemed thriving. Sparkly optics and grins plastered over their flushed faces as if they had just had the time of their life. The Praxian could sense the hot blast radiating from their fans, the air sopping with excitement. 

Another pop-up. A cramp struck his silicone fuel tank. Prowl grimaced as his stomach turned, wrapping his arms around himself, failing to ease the pangs within it. When the sun set, he needed to find a place to recharge, but walking felt like an unnneesarry effort. It wasn't as if he'd never slept in trenches or some hole in a wall, so the prospect of staying here wasn't that big of a deal. He'd been through worse.

The Autobot thought about the Constructicons. Green idiots must have been in the camp somewhere doing Primus know what. Maybe they had fuel and were willing to share... Prowl was losing the thread. As time went on, the surges of hunger rolled in and out. Instead of notifications, his systems started sending alerts; his auto repair had only exacerbated the issue. Prowl folded into a ball-the rubber tank seemed to pull in on itself, emptiness cutting it like a razor. Primus, he was so hungry. So, so hungry.

There was an impulsive whir of dizziness in his processor. Prowl's head hurt; his face settled into a grim frown. The headaches he suffered from were extreme at times. He had to take a painkiller as soon as possible, but first, he had to eat something...

30%- his systems warned him, and he felt momentarily disoriented. He was nearing the threshold where his frame could initiate an emergency shutdown at any moment. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus. The hunger was eating at him, consuming his half-formed thoughts.

Suddenly, the alerts ended, leaving him feeling empty and confused. An itch in his nose, too strange to ignore. Jolts of pain travelled down his neck and spine, setting them on fire. He drew a shaky hand up to rub his faceplates. The Tactician's face contorted at the sudden intense prickling sensation in his nasal cavity then he heaved and produced a dense clot from his nose. His vision swam.

The tumultuous feeling in his guts began to rise, finally escaping from his mouth in the form of yellow fumes. Startled, Prowl choked and began thrashing. He soon could not see anything, but his voice rang in his audio. Then, in his fading awareness, his mind played a movie about Tumbler, Mesothulas, Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Impactor, Ultra Magnus, and Springer. The Ex-SIC was dying, and he welcomed this fact with a twinge of disappointment.

Chapter Text

Vast Devastator's mindscape was a pitch-black void. It's always been like this, but there was an orange spotlight in the middle of it this time. A figure wholly bound by clawed tentacles hovered inside, basking in the orange glow.

Motionless, lifeless, and gray.

Suddenly, something stirred, and the tentacles disintegrated, releasing Prowl onto the ground. As the last bits of the tendrils disappeared, the spotlight changed from orange to gray.

Hitting the ground freed a cloud of small chunks of photography film which danced around Prowl's lackluster frame. Upon closer inspection, the images inside could be seen flickering and changing. They danced and swirled like specks of ash around the fire.

Prowl's unmoving optics registered the pictures of people he knew as the images flew past him. Making grief swell inside his chest, grief so quiet, gray, and hopeless just as the signal noise of a TV screen. Until one image made the swelling bubble of this sorrow pop.

"Spike Witwicky"

This name, spoken in a voiceless whisper, shook the mindscape like thunder. Witwicky's designation awoke green and purple spotlights that flew toward Prowl. Foreign hands were catching the moving pictures with care and inspecting them. Voices of awe filled the air. One of the Constructicons glided towards him, reaching for him with a smile and uncanny gentleness.

"You've fought so long," whispered Bonecrusher, "and worked so hard," he added, "You're so smart and brave. We will be together now".
But the Autobot did not hear him. A single tear ran down Prowl's cheek.
 
"Why didn't he notice?"
 
"Huh...?"
 
Just as Bonecrusher finished talking, the ground under the Autobot's back flashed a giant red visor.
 
"BONECRUSHER DON'T-" Mixmaster called for his fellow Constructicon, but it was too late.
 
Hopeless optics caught sight of Bonecrusher, and Prowl's seemingly impotent fingers suddenly clawed into the green arm. Bonecrusher choked and plunged towards the Tactician. Other Constructicons tried to free their companion but soon found themselves trapped, screaming and wailing in terror. Their frames were torn and mangled, squeezed together into a small Energon cube, which was then seized by Prowl. Angrily, the Praxian caught it with his teeth, mashed it, and swallowed it. His eyes shone red.

"Yes. We will be together now, and the day I leave will mark your demise."
 
Was it a dream?
 
Or was it...a memory?

Chapter Text

A moment later, he wasn't dying anymore.

For a beat, he didn't know where he was. Prowl couldn't remember what happened, and in all this mess, for a second, he thought there was a bombing. In his panic, he knew he needed to run but couldn't move. He reached for his blaster. It fell from his stiff fingers, and somebody...

Somebody took it. A gentle, tentative touch to his cheek. He instinctively flinched back.

Five EM-fields surrounded him. So close, the terror gnawed at his already weakened, trembling spark. Instinct dictated he flees, yet the frame disobeyed him. More heavy steps were getting closer and closer, mechs talking to him, touching him with their hands. Hyperventilating, Prowl tried tugging on their grasp, hands clenching and pulling outwards, the thigh grip scratching his wrists. 

His HUD reported energy levels at 27%. He racked his shimmering with noise, useless processor for answers, but was only rewarded with searing pain. After a while, he stopped struggling and went taunt. He leaned back against the metal wall, legs bent and hurting. Despite the fright creeping into his spark, he calmed down, not wanting to hurt his joints anymore. Unexpectedly, he heard voices quickly growing familiar and soon said something soft, something...Comforting. The Praxian heard them but couldn't make sense of what they were saying.

They were cooing at him.

There was green and purple smudging his sight. He could tell who it was. Strong arms eased him into a sitting position. The Tactician let out a raw croak from his mouth and tugged again, but they didn't budge. The light of a small torch entered his optics, nose, and mouth. A heavy hand palmed his abdomen, making him squirm at the sharp jab, then withdrew quickly. When the noise in front of his optics dispersed, he saw a green hand carefully pinching Prowl's lower chassis.

One of the Constructicons started wiping Prowl's face clean. The Tactician recoiled at the gesture. After a tense moment, he surrendered and watched Hook's faceplate. He recognized the expression as a concern. The rest wore the same worried looks, and he realized he was the source, which seemed an exotic discovery. There was a pop-up; his tank made its need known again.

The notification threw the Ex-SIC off guard, so he didn't notice the Surgeon kneeling between his legs. His senses returned to him, and the Tactician wanted to bolt with newly found energy, but the Constructicon held him down and reached for his chest. Prowl's actions were less than effective - he was shaking badly enough to push himself up, and his pedes wouldn't obey his commands.

"Don't let him get up."

That sent a new ripple of alarm through him. Prowl grasped the green arm impotently as his knees rose towards his chest. 

The Medic sighed and looked up at his comrades, who released Prowl and stood back to him, sheltering the Tactician from the sight of other Autobots. Not that Prowl's fellow bots cared to look; the camp was in chaos.

"I need to take a look at you," the Decepticon Surgeon released a set of tools from his fingertips. There was warm, gentle concern in his optics. "Let me in. Please."

Prowl fought the fear. His hands were too weak, his vision too blurry. He was powerless and vulnerable, exposed and helpless. For a moment, the Tactician felt that he was chained in the Black Room again, Energon dripping from his mouth, Hook screaming and spitting blood before him.
 
The vision vanished in a flash. The Decepticon medic remained silent while his scratched visor gleamed brightly. 

Chapter Text

Prowl studied Hook for a moment longer before shuffling forward and tilting his face away, silent permission. Of course, he wanted an Autobot medic to examine him. Regardless, judging from the state of the Autobot camp, he was forced to rely on Hook.

A sudden painful curl of hunger distracted Prowl, and the Constructicon was already at work. His grip on the green arm tightened, but he didn't look down, imagining that they would attack at the merest sign of weakening on his part. His worries were unnecessary when the Medic began working on him diligently with efficient motions and care. The Praxian didn't attempt to stop him, but his hand never left Decepticon's arm touching the insides of his chest. 

The adrenaline from the struggle had begun to wear off, letting steady pangs in his tank become apparent. The Medic had a bag. Maybe there was fuel in it. Prowl's sudden urge to grab it was almost unbearable, and the Praxian deactivated his optics, putting it aside with the rest of his cravings.

The Surgeon grunted several times when Prowl's plating tried to close involuntarily on his hand that was probing inside but otherwise said nothing. Hook was very patient with him, the Tactician noted with a sudden rush of embarrassment. Finally, Hook lifted his open palms before Prowl's optics and slowly lowered them. The Medic was cautious, and Prowl remembered why. 

"Hey, how's he doing?" The remaining Constructicons turned to look back at them. 
 
"You look like a ghost, Prowl. You too, Hook." 

The Surgeon seemed slightly unwell, somehow worn off by the brief encounter with his patient.
 
"His spark casing is not damaged, and he's only experienced much pain." The Autobot's spark casing was burnt, but ointment was applied to the wounds. The repair nanites were already at work. 
 
"He's a victim of a widespread attack," Mixmaster said, glancing at his communicator. "There are pictures of Decepticons, Autobots, and Nails. "Even Starscream was a target, so yeah, not sure who stood behind this. It keeps on updating. The medics are investigating the case."
 
"Huh. I didn't get a single message," grunted Surgeon.
 
The Ex-SIC knew who had done this to him but remained silent. "Why don't you go and help the other medics to figure it out?" He muttered when he regained control over his vocalizer.
 
"Well, will they let me? I doubt so."
 
"Right now, your well-being is our top priority." Scavenger butted in.
 
"Hey, do you need any painkillers?" Perked up Mixmaster.
 
His migraine was a hideous, pounding thing clamouring around his neural net.

"No," barked Prowl, suddenly suspicious of them again. His processor and chest ached in protest.
 
"Let Mixmaster know if you change your mind." The Bulldozer leaned over him, and Prowl's spark skipped a beat. "This attack shook you pretty damn hard. You see, it's easy to stop the pain when it hurts a little, and the stronger the pain grows, the more difficult it is to halt."
 
"Are you sure you don't want any?" Mixmaster asked again.

"I'm fine."
 
"Very well. And just for the record-" replied Mixmaster, not quite believing him. "- do not attempt to transform or combine. Your joints need to recover." He paused, then dared to ask. "Would you like something to drink?"

Chapter Text

"Would you like something to drink?"

Prowl thought he'd lost his mind.

He was  starving , and the fact of it settled in his fuel tank and sent a ripple of madness through him.

But they're planning - something. Something like poisoning him.

He pushed the hunger down. He can...He can do this.

Prowl staggered to his feet; his processor couldn't connect his limbs to his frame, unfeeling of their actions. His vision blurred as a lack of energy wracked his processor once more before darkening.

"Boss?"

Hands held him uptight. The darkness receded, yet the fogginess of his sight remained, but he made his fatigued pedes continue moving. Prowl paled as large hands grabbed him and hoisted him up. His pulse quickened. He cried, struggling in Long Haul's grip, but it was entirely useless. 

"I can put you on the ground, but you'll fall on your face," rumbled the Hauler carrying Prowl like a sack of concrete. "C'mon, we're almost there."

"Don't worry. We've got your back," piped in Scavenger.

 "You can trust us," added the Bulldozer.

The night was swiftly approaching, and there was no doubt they wanted to have the Tactician close after today's events. On their way to the trailer, Prowl shivered so violently that parts of his armour rattled. His limbs felt cold so did the insides of his mouth. 

"Hey, don't even think about running away, okay?" The biggest Constructicon admonished, placing Prowl on a metal bench beside the Power Shovel. The Praxian slumped forward, and he caught him again. Prowl was trapped between Long Haul and Scavenger, their thighs and arms pressing to his shaking sides. Typically of the Constructicons, they kicked out a weaker mech occupying one of the trailers. They sat inside, squeezing and hunching at the small table in the middle. 

Hook commented on the temperature drop connected to blood loss and urged the Autobot to consume pre-heated Energon. 

"Drink."

The swirling tight feeling from Prowl's tank returned in full force, and he got flooded with alerts. But honestly, he was so low on energy, and this was obviously his only choice.

"Let me," Bonecrusher took the cube from Hook and kneeled before the Tactician, who focused on the vessel. A final pang in his fuel tank overcame his resistance. His throat was raw as Bonecrusher tilted Prowl's head up, and something hot and sweet was tipped into his mouth. He was trying to collect his thoughts despite feeling vulnerable as five sets of red optics were fixed on him. For a moment, he regretted accepting their invitation to sit with them in their trailer and consume the Energon they offered him, but the fuel was good. So, so good. It tasted like heaven.

Prowl eagerly drank from the offered cube, his appetite seemingly insatiable. The dim lighting in the trailer concealed his purple face from the watchful gaze of the Constructicons. Although they didn't say anything, their worry was evident. The empty cube was carefully plucked from Prowl's fingers and patiently swapped with a full one. Despite consuming all that was given to him, Prowl remained ravenous.

"He needs more."

The Constructicons emptied their subspaces of all the Energon goods they had been carrying. Prowl was then presented with a spread of old Energon candy and drinks. Slowly, he savoured each bite and sipped with a newfound sense of dignity, all while keeping his gaze fixed on the table before him. Throughout the meal, the others remained silent.

He drank, and with each gulp, he swallowed clots that detached themselves from his palate, breaking crusts around his mouth, trying to shake off the tender, raw feeling of his entire being that reminded him that he had a body. The Autobot sat there rigidly, stopping himself from whimpering, searching desperately for some balance within himself to numb the relentless processor ache, praying the painkiller he had taken covertly would kick in soon. Prowl shook his head to clear it and blinked rapidly. The worst thing was that it occurred to him that there were more frame orifices he had bled from, and he wished he could shed this frame away.

He put the last cube down, and the creature roaring in his tank calmed, satiated at last. 

No one commented on his occasional shudders. Sometime later, his head cleared enough to ponder his current predicament. Mercifully, Constructicons appeared too tired to chat with him or one another. They leaned back, grunting and humming, legs spread. One of them dozed off, face hidden in his Gestalt mate's arm. Despite their well-feigned relaxed poses, Prowl felt he was being closely surveyed. His thighs warmed in places where Constructicons pressed to him, and he definitely should have been freaked out by such closeness. But the Autobot felt it would be okay to sit with them together like this.

Opposite sat Bonecrusher, who then hunched over the small table. He could feel Prowl gathering himself for something, so he took his palm and covered it with his own ones. The Autobot's resistance aborted when he realized the Constructicon was talking in hand.

>>Use Mixmaster's painkillers next time. They are way better than the one you took.<<

Red gaze focused on him, stern yet patient. The hands continued to speak more forcefully this time.

>>We didn't say it aloud...<< Bonecrusher paused to look at Prowl more closely.

>>...But your frame is one big wound.<<

>>we know<<

>>because we survived this state.<<

>>Survived?<< asked Prowl, as if checking his understanding of the gesture.

"Stop scaring him, you fool," muttered Hook without moving an inch. There was a tiny sparkle behind his dimmed visor. "We have all the resources and the knowledge to help you, Prowl."

Ignoring Hook, Bonecrusher sputtered as he spotted far too quickly approaching dawn.

>>Stay with us.<<

>>Please.<<

Chapter Text

He did not stay with them, yet they still followed him. He slipped out like a ghost, silent, unsubstantial, haunted when they stared at the fake morning sky. Enough of shivering between these thugs. Enough of that! The light's shafts pierced him like a call to action...but he couldn't forget those parted, cracked lips and red visors looking at him.

They were with him when the ground rocked, and the Necrotitan rose.
Every time he saw Soundwave's back, he remembered anew the things that had been done to him, and hatred kept filling his spark. He could forget it all for a moment because it was nice seeing Bumblebee on his feet again.

Then he saw an Autobot badge on Megatron's chest, and his face smoothed out, blank like a canvas. Neither Prowl nor the Constructicons were there when fate unfolded. But he knew what it meant, and a feeling of loss surrounded him, cold and all-consuming. He considered Bumblebee a needle in his moral compass, always pointing in the right direction. The black hole's void swallowed it, unfortunately.

Post-battle Cybertron raged with fires. But no one would be preoccupied with this fire; no one bothered to smother it because all the mechs were interested in was the victory celebration. Among the reunions and tears of joy, flames grew bigger and bigger until they reached their peak and turned into black smoke. No one cared, nor did Prowl when he ran away from the Autobot-Decepticon coalescence; the Autobot couldn't stomach the view of Optimus Prime and Megatron standing together with red badges on their chests. 

The Tactician was unsure if it was sickness, the hunger he was experiencing, or something else. Illuminated by the fire, he ran in robot mode because transforming felt like opening his wounds again. 

Ventilators were laboring as Prowl inhaled more smoke and embers with every step. And by the look of his clouded optics, some would swear he inhaled a bit of night's darkness. Finally, he stopped at the edge of an abyss, the look of his face hollow, dissatisfied, and lost in thought.

Chapter Text

Their recent combination constituted a tacit alliance between the Autobot and the Constructicons. Still, the green mechs felt like they needed a real-life seal. So they followed Prowl hoping for a formal acknowledgement right now, not caring how battle-weary he was.

"I'm worried about him," said Hook to his companions. "Because he's much smaller than us, and he needs a bath in a CR chamber and days of rest."

"Doesn't look that bad to me," said Long Haul. "He's out of our sight again and runs around pretty fast."

"That's because he still got this metadrenaline pumping in him, but the moment it drops, Prowl may be completely undone...There he is."

They stood at a fair distance from the Praxian when Scavenger, the most juvenile of them all, jumped to the front and offered Prowl an ornate glass vessel with pink liquid inside. Prowl's optics glossed over it; he then took it, his mind a thousand miles away, and... Drank its contents. Next, he absentmindedly tossed the empty caster across his shoulder so it fell down the abyss.

The cruet disappeared in the darkness so deep that neither could hear the glass break.

Constructions looked baffled. "I told you that's not the right moment," hissed Hook at disappointed Scavenger.

"He most certainly didn't mean it," added Long Haul in a comforting tone. 

"Just look at him. You were right, Hook; I think he doesn't feel okay..."

At that comment, Prowl summoned his strength. He snapped out of his inertia, his optics regaining that icy, piercing gaze that made Constructicons' sparks tremble. A soft, tired laugh rang in the air like a sorrowful melody; he turned his face so that the darkness concealed it.
 
"Are you sure that's what you want?" He asked quietly. His voice gave away nothing, his optics even less.
 
"We think you're the one who's unsure."
 
After all of this misery... It was nice of them that they thought he had a choice when Prowl knew there was none. They had no choice either. He always turned to the clinical and analytical side of things when confused. A building team ready for his command and the sheer power of Devastator, he truly felt just recently when he combined for the second time in the mids of the battle. Squandering such resources would be a sin. Prowl partially explained to himself that his other feelings should not cloud his judgment. He smiled, full of secrets and sadness.

"Not anymore." His voice was laden with regret. The Constructicons should have been pleased with how easily Prowl accepted their offer, but no one smiled.

"I want it done the Autobot way."

There were five of them, but they found the Tactician eerily dangerous. Standing proud, he narrowed his optics and elegantly inclined his head, then made Hook kneel to him with just his intense gaze resulting in a passionless, flat, and fearful kiss planted on Prowl's mouth corner. A loveless kiss during which Prowl's faceplate was basking in the red light of Hook's visor. They followed their Medic one after one. 

The last mech, Bonecrusher, knelt before Prowl slower than the rest. The Constructicon hesitated, then took Prowl's hand, fumbling a little to kiss it. He then embraced Prowl with his one arm, held him close, and pecked the corner of Prowl's mouth. Prowl's optics grew wide in surprise, edging on anger that subsided quickly because suddenly, he saw emotion Bonecrusher was holding back. The Constructicon had an almost teary-eyed look on his face. That... Was unusual. During his career, the Autobot officer had seen indifference, fear, and annoyance... But not this. His surprise was not for long, though. When Bonecrusher finally let him go, the distant cold returned to Prowl's optics.

To the Constructicons, that was certainly a surprising but valid union seal nonetheless. When the petrifying feeling passed, Constructicons concluded that their union was official and Prowl was their boss forever. With their mood uplifted, they trotted behind Prowl, chatting happily. Well, most of them.

"Hook, my mech, why do you have such a sour look?" Muttered Bonecrusher stifling a giggle. "I know Prowl isn't hot, but he's, you know, a decent-looking mech. No need to wince like that old pal."

"Besides, that kiss was purely symbolic, right?" Added Mixmaster, winking.

"It's not the kiss that was so unpleasant," growled Hook under his breath, reliving a painful memory. "Don't you remember?"

"Nope...? I wasn't there?" Shrugged Bonecrusher, trying to egg on Hook to tell the story. It proved to be easier than he had thought.

"Alright. So back when we were still in the Black Room..."

Chapter Text

They were not happy when they first saw their next Sixth.
Constructicons were still licking their wounds when Soundwave assigned them a new project. Their necks hurt already, and they had the beginnings of a headache creeping in just by looking at the black and white Autobot standing in the middle of the room. Hook hauled himself up from the couch the Constructicons were occupying and unhurriedly approached the mech to pat his shoulder. The Autobot staggered under the heavy hand on him, eliciting a contemptuous purr and a wheeze from the couch's direction.

"You brought us a shinie."

They were expecting anyone but not...him.

"He has the same Energon and spark type as you and Lord Megatron. You're all compatible."

Hook didn't respond. Instead, he slowly grabbed Autobot's jaw to open it. He considered Prowl like a farmer shopping for cattle, unimpressed and bored.

"He is unfit," he mocked finally.

"Yes, until you modify him according to the plan." All mechs present in the room bristled when Bombshell emerged from the shadow. Constructicons roused from their position and swaggered nonchalantly as if they, too, wanted to get a better look at Prowl's frame. In reality, under the visors, their optics were glued to Bombshell. They knew the bug could control every movement, every word the Autobot was saying, and that it was eerie to have so much power over someone else's frame.

"Thank you for bringing the Autobot to us. From now on, we know what to do. You may leave." Mixmaster forced himself to say pleasantries curling his lip in disgust and laid Prowl on the medical slab. The day before, Soundwave had explained to the combiner team that their new companion was merely a temporary replacement for checking whether Devastator would accept a new component and how the combining would alter the psyche of a new unit before letting Lord Megatron safely take its place. They were hooking Prowl up to the medical equipment when Scavenger felt a small hand rubbing the underside of his thigh. He swatted the hand away and growled through his clenched teeth turning towards the dark corner.

"My buddy told you to L E A V E."

"Well," came the reply, "I saw you exposed him... You're up to some fun."

"I swabbed the Autobot for STDs, you retard. Wouldn't touch that with a stick."

It was bold to address Bombshell this way, but this time it worked, fortunately. The build mechs gave amused clicks and snort, glancing at each other in disbelief as if saying, "Who told you I want to fuck that?", "Are you for real?" and "You need to reconsider your life choices," before turning back to the patient on the table. They were off to a good start with Bombshell out of the room.

Chapter Text

The Praxian returned to the Black Room every few days, willed by Bombshell's mind control. Every time Prowl laid still on the slab, unchained. He would lay completely motionless, waiting for nothing, letting his frame be altered and picked apart. Appearing as if in a dream, forgetting even his own name. Sometimes though, when his designation was uttered, his shackled mind would notice that they were talking about him. And he would listen...

* * * * *

Scavenger stood in the doorway watching his gestaltmate consumed by work. All Constructicons helped, but Hook was the one who was working on Prowl's modifications. The operation was delicate, and at several points, the Surgeon had to stop and let Bombshell return Prowl to the Autobots, even if it meant undoing his work and starting over again later. So far, most of the procedures weren't invasive, but today was a milestone.

The Excavator swallowed uncomfortably at the characteristic metallic sound of many thin legs trotting on the ground. Chills ran down his spine, but he didn't move an inch because he remembered that behind closed doors, in the intimacy of their shared alcove, Hook begged the Constructicons to never leave him alone with the Insecticon. And today, Soundwave wasn't in the base with them.
Hook must have heard the intruder coming as his broad back straightened, servos wrist-deep into Prowl's open chest.

>What frag does he want now?< thought Hook, nervously tightening his jaw and slowly pulling his hands away from Prowl. So far, Bombshell's company has been anything but helpful. The Insecticon would walk casually to him to see "how things are going" and give Hook his "combiner expertise." The Surgeon suspected that Bombshell's mind control technique was very energy-taxing. Hence, the bug never operated on Prowl with his own servos.

>Probably up to some fucked up shit.< No, thank you, Hook could read on his own, and the supposed aid was merely an opportunity for Bombshell's sick little power games.

Slam! Hook's optics widened in shock when a small hand landed hard enough to sting on his aft. The Constructicon froze, swallowing a gasp, still gripping surgical tools.

"Y-you measly worm!" growled Scavenger, but it came out lame. Something repulsive glinted in Insecticon's optics, and he was next to the Excavator in a split second.

"Go," the bug drawled, "Go and console your humiliated friend." Suddenly, Hook found himself in Scavenger's embrace. Not thinking much, he dropped his tools, cupped Scavanger's face, and kissed his sweaty cheek, his other hand traveling on his partner's hot and slippery neck to Bombshell's great delight.

"Gotcha!" Hook hissed triumphantly as Scavenger instantly sagged in his arms, trembling as panicky strain left him. "We are not your playthings anymore, Bombshell!" he shouted loudly, although his spark was hammering, and rubbed the remains of the nanite between his fingers. 
"Get the frag out of my operating room!"

"It-s-s crawling under my helmet-t-t...k-kill it!" he felt shuddering breath on his audio edging on hysteria.

"No. Bombshell cannot control more than two simultaneously," said Hook, glancing around the room. Bombshell did as the Surgeon said. "Go call the others. Now." Hook squeezed Scavanger's arm.

It wasn't Insecticon's last word for today, he thought to himself grimly.

Chapter Text

"Hook, my mech," his smile was a flash of teeth under the mask, nothing pleasant behind it.

"Ah, there you are, Bombshell," responded Hook, the acid in words.

"Good to see you."

"Say what?"

"Good to see you so that you can explain to me...this," the Surgeon gestured towards his cabinet, which was empty.

"So?" snorted the Insecticon in amusement. It was cut short when he felt a prick of pain in his throat.

"I doubt you understand the magnitude of the situation, maggot." Long Haul's voice was soft and slow on Bombshell's audio. "My friend Mixmaster prepared several doses of painkillers for our... guest". He gestured towards Prowl, whose chest was split in half, then grabbed the drip. "He needs to replace the bag. Now, before the Autobot's online."

The last drop of sedative sluiced down the bag hooked to Prowl's arm... and it began. Gradually, the Praxian started to fidget, fingers tightening and relaxing, and ventilators picked up their pace. Bombshell's control of the mech was eerily powerful except for inborn reflexes, which began to show up despite his mental grip on Prowl.

"I don't know where your stuff is, doctor." The Insecticon said patiently as if he didn't hear the low rumble vibrating in Autobot's rigid jaw, growing insistent and edging on panic. Prowl's optics were darting around the room, and there was a flare of mortal terror inside them. His frame vibrated slightly from internal pain, yet he held almost entirely still. 

The Insecticon should have been a little more careful with five Constructicons currently in the Black Room, a hand squeezing his throat, and Soundwave in the establishment again. But he was still playing his little game. Why should he stop when Autobot's delicious distress was more visible now?

The Insecticon muted the Autobot, yet the sputtering the tormented victim emitted somehow found a way to escape, making the sound even more disturbing. Guttural growls and mewls and the moans of the mentally handicapped were coming from the Tactician's mouth again and again. When he seemed to lose consciousness and vitality, the garbled cries returned in waves, louder and more desperate.

"Make him shut up!" shouted someone across the other side of Black Room.

Hook was livid. "I can't continue! Wonder if you're even loyal to the cause when sabotaging my work like this!"

"Look, he's under my control. He won't do anything unless I want him to. He's safe." Bleated Bombshell, watching bloody bubbles roll down the Autobot's chin, but his optics bore a sickening gleam. Suddenly, The Insecticon produced a strangled sound and bent his frame in the air, trembling and gasping. Long Haul gave a surprised yelp of disgust and unintentionally squeezed Insecticon's throat far too hard, then, shocked, he dropped the limp body on the ground.

Throat cables pressurizing, Prowl struggled to keep himself as present as he could. Then he lunged as far as the binding would allow him, sank his teeth in Surgeon's lip plates, then fell back to the slab engulfed by shouting, darkness and hot Energon spilling on his face, fading away into unconsciousness.

*****

"We found the anaesthetics in Bombshell's quarters. Go figure."

"Damn, I'm glad the maggot is gone."

Mixmaster watched Prowl's face as Hook was telling the story. The Praxian's features had a calm look, his composure was cool, his frame moved with elegance in a manner that avoided wasting energy, and his pace didn't change for a moment. He appeared as if he wasn't listening. When confronted, Prowl told them he hadn't remembered any of that.

Then, belatedly, the Cement Mixer realized something that happened before their second merge. When they stood before the Necrotitan, the Praxian raged wildly. Regardless, the situation looked different through Devastator's filter, enriched with the flavour of Prowl's point of view. They had watched without realizing Prowl's fury hid anguish, despair, and a feeling of being defiled. How he howled, bleeding with distress, but no one acknowledged his suffering.

Mixmaster understood that after their second combining but dared not to share this revelation. Prowl had shouted, wracked by those powerful emotions. He lashed out at Soundwave until it was cut short by one sentence, "Stop being unreasonable," coming from Bumblebee.

The Cement Mixer remembered a distinct look on Prowl's face when the realization struck that no one cared how violated he felt. An emotional shutdown followed. Frankly, the timing of such an outburst couldn't be worse, and being presentable and saving face in front of his troops were prioritized. It was the moment the Tactician decided not to speak of his horror ever again and locked it inside his body somewhere, stuffed it so he could carry on.

The Tactician overrode his fears and violated his still fresh, emotional wounds to get the most profitable position, ensuring his own survival. If asked, he would still say joining them was the right choice. Back then, in front of the Necrotitan, it should be a time for Constructicons to step up and offer genuine consolation because a long time ago, they too were mind-controlled and forced to do things they didn't want to do merely for Bombshell's amusement, how Decepticon High Command pretended not to know about Insecticon's exploits. Unfortunately, they were not aware...and now it was too late because Prowl wasn't seeking comfort or understanding from anyone. They wasted an opportunity to earn some of his trust. Indeed, something must be done to improve the situation.

Out of a sudden, the Chemist shushed other Constructicons and, without warning, apologized to Prowl for the terror and misery the Autobot had to endure, which was caused directly and indirectly by them. It felt earnest and natural to do. They joined him and apologized in unison without trying to justify their actions or putting themselves in a better light because they understood it all was not about them – it was about Prowl and that they promised to provide anything he needed from them to amend the Autobot's current situation. 

The Tactician was listening wordlessly and allowed their brief, soothing touches on his arms. Prowl said nothing, but his optics betrayed him... Suddenly, Mixmaster desperately wanted to hug Prowl yet stuffed the inclination down deep. No, not yet. No, he wasn't ready. It wasn't the right moment, and Mixmaster had to control himself despite the twinge in his spark.

They returned to walking, and the Praxian moved differently this time, hands folded on his chest, fingertips idly brushing his arms. Self-soothing.  It worked , though Mixmaster to himself.  Sadly, it wasn't nearly enough to fix things, but don't worry Prowl, we will help you. We won't leave you on your own.

We're here for you.

Chapter Text

That year's Lost Light Festival had a particularly ghastly feel to it. After the fires were extinguished, thick smog lingered over the battlefield like a measly, ugly sunset in the middle of the day. The iridescent lights that were an indispensable part of the holiday appeared dim and weak, wrapped by an almost impenetrable veil of smoke hanging in the air. Cold, misty air tumbled through the place, flogging mechs and buildings with icy needles.

A small crowd gathered at the top of the memorial hill, drowning in melancholy, paying their respects to Autobot Bumblebee. Everyone on the hill carried a memorial lantern illuminating their faces and hands. Everyone except Prowl did not bring the lantern and stayed behind the fence, separated from the grieving crowd, surrounded only by five hulky frames. It was like all emotion drained out of him. They talked quietly, and then silence filled the space between them.

The Praxian thought of Bumblebee often. The scout was always full of raw life unmarred by the war, and it haunted Prowl. He knew something Bumblebee kept hidden from him, but it was hard to guess, so he quit trying. The yellow Autobot would give him those looks that would shake him to the core, and Prowl would mask the feeling of shame and inadequacy with a smirk. Beneath the baby blue gaze, Prowl would be revealed, his old and bitter, lonely spark.

He wondered whether Bumblebee saw his end coming. The ex-SIC knew two people had witnessed it but did not want to ask them. He just hoped the death claim Bee quickly. That was what he needed to believe because otherwise, it was too painful to think about. The smoke burned his nose and throat, so he wished he had a mask.

What a lovely little coffin, Prowl thought. The symbolic pyre was empty. Prowl knew that the casket around the assembled crowd was an anchor for the mourning friends. Bee wasn't there...but...while his friends gathered around it, Prowl imagined Bumblebee's body lying on the frozen ground, massacred and dirty. This was the reward of one's lifetime effort. That's what the end looks like, with no music or songs, no grand words, no pall dragged across the pavement, no friend's last caress and Prowl's throat tightened painfully.

It was almost dark, earlier than the usual nighttime. The mist thickened visibly, so the Praxian could no longer see the faces of Optimus, Ironhide, Starscream, together with many others, so he turned to leave.

"I think you should stay and allow yourself to grieve." 

Prowl felt a hand on his shoulder.

Oh. Constructicons, too, carried lanterns. There used to be uncertain sadness between them after they heard of Scrapper's assassination. They realized he had passed away when they saw and touched his cold frame. They didn't want to bury him for a long time until they combined for the last time and saw a void in Scrapper's place, so they finally let him go. Long Haul believed they were ready for Prowl to take Scrapper's place only because they bade a final farewell.

"We were not that close. "Prowl's voice sharpened, but nothing showed on his face. He shook off the hand, and down he walked the stone steps.

"Um, Boss, I think your frame temperature has risen. Wait-"

He stepped down the slabs of rock, engulfing himself in the smoke. The Tactician could live with low-tier harassment from their peers and occasional acts of violence toward him. Times were tough, and Prowl learned to forgive. He could live with people sneering at him because Prowl never allowed minor things like these to get in his way. He could even tolerate a gang of Decepticon thugs. Most of the time, they kept their distance and behaved like a professionally trained unit, but once they were alone with Prowl, it was impossible to make them shut up. The Autobot hated their patronizing tone at times. Why the hell were they worried about him?

Suddenly, bright lights pierced the dark mist and almost blinded him. Long Haul was standing at the foot of the hill, his headlights at full setting and his arms crossed. Under the scornful red visors of five build mechs, Prowl felt his anger waver. Something was wrong.

"You promised to let us know."

"My low-grade fever is not exactly a health risk," spat Prowl defensively.

"In your condition, it is" The Medic approached the Autobot, extended his left hand, sprayed his palm with a sanitizer, and then primed his sensor-laden fingers.

"It could be due to the smog residue in my vents, for all I care."

"So you should get yourself a mask like ours." A small blue, sturdy, scuffed screen resurfaced on the back of the heavy hand. The Medic tapped Prowl's chin with one finger, gently urging the Autobot to open the mouth.

"We've waited patiently to talk to you, but you are always so busy. It is time someone sat you down and talked about post-combining hygiene."

They mean no harm , Prowl told himself repeatedly as he found them looking at him intensely. The same look he caught Constructicons were giving him most of the time since their last combining. The look of worry would confuse him and unnerve him at the same time. He was not used to being fussed over.

"Come on, Boss, no one's watching," said the Medic in a softer tone at Prowl's visible unease, then the finger was reluctantly allowed inside Prowl's soft and too-hot mouth. For a brief moment, Prowl wondered how erotic such a gesture would have been under different circumstances before he violently pushed the thought aside. Hook's hand was functioning as a medical device. And nothing more. While Constructicons were leaning over Hook to study the results, too, Prowl realized worriedly that they were not truly angry with him.

"I'm not fragile," he insisted a little too hard, fidgeting under the odd silence.

"No," drawled Long Haul. "You're not."

Prowl wasn't sure what to make of that reply.

"We need to talk, Prowl. We really need to talk."

Chapter Text

"Why do you wall yourself away from us?"

Long Haul gave a tiny snort. What a stupid question. Why should an Autobot officer suddenly divulge his intimate health details to people, not his medics, and who modified his frame without consent? Prowl stood with his arms crossed and a slight frown on his face, managing to look as composed as ever. Damn, he was good at hiding things, and even a mech's completely masked mouth would be more expressive. Long Haul had suspected that Prowl had procedures done to his face so that it appeared smooth at all times until he saw the Tactician snarling commands during the fighting, which blew apart his theory.

"I do not wish to talk about this publicly, and I want to postpone the conversation."

Wow, Hook, why is privacy suddenly such a strange concept, you dumbass? We're not on a battlefield, and he's not injured. Even though they all worried about Prowl's health, the situation was not urgent. Long Haul wanted to tell Hook that, but he hated quarrelling with the Medic, who would manage to win the argument sneakily. Hook was smarter than him, and he knew it. The Medic never listened to him, anyway. He preferred to keep quiet and watch his new leader argue with the Surgeon.

When agitated, Hook's temper would be caught in a loop. They knew this about him and would help him manage that. But Prowl didn't know it yet, and his anger and unease began to build up. His emotions started to show, and the Tactician visibly fidgeted in physical discomfort.

"Why are you still shy after all that happened to you?" Hook blurted in frustration.

That made Long Haul roll his optics. "Mix." He looked Mixmaster's way, who slapped Hook in the face. The Medic clenched his teeth and stormed out of their sight in shame.

"Sorry about that," apologized Mixmaster to Prowl, watching Scavenger run after Hook.

Long Haul observed as the Chemist murmured something into Prowl's audio, so Long Haul couldn't hear nor recognize words that Mixmaster was forming behind his mask, but they mellowed Prowl out. After some gentle coaxing, Prowl whispered something to Mixmaster's audio, eliciting a scandalized shout from him. "You haven't yet? Boss, please, I will assist you." Long Haul saw Mixmaster draw Prowl by his side, wrapping a thick, green arm around his shoulders, and lead Prowl somewhere into the dense mist out of the sight of remaining Constructicons.

Bonecrusher's visor narrowed, and he stroked his chin, thinking intensely. The image made Long Haul snicker.

"What?" barked the Bulldozer, raising an optic ridge.

"Nothing. I'm curious what Mixmaster told Prowl."

"I think it's the approach to what matters here." Bonecrusher glanced away from him, focusing on the smelly smoke around him. "Gentle but insistent."

"Wow," drawled Long Haul, giving him a leer that faded after he received a sharp kick in his shin. "Ow! Crusher, you retard!"

"Stuff it!"

After what seemed like an eternity, the entire Gestalt team met again, reappearing from the smoke. Long Haul witnessed Hook's sour apology and how Prowl waved a weary hand at him in a gesture of forgiveness. Later, when they were on their way to a shuttle to Luna 2, he asked the Chemist about the source of Prowl's discomfort.

"He was blocked. Had a clot in his urethra."

Long Haul hissed in sympathy at the comment.

"Hope he has no more health complications than this and a few protoform gashes. I hope he will allow himself to have some downtime on Luna 2." He added, "I had to tell him... everything."

"For real?" Long Haul frowned, disbelieving. "You told him everything. What's gonna happen to him?"

"I did. He doesn't seem afraid and just... resigned to his fate. I don't like that... Wait...Where is he again?"

*****

He heard bickering in the dark and sprung towards the two fighting mechs, imagining the thing he always imagined when he felt weak, rattled, and in doubt. Memories of Spike Witwicky on Scrapper's smoking corpse would reignite his will, and a wave of anger swept through him as he lunged at the fighting mechs.

But the memory morphed into something else. Into an image of a Bumblebee's mouth slack and hanging half-open. The first frost glued his frame to the ground. And the only moving thing was a reflection of the sky with clouds gliding across his dark optic lenses. The fire in Prowl's chest turned into a lightbulb with a moth on its back, thrashing on the ground underneath it.

It was an easy task to capture the troublemakers. Like a seasoned hunter, ignoring the mechs cursing and spitting underneath him, Prowl focused his optics on watching the smoke. Suddenly, he saw six red visors. He blinked. No, not six. Five.

He was imagining things. It was the fragging smog and his fever. His sensors picked up a cold gust of wind, which, unfortunately, didn't disperse the mist.

Instead, it merely made the smoke pathetically tumble in place.

*****

His head was fuzzy, and his optic shutters were very heavy. The sound of his name was slowly coming through to his audio. The voice appeared as if coming from underwater but grew louder and clearer each second. Finally, he understood what the utterance meant and raised his arms and gently placed a cup of hot Energon in his hands. He realized he was onboard the shuttle to Luna 2 to prepare for the Megatron's trial. The Constructicons convinced everyone that their expert building knowledge and skills would be needed, so they got to travel with Prowl. Ugh. The back of his head began to thud with pain.

Prowl accepted the cup from Mixmaster. Instead of drinking it immediately, he placed a small device inside despite the pained look in Mixmaster's optics. After a green diode lit up, he proceeded to drink. As time passed and Prowl felt more like himself, his suspicion grew. Promises and vows aside, sometimes it was rational to be careful.

"You used our medical assistance and fuel before, and you still don't trust us," Mixmaster told him with genuine disappointment.

Oh, about that fact... Prowl felt very uncomfortable. The moment he entered that trailer, shivering from Energon's loss, his internals twisted and cringed. That's how he remembered that night:

He tried to gather his thoughts with disdain that he was vulnerable while five pairs of red optics focused on him. He hated the idea. He hated that he took their offer to sit with them in their trailer and devour Energon offered to him. Prowl guzzled the contents of cubes, making lots of breathy and gulping noises. It's a good thing that the trailer was poorly lit so that the Constructicons couldn't see his face flushed with embarrassment. He drank so much, everything he was given, but was unsatiable. He pressed his lips together and swallowed.

"He needs more."

The statement worked as a command because all five Constructicons emptied their subspaces of all the Energon goods they carried. A pure fest of dried and stale Energon candy and drinks lay before Prowl. He began to eat slowly, this time more dignifiedly, yet his gaze was fixed on the table beneath him. The others were quiet the whole time. After a while, he brought himself to look at them.

They were all sitting, legs open wide, backs hunched, except Scavenger, who dozed off, his head on Longhaul's arm. Suppressed satisfaction lingered on their worn mugs, though they did not dare to smile or chuckle poorly, pretending to be asleep. Only the Medic seemed stern.

His mind provided a valid explanation; that night at the Autobot camp, he fought for his dear life during killswitch activation. Taking Energon from Constructicons was justified in such severe circumstances. He did his best to ensure survival in his vulnerable state. And the incident after the funeral...Ugh...The mere memory of it made him feel queasy. Better not think about it.

"Don't give me that look, Mixmaster," the Autobot spoke harshly. "I accepted the ointment you gave me." He should be angry at Mixmaster for berating him in public (the 'public' consisted of four bots sitting at the back of the shuttle doing their thing, but still). The concern the Cement Mixer was projecting on Prowl threw him off-guard.

"But you didn't even crack the bottle open!" interrupted Mixmaster. "I can smell you didn't. You got a second opinion from your Autobot medics, and I hoped it would clear up all misunderstandings."

Prowl tensed his lips. Despite the chaos and long queues to medbay, he managed to see Ratchet for a quick check-up briefly. The old Medic advised Prowl to come back to Hook, who had better knowledge about Prowl's condition. The Tactician knew it wasn't their decision to modify his frame and force him to become Devastator. Still, he couldn't help the resentment that had burrowed itself in his brain module.

"I'm feeling better. Should my health deteriorate, I will ask for your help." The Tactician nodded and closed his optics again. The pain radiating in waves from the back of his head became groggy.

"The point is not to let it happen. Are you sleeping okay, Boss?"

"Well enough," he lied. He was growing tired of being stared at. Prowl's optic shutters were heavy from fatigue, and he wanted some recharge. 

They would have taken him straight to the infirmary if they had realized how ill he was.

Chapter Text

Prowl's nose bled after landing. That made his new gang fuss and fret. He told them that leaving Cybertron and changing the environment caused it, and he decided not to mention his headache. 

Constructicons groaned when they saw the old, dilapidated apartment complex on Luna 2, they were supposed to move in. The build mechs raged and raved in disdain whenever they spotted a rusty or mouldy patch on the wall, pathetic graffiti, or a stain of an unknown origin. Hook was the most vocal about it, and his loud nattering awoke a dull pain in Prowl's temples, which triggered another nosebleed. Nevertheless, he hid his bloody nose from them this time as he sneaked to his assigned hab suite. 

The Tactician sat in the dark listening to muted exclamations of five rowdy build mechs, wondering if he had made a good decision to have neighbouring rooms. His first thought was to settle somewhere far away from them, but he concluded that their presence could be useful. Although he couldn't understand their conversation, Prowl knew what they planned to do with this miserable building. Good. At least he'd get some break from their aggravating company, he thought, laying his head on a time-worn pillow. Everything in this room smelled of stale dirt.

He couldn't recharge, which was hardly surprising. But it wasn't the memory of the battle that kept coming back to him with haunting persistence. Two weeks of their presence had... Affected him. He used to be recognized for his intellect, battle computer, or the Parasite - that's how he
nicknamed it, but no one had ever admired or cared for Prowl quite the way the Constructicons did. There was something different about their abiding admiration, which felt like night, not exactly the safest thing that beckoned him. He couldn't, no matter how hard he tried to eradicate them from his mind. Flashback of their worried faces kept coming back to him. Not just their faces...Memories of the thick finger probing inside his mouth and heavy thighs warming his legs. Everywhere the Constructicons touched him held a memory of them.

The Tactician sighed, shifting uncomfortably. Right. Best to ignore it.

*****

After they arrived and chose their hab-suite, they weren't surprised but still disappointed that he retreated to his one and engaged a door lock without saying a word. It was rude the way he ran away from them, but he did look tired, like slag, too. Still, they were willing to give their boss some space, and they left him alone in hopes that he would emerge from his quarters in a better mood the next day. But the morning after, they did not meet him. He didn't visit the canteen, nor was he seen in the corridors or leaving his room. By the end of the second day, they had finished refurbishing and cleaning their big shared quarters, so they decided to greet him, and they found the door locked. They knocked several times, but no one answered. Constructicons began losing their patience. Picking or disengaging locks manually wasn't difficult, especially the old ones in this building, but they didn't want Prowl to learn about this particular ability just yet. His door was locked. Locked, but also battered. Good. Faking a justification should be easy.

They wished they had checked on him sooner.

"Boss."

Prowl's optic shutters opened up, and he looked at them, confused and questioning.

"Boss!"

"You!" His optics went wide with shock and recognition.
For people who knew him, it was fascinating to see his wild sight and next to see him regain his usual poise with the speed of light.

"How...?" he asked, voice flat, internally fighting nausea and winning.

A loud crash followed by cackling made him twitch. Scavenger pulled one of the window shutters, trying to flatten it, but it came crashing down on him with a rattle. The Constructicons were all over his place, touring over it somewhat critically.

"The door got jammed." Mixmaster paused to look around." Your hab suite looks even worse than how ours did."

"And the purpose of your visit...?" Prowl said stiffly.

"Hey, we noticed you haven't been in the canteen for a couple of days now," began Long Haul." We wanted to catch up with you." 

"By the way, did you hear us drilling and sanding the wall?" Wondered Hook. "They're pretty wonky, aren't they?" 

"It almost gave Hook a panic attack!" Joked Bonecrusher.

"Right," Hook rolled his optics. "Tell me, Prowl...Why didn't you hear the drilling?" He prodded for answers. 

The Tactician narrowed his optics. "I was so tired I dropped off." Then he shot uptight all of sudden and looked away as if regretting telling them the reason for his absence. Prowl didn't look refreshed by his slumber.

"You dropped off." Hook repeated. "Figured out that much because you look just as dishevelled as before. And you smell even worse."

"Thank you for your kind reminder, Decepticon." Prowl wished his growl would drown embarrassment. 

"I don't have a fever," he winced when Hook touched his face and turned away from the hand.

"Mhm..." they frowned at that. "But you do have scraplet bites all over your face and neck."

The Autobot regretted that he hadn't checked the berth because when Scavenger removed the softer padding, it swarmed with red mites.

"Man, this place is vile."

The barrage of questions stopped as the Constructicons shifted their attention to his hab-suite. They expressed disapproval and criticized the builders and designers of the establishment. This provided a perfect opportunity for Prowl to slip away unnoticed to the bathroom.

"You know what, Boss, go use our wash-racks." They told him when he was fighting with the taps in his small, cramped bathroom. "We renovated our hab suite, with nice and fresh wash racks ready for use."

That got Prowl's attention. It has been a long time since he took a bath. Visiting Constructicons' place seemed a good idea.

"It's the best one in this building, and you obviously deserve the best things." The Constructicon called over his shoulder, allowing Prowl to enter their shared quarters. "And don't mind Hook. He's just worried."

Prowl's lower abdomen felt heavier and tighter than usual when he went to the Constructicons' new quarters. The place has been refurbished, walls smelling of fresh paint, appliances fixed and scrubbed, and bunks and couches fumigated. A hologram projector table was in the room, humming and cycling warm air. It was on, displaying ongoing projects in the air and glowing warmly. 

"Sorry, I have to go. I have to help others. We want to make your place clean and shiny as soon as possible, and the faster I go there, the faster it will be ready," Scavenger babbled, grinning at Prowl. "Feel free to get a nice soak in the pool, use our digital console, or nap. You could stay there, but you said you need to recharge alone to rest well, so I gotta go better help clean your room. Bye."

A curt 'thank you' from Prowl showed how awkward he felt, considering the fuss they were making over him. Accepting it was still difficult.

Prowl stopped as he saw his reflection for the first time in weeks, stunned. He didn't realize how scruffy he had become, the grime that coated his feet, his back slashed and dirty, his paintwork chapped. His face seemed even sterner than before, his mouth a thin line. It was hard to believe he received a full-frame upgrade two weeks ago. That's how eroded his plating was. He stared at himself some more and scowled at the mirror. Built-wise, he was nothing compared to the Constructicons. Well. Time to familiarize himself with his new frame.

Bumblebee wouldn't want to know what Prowl did to keep himself busy during the cleaning. Now Bee was gone, and Prowl turned to the old habit he promised Bee he would never try again. The Praxian succumbed to it and let go of his thoughts. He decided not to use the pool in favour of the shower. Prowl liked hot showers, not that anyone would ask. Yet, Prowl liked it because it burnt. He immediately activated it and went for the maximum heat setting on the nozzle.

The scalding solvent calmed Prowl like nothing in the entire Universe.
The droplets burnt him as he ran his fingers on his neck, sighing as the gesture bombarded him with relief. But that was merely the beginning. He sensed the small scabs of scraplets left on him, and he dug his fingers into them and cracked the tiny wounds open. He let his head fall back on the wall; pupils dilated when rewarded with a heat rush bordering on euphoria. Satisfaction filled his spark when scabs ruptured under his fingertips; encouraged by the feeling, he clawed deeper into his protoform and watched dirt, crusts, and tiny drops of blood swirl in the drain.

After four hours, he turned off the shower. Wow. His newest record.

The euphoric rush from picking his plating made his frame hurt less, although the surface stung. Prowl dried himself up and returned to Constructicons' main room to sit on the couch. His gaze settled on his datapad lying on the holographic projector, which was still on. He had work to do, but his plating was warm and tingling, and the sofa was so comfy. He'd just lie down for a few minutes...

*****

The awakening was violent, and it wasn't the fault of the power drill that was currently on behind the wall; no, his frame prepared a nasty surprise for him; A cramp burrowed through his abdomen, and he moaned. There was such pressure, and it felt so tight it didn't make sense to him. In quieter times, he would feel pain and discomfort after stress left his frame, but it was never as intense. With his internals rebelling, Prowl could do as little as curl into a fetal position, face down to the couch.

How long has he recharged? He was still in Constructicon's hab suite, and the mechs could be there at any time to see him vulnerable like this. He tried not to glance up at the sound of the door opening. His thoughts immediately turned into an embarrassment. What he feared had happened, and his peripheral vision caught Bonecrusher as he stepped into the room and saw him.

"What's wrong...? Aww, scrap!" The ex-Con activated the laser gun and ran to Prowl as quickly as possible. "Who shot you?!"

"I'm not hurt, Bonecrusher" Prowl wanted to sink into the couch and disappear. No matter what had happened between them during the combination, what they had seen in his mind, Prowl still felt the need to shelter his feelings and urges from them.

"Show me" he leaned over, placing his hand on Prowl's shoulder.

"No, just want to recharge." He clutched his belly and massaged it with force to relieve some discomfort when suddenly another cramp struck deep in his gut.

"Boss, did you hear me?" He said again, firmly, when there was no answer, just tightening the form on the sofa.

"Y-yeah." he managed tentatively when a cramp hit him, and his stoic mask slipped just a little, and then it clicked back in place because he was well-trained at hiding his pain.

"My dear Foreman," Bonecrusher's voice was dark silk, "I'm here to help take that pain from you." This tone, the way Bonecrusher demanded his response, got to Prowl.

"I don't want your drugs. It will pass on its own, and it always does." Prowl's optics were blank and looking far away.

"...Always?"

The Constructicon could sense how the Tactician warred with himself, desperately trying to hide something from him and failing.

"It happens to me...when life calms down. When I...rest, my frame catches up with me," he said brokenly.

"I didn't expect you to be this... self-aware, Foreman," he replied, standing up straighter.

"Don't mock me, Decepticon!"

"... don't give me a hard time, dear Foreman," said Bonecrusher picking his words carefully. He sounded like warm gravel but did not meet Prowl's optics instead of letting the Autobot watch his heavy-armoured legs making their way to the couch to settle on it. It was awkward. No one should stare at mechs like that, but he couldn't help himself. The Ex-con used that to his advantage and ran his warm, heavy hand over Prowl's still constricted and taut stomach, having not asked for permission to touch, but Prowl... didn't squirm away from it. The Constructicon put Prowl's legs on his lap, laying his hand hot and still on the affected area again.

"I can sense everything because your plating is thin enough—the knotted cables underneath," said Bonecrusher, slowly rubbing the belly. "Your T-cog, for instance, has the right size, no irregularities here, but your internals is displaced." nodding, Bonecrusher continued, "Your waste tanks are empty, so that's not the source of your discomfort. Hnn... I can't find you...there it is." the Bulldozer's visor fixed on Prowl's face as the Ex-con squeezed Prowl's belly harder this time.

"Does it hurt?" He whispered, pushing for answers.

"No."

"For real?" His stare and grip were intense, and Prowl's shallow breaths became quicker. The Autobot nodded.

"Mhm... I'm squeezing your interfacing chamber. You sure you can't feel...anything?"

"Just pressure."

"Just pressure..." Bonecrusher echoed and took his gaze off Prowl to fix it on the wall. His hand still probed Prowl's abdomen, but Prowl noticed its motions were of expert nature, not wandering or groping of any sense. The silence stretched on while Prowl's internals churned, making little sick, bubbling sounds, threatening to constrict and bother the Autobot again.

"Alright...the placement of your guts is off, you got them all tangled up, the fluids can't circulate as they should, and bent cables don't allow the current to flow. You were right. Drugs won't solve the problem. No surgery is needed, just some adjustments. I can do them for you, but that's gonna hurt, no more than your cramps do, though." He paused, gauging the Tactician carefully.

"Do whatever you have to do." He said, and his gaze dropped. Laying down on the couch, Prowl got lost in his thoughts until Bonecrusher's voice pulled him out of them. He saw a red visor fixated on him.

"Easy, Foreman."

Prowl snorted.

"Ready?" Bonecrusher positioned himself, and Prowl nodded, bracing himself.

Bonecrusher's linked fingers pressed deep into him, causing the Autobot to pant and rock slightly. The Constructicon used a bit of his entire body mass to push, looking at Prowl simultaneously, concentrating on his face.

"Keep going," muttered Autobot, and then the hands left him, and his internals gave an unusual sound. He felt something shift, unlock, and slot into the right place. He was sore, but the upsetting tension was gone, and Prowl stared, optics flaring.

"I didn't know you were a healer." He managed.

"There are things that Constructicons always keep to themselves," huffed Bonecrusher, smirking with satisfaction.

"Thank you, Bonecrusher."

"You're welcome." There was amusement and smugness that coexisted in Constructicon's expression. "The procedure needs to be repeated from time to time. "He added, giving him one final, lingering touch." Now relax, dear Foreman. I'll fetch some Energon for you, and you must be low on energy."

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Prowl decided to spend it on the couch waiting for Constructicons to invite him to his freshened-up quarters, which they did at the end of the day, very proud of themselves because the job was done well. He thanked them, and they said it was fun and a pleasure to prepare the room for him.

As the door slid quietly behind him, his room was pristine white and black, smelling fresh but cold and unwelcoming, and the bed was large and empty. Just as he had always liked his rooms to be, and yet, his thoughts kept darting back to Constructicons' quarters. He laid down on the berth; optics focused on the ceiling, his fingers idly grazing his belly. Slight pain caused by Bonecrusher's fingers still stung in him, but his gut felt light and comfortable. He let slumber claim him slowly, listening to his insides giving faint, healthy sounds as they cycled peacefully.

Most of the time, his dreams were fragmented horrors, but this time, for a change, he dreamed of someone buffing a drill with a cloth in hand, a very shiny, short but thick drill, repeating the motion again and again...and again until Prowl's vents closed and mouth started to water. It was then positioned over Prowl's flat lower abdomen, only to pierce it slowly. Then the drill turned inside him, eliciting a surprised shout from the Autobot, which subsided into vibrating groans. The Autobot's face bore a deep frown as the drilling was becoming maddeningly unforgiving in its pace. In his dream Prowl tossed his head in abandon, pinned by the drill, his legs kicking weakly, arms groping the bed in search of an anchor to no avail.
Only his lower abdomen was in the correct place, right where the intruder attacked... as it relentlessly hammered with syrupy, molten pleasure.

If someone entered the room, he would see Prowl contracting without control with his hands pressed to his belly, but this time not in pain.

Chapter Text

It was bad. He always set his chronometer alarm and strictly adhered to it. In his case, there was no room for lingering in the bed or hitting snooze. That day not only had Prowl managed to sleep through the alarm, but he managed to sleep through its blaring for an hour. He finally woke up and groaned, feeling like he had already exerted his body to the maximum capacity. His head felt large and heavy, like it was too big for his neck to support.

"Lights on," he said out loud, but nothing happened. "Lights on!" he repeated, and then he noticed the power was down. "Just great...".

He checked his datapad, realized the meeting wasn't rescheduled, and sighed sullenly.

"I need you to help me open my door," he announced to Mixmaster, whom he called over his comm. "There's been a brownout."

"We will be by your door in a klik. Boss, you can open it manually. On your left, there's a handwheel hidden behind the little door. Try turning it slightly, and we will do the rest."

Not thinking much, Prowl grabbed the handwheel, which didn't budge at first, and began to turn it slowly. He felt resistance and gripped the metal tightly. His joints squeaked sickly, and he let out a gasp of pain.

"Prowl?"

"You okay?"

He turned it again. That made a jolt of pain burn in his hands, but he continued to turn the wheel. A small crevice began to show, and the Tactician saw a blur of green and purple behind it. When the opening was wide enough, one stuck his arm inside.

"No, no, no... that's enough, Boss! Scavenger chanted softly, reaching behind the wall and nudging Prowl's hand away from the handwheel.

Prowl couldn't pretend to hide how disgruntled he had become with the ease the Constructicon turned the wheel and how unhappy he was with their presence by his door early in the morning. He felt himself reflexively stiffen when Mixmaster and Scavenger pushed past him like it was their room as well. Prowl thought they had no sense of privacy, especially Scavenger, to whom social norms were meaningless. The Tactician's hands slipped out of Scavenger's ones when the Constructicon attempted to grab him.

"For the love of Primus, how many times have I told you-" Mixmaster scolded Scavenger slapping him"-not to touch Master Prowl! We apologize. We have not come here to taunt you, Boss. Let me see your hands." Prowl was thrown off guard by the sight of Mixmaster's maskless face. The Chemist's features were cute, almost childlike, heavily contrasting with the bulk of his frame.

"I brought you a thermometer," the Constructicon handed him a device. When he spoke, he flashed his sharpened teeth and split tongue with a tattoo on it.

So Hook won't be putting his fingers awkwardly in Prowl's mouth anymore. The Tactician felt his cheeks getting hot and tried to get that thought out of his head, and he looked at their faces. They seemed to be a little worried. Well, that was hardly a surprise.

"Shouldn't you be working on the construction site?" The ex-SIC tried changing the subject.

"Yeah, but there's been a brownout. We can't use our power tools," answered Mixmaster gesturing to Prowl to show him his hands ."I'd like to oil your joints, starting from your fingers. You okay with that?" He asked, opening a bag that unquestionably wasn't there before. When did they bring it? The Autobot's head was in a haze. How could he miss this detail? The first signs of what seemed like an incoming headache began to form behind his optics. He debated inwardly whether he should pop a pill or consider different options.

"Right, but... Where is Hook?" the Autobot asked, elegantly giving Mixmaster his right hand.

"In our quarters. He's been... unwell. But he will come if you call him, that's for sure."

"No, there's no need." The Tactician felt flustered though he had no idea why. Although masterful in his craft, Hook didn't give off the 'good doctor' vibe. Unlike...

"Is Bonecrusher...with him?" Prowl asked cautiously.

"I'm afraid your healer is not there. He stayed with Long Haul to move some rubble around the construction site," replied Mixmaster, coating Prowl's joints with oil. "Did he do anything inappropriate yesterday? He swore he was on his best behaviour." 

Interesting. The Chemist was the most pleasant Constructicon to interact with. Especially given that the reports of Prowl's secret intelligence described him as a mech off his rocker.

"No! I mean, yes! Ugh..." Answered Prowl too fast and too ardently before he stopped himself. "He's been an exceptional help." Standing up straighter Prowl gave Constructicons an exasperated look. "My apologies, but my meeting is in 15 minutes. I have to go." He said stiffly, his irritation turning to the need to leave.

They blinked in confusion.

"You want to go to the meeting looking...like this?" Scavenger said, poking Prowl's side.

"What?"

Constructicons fell silent, trying to put the message through some delicate wording.

"You look like you didn't wash thoroughly."

"It shows. Especially on your back."

The Praxian looked tired and lost when he pulled that scowl on his face. He spent four hours under the shower the day before, but scrubbing himself clean wasn't his priority then.

"Time for a fast makeover. We will be quick."

They looked at Prowl questioningly. He nodded begrudgingly after a long moment of narrowed gaze.  Mixmaster began cleaning him, his touches quick and benign.

"It's not a big deal, Boss." Mixmaster grabbed Prowl's arm and hissed at Scavenger, who hurriedly cleaned it with a sponge. "What are you waiting for? He's got a meeting!"

They started cleaning their Foreman. A part of him wanted to shove the Cons off him, but to his surprise, he mostly didn't mind it. It's been a long time since he made bodily contact with another mech, and the day before Bonecrusher touched him stirred something inside Prowl.

"Scavenger, not like this," berated him Mixmaster. "One, two, three, and you're done. Don't linger too much on his doorwings." They were moving in a semi-automated way. Prowl bowed his head, allowing better access to his kibble, and felt heat rush to his face... There was a nice, large codpiece in front of him. Prowl swallowed, turning his gaze away from it.

They were trying to do it as fast and efficiently as possible. Prowl cooperated for once and let them do it without thinking how weird it was. He realized with a blush that a part of him was enjoying it.

This time awkward silence was the only response they got. Still, Prowl's optics looked pathetically grateful for their care and respect. He mourned the loss of contact as he headed for the exit.

Chapter Text

"It smells like a locker room in here." Said Hook gingerly, entering Prowl's quarters.

"Your breath smells," retorted Mixmaster. "The air filters are down."

"Yup, something smells, but it isn't bad." Added Scavenger.

"Mixie...will you give me something for a headache?" Crooned the Surgeon pitifully.

"Why didn't you get soused more, you pisshead?" Growled the Chemist throwing a small plastic bottle at Hook's head. "You're lucky Prowl didn't see you in this humiliating state."

"Mixie, stop being overly dramatic." The Surgeon pouted and squinted his optics in pain.

"And you stop drinking!" Mixmaster was fighting to contain his irritation and nervousness. "You're ruining my mood, fine! But don't you dare to ruin Prowl's trust!"

"Guys, we gotta find something to keep all the appliances going." Butted in Scavenger. "Nothing to do at the construction site yet, so maybe we can bake a cake for Prowl." It would be a good idea to get on Prowl's good side, and Mixmaster's mood immediately brightened.

"I have a great idea!"

*****

Things like meetings couldn't be helped, but other than that, he wanted to steer clear of other Autobots. To his surprise, not a single Autobot was waiting in front of the small conference room, and Prowl rechecked his communicator. 

Oh. Five minutes ago, he had received a message that the meeting was postponed until they found a portable power generator unit. Just fucking great.

At least he brought a datapad to thumb through while waiting for other mechs. But a few minutes later, concentrating on reading was impossible due to the lurking headache, which fluctuated between mild and moderately annoying.

He looked at a glass dividing wall and then assessed his frame critically. After leaving Earth, Prowl commissioned new frame upgrades that flattened his chest attractively. Unfortunately, his chest was protruding again due to recent modifications. Prowl hated it. The Tactician suddenly realized that someone was standing behind the glass wall. When Prowl noticed him, Mixmaster's face immediately burst into a smile, and he winked foxily, which actually brought a ghost of a smile to Prowl's face. But before the Tactician managed to utter a word, the two Constructicons grabbed something off the floor and skulked away hurriedly.

"Oh, hello, Prowl!" Ratchet's voice snapped Prowl out of his daze.

"They failed to contact you too?"

"Seems like it. No one cares that I'm very busy.." He yawned"...sleeping. They've already got a small power generator unit, but they're searching for a bigger one. Someone must have misplaced it because it's nowhere to be found." The older Autobot raised an optic ridge. "By the way, why didn't you go to Bee's funeral?"

Blunt to the core.

"The only funeral I have to be present at will be my own." 

Retorted Prowl just as bluntly.

"I thought..."

"You were wrong."

Ratchet gauged Prowl worriedly.

"When I die, will you attend mine, Prowl?"

"..." Prowl tried, confused. "You won't die before me."

There was a flash of worry on Ratchet's features. "So much for the small talk. How are you feeling?"

"Like slag, but my mood is stable."

"Hn...How do you feel about your little gang?"

"They seem...resourceful."

"You like resourceful mechs."

"Indeed, Ratchet."

It's been some time since they took a sudden interest in him. Their fascination has grown even stronger with every interaction. The Constructicons were not turned off by his quirky personality, which was a rare occurrence. Prowl thought himself to be a very strange mech. They burst into booming laughter when he told them he wasn't the best captain for their little team and that they should look for a new buddy elsewhere.

"Aren't you afraid that they might hurt you?"

"Does it matter?" Prowl sighed, then caught himself. "I'm sorry, Ratchet, I didn't mean...I mean... They are a bunch of bruisers, yes. They're annoying at times," He looked at Ratchet in the optics for the first time, "but I can read people well. There's nothing to fear. For me, that is."

The certainty that they were not interested in his body was a comfort to him. Maybe Constructicons wanted to befriend him out of pity and loneliness.

"Just stay in touch with me and preferably with Rung too."

"I'll try to..." He answered, not quite believing his own words.

*****

The last mechs sat down, and the meeting began. Prowl would usually sit next to Optimus, but he didn't feel the need to be in the spotlight. Someone said they brought the small power generator unit but announced that they had to save energy; hence, they only turned on a single small lamp. 

The meeting turned out to be one of those unproductive ones. Three hours and no answers because the debate was going on, and two mechs were arguing over and over again about the same, useless thing. Why the hell did they invite so many people? Hearing everybody's opinions was such a waste of time. Prowl decided to keep quiet. The fewer people state their opinions, the earlier this joke of a meeting end.

"It's hot in here," The Tactician said quietly after three hours of sitting in the stuffy, dark room with other Autobots.

Wonder when Starscream will stop talking scrap. Prowl's thoughts took a different turn. He squinted his optics, pretending to be deep in thought, and glanced at Ratchet, who looked comfortably asleep.

Yes, reading people was usually an easy task, but Constructicons confused him. He remembered the way Bonecrusher held him for the first time. The Constructicon embraced Prowl more like a lover; their bellies were touching, and then came the kiss that lingered. A large, warm, heavy palm rubbed Prowl's abdomen, then slid lower to grip him between his legs... 

The Tactician reset his optics and sighed almost soundlessly.  It's not a good idea to think these thoughts here and now, Prowl. Though, remember Mixmaster early in the morning? Remember the way he held your hand in front of his face? Wonder how would his sharp teeth and tattooed tongue feel on your…?!

Prowl's optics shot wide open. Suddenly lusting after his subordinates? Decepticons? Was he that sad of a mech? At least, said Decepticons were good-looking by Cybertronian standards as their broad, flat chests and well-built legs indicated so. Prowl was at least a little excused.

Maybe if he wasn't so strange or better looking, he might allow himself to be attracted to them. Prowl hated admitting it out loud but had been alone most of his life. Maybe they felt sorry for him?

"Calculating super-secret plans, huh?" Said Rodimus Prime, grinning.

"I don't remember asking you any questions."

Rodimus scowled, then smirked meanly at him. Prowl had woken up exasperated that morning, and that stupid excuse of a leader angered him even more by simply opening his mouth. Idiot.

The headache wandered to Prowl's forehead. At least Minimus Ambus is having the worst time by boiling in his armor next to Starscream.

The door opened, letting a gust of colder air in, and a plateful of Energon treats was placed on the table.

"Fucking A!" The Autobots suddenly became interested in the plate. The room suddenly got more crowded as they reached for sweets, accidentally bumping their hands. Even Ratchet woke up.

"It's from the Constructicons. It's not poisoned. Don't worry." Said Fixit redundantly because the Autobots didn't care.

Prowl averted his optics and let the plebeians have their treats, debating whether he felt hungry or not. He wasn't hungry, but he hadn't eaten anything that morning. 

Hmm...Oh, fuck you, Rodimus , he cursed under his breath as the last cookie was swept in front of Prowl's optics. He wanted to say something.

Bonecrusher's lips were cracked and atmosphere-chapped when he kissed the corner of Prowl's mouth on that hill two weeks ago. Suddenly, he felt a horrible and shameful tug inside his chest. This damn meeting was getting worse and worse. He could feel his face getting hot.

"Are you serious, Rodimus?!" He growled when the red and orange Autobot sprayed his hands with obnoxiously smelling sanitizer. "Fuck you!" He smacked the bottle off Rodimus' hands when he meanly tried to spray some of its contents over Prowl's face. 

It was so hot in here. Why was it hot in here? Why wasn't the air conditioning cooling this cramped room, filled with odors brewing in the stale air? Why was Starscream talking so loudly? Why were the Autobots whispering and giggling? Prowl's head pulsed in pain. The ache engulfed his entire skull now, and it was blazing sickly.

He stood up, pushed past the row of chairs, opened the door, and bolted straight to the restroom, brushing past two heavy frames.

*****

He could tell there were mechs behind him despite the shimmering darkness at the back of his skull. Those mechs dared not enter the restroom but observed him from the corridor. Why are they staring at him? Why can't he even vomit in peace? 

He gripped the washbasin and heaved.

Someone shouted in the distance. "You should get laid! Good fucking cures all pains and aches!" There were other people shouting something like  "We can beat you up then screw you to check if it works,"  followed by some angry shouting, and then there was silence. Someone approached him.

"How did it happen?"

"I woke up with a headache." He said weakly, washing his mouth with his shaky hands. "The darkness smells, and the light makes it worse." There was no dread or panic in his voice, the Constructicons noticed, just a tired note of someone very used to this situation.

"Maybe it was the confections." Said Mixmaster ruefully.

"No. I haven't eaten any."

"Why?"

"I was unwell and not hungry." He dodged the question swiftly. Yeah.

From the beginning, he didn't even want sweets.

Of course. He wasn't hungry.

At all.

Prowl felt the warm and thick trail of blood from his nose meet his lips, and he licked it, then cracked one optic open and looked up at the restroom's mirror. They stood behind him with hands suspended in the air just above his frame. The way in the distance, Ratchet was talking with Hook.

He remembered that they somehow ushered him to their quarters. Prowl could not recall the way back to their hab suite because he kept his optics deactivated. Activating them only worsened the searing pain, and he didn't want to faint.

The Constructicons apologized to him. His headache was partially their fault because of the chemicals they used in his quarters. They pleaded to him that the slagging brownout prevented the air conditioning from doing its job. The Constructicons told him their hab suite had a power-generated unit with all devices working. He agreed to come in.

Mixmaster gave him a shot, and Prowl waited for the painkiller to settle in, lying on Constructicons' couch.

He wasn't angry. He just begged for the pain to end.

Remember the green fields.

Behind his closed optics shutters, an old memory resurfaced. 

The memory of smooth driving on the highway somewhere on Earth among green fields as far as the optic can see. That day he had felt the rarest thing: he had been engulfed by peace.

Remember the green fields!

The Autobot kept the whimpers behind his closed vents and was about to give in when he heard familiar, heavy footsteps approaching his audios. The Tactician felt a weight on the couch. His pained face met with a cool glass on the Constructicon's chest, and a whimper died in his throat. He saw his own surprised optics in the reflection.

"My Foreman." Prowl heard the words when a heavy, careful hand settled on his helmet. 

It was cool and eroded by the atmosphere.

Chapter Text

Bonecrusher laid Prowl's head on a mesh pillow and arranged him snugly using more soft blankets and cushions. The drug made the Autobot drowsy, but his optics remained alert. He stretched and tossed sluggishly. Prowl attempted to lift himself but collapsed back into his pillow nest. The usually enigmatic and predatory ex-SIC looked like an ungainly kitten. But instead of enjoying the sight, Constructicons got nervous.

"What did you give him?" Hissed Hook worriedly.

"I gave him the thing Ratchet usually prescribes him. This one can make mechs sleepy and sluggish. It's a typical side effect." Whispered Mixmaster back.

"Well, he looks sedated, not sleepy. Are you sure he got the right amount?" Long Haul answered, noticing the dilated pupils and a small bead of fluid coming from the corner of Prowl's mouth.

"Yes, I am sure the amount is correct," answered Mixmaster, hurt.

"You whipped it out of nowhere. I'm saying there will be some heavy slag over this, that's all."

Hook tried to wipe Prowl's face clean. He suddenly instinctively backed off when Prowl snapped his teeth loudly. The Autobot watched him for a long while, then rubbed Hook's arm silently.

"I know, I know. I wish I knew how to amend myself."

"Trouble ahead." Muttered Scavenger unhelpfully.

"Or an opportunity to score some brownie points," said Bonecrusher smugly and poked Prowl's helmet gently.

"Hey, Boss." Bonecrusher started his cautious talk. "Hey, that's okay. Will you let me touch you? I may help a lot with future headaches."

Prowl made a slightly curious facial expression.

"I'm a chiro practitioner."

"Self-appointed and self-taught." Whispered Long Haul.

"I'll turn your head to the side." Bonecrusher cupped Prowl's helmet. "You with me, Prowl? You okay with that?" Prowl pouted, then raised an optic ridge expectantly.

At the sound of a loud crack, Prowl's dilated optics grew wide open. He then giggled softly and yawned, showing his little fangs.

"Mission accomplished." Hummed Bonecrusher, looking smugly at Mixmaster.

The Cement-Mixer's cheeks turned purple from conflicting emotions. He had tried so hard to get on Prowl's good side, but here comes his uncouth and rather vulgar buddy, who sweet-talks Prowl easily like that, then gets all the brownie points for a simple procedure. Oh well. Prowl had yet to try Mixmaster's confectionery. Challenge accepted, he huffed indignantly.

The corner of Prowl's mouth rose up in a smirk. He deactivated his optics and opened them to look at Scavenger intently.

"Oh, you ain't scared of this situation, Prowler?" Said Scavenger. "You know the effects of your medicine, right?

Want something to eat, maybe?" Prowl grinned in response.

A moment later, Prowl was half-sitting, sipping on an Energon cocktail, his motions sluggish. When he was done, the Constructicons began to coo at him, encouraging him to close his optics shutters and drift into recharge. They noticed he initially tried to fight his urges but failed and allowed them to pet him.

"Hey Boss, you're such a cutie today." They crooned, nuzzling and rocking him, enjoying a rare moment of togetherness they had missed since their last combining.

"There's nothing cute about this." Growled Mixmaster, looking in the distance past the mechs before him. The Chemist did not join them in their Prowl-cuddling but glared at them darkly. "Nothing."

"Ahem..."

"Uhhh..."

"Hahaha..."

"I'm sorry, Mix, I didn't know Prowl takes such strong drugs for his neurological issues. You did a great job of being vigilant and producing them on the spot out of nowhere. Thank you. My apologies."

"Thanks, I guess." He sighed, but his mood did not lighten up.

*****

He woke up with a gasp in a dark room in their lounge. It was difficult adjusting his still enlarged pupils to glance around the room, so much so that he felt light dizziness overcome him. The mechs around him were asleep, he assessed. However, there were echoes of hushed calls coming from the wash racks. The door wasn't completely closed, and a bright light radiated from it.

He looked around and oriented himself. The occupants on the other couches on his left were sleeping. Prowl checked his chronometer but didn't trust himself to rouse from his position. He wriggled on the sofa and tried to arrange himself for some more recharging. He never had a chance.

He heard unintelligible whispers and squelching noises. Lots of dripping, slobbering, little sounds echoing in the spacious and almost-empty room and mingling with murmurs.

Whispers, lip-smacking and rhythmical pumping into plush wetness bounced all over tiled surfaces. Prowl held his breath in suspense.

Oh.

The Tactician detected a worried whisper followed by gentle shushing and, once again, silence.

Prowl swallowed and deactivated his optics. However, in the darkness, his audial sensors felt primed like never before, and he quickly picked up more soothing murmurs.

Suddenly, the wet and well-regulated smacking assault began. A certain kind of unsettling feeling began to pool in his gut, and the realization hit him like a fist in the face.

The Constructicons were actually...

The Autobot froze in place, humiliation overwhelming him.

Ignore it. Ignore it!

But it was so, so hard to ignore.

Suddenly, there was no sound...

But then the wet beating came back, just more cushioned. They deactivated their cooling fans in favor of manual nose and mouth ventilation, which was quieter...at least in theory. The Tactician's mind conjured an image that he gingerly cast aside by opening his optics and staring at the dark wall before sucking in a breath. A surprised and angry exclamation jostled his trembling internals. Loud, heavy spurts of thick liquid hit the tiles on the floor, and Prowl counted them in his head, not entirely pleased with the situation.

Are they done?

Unintelligible, breathy whimper told him one of them disagreed. The dark room began afresh, drowning in squelching, rubbing, and gasps. Time passed excruciatingly slow for Prowl. One of them was talking, trying hard to explain something to the other, but his promises bloomed into a bewildered moan drowned by brutal slamming.

Feverish gasps and airless grunts flowed into the darkroom. A partially-blocked keen filled the air... and stillness followed dense fluid sploshing on the floor. He rolled his optics and accidentally inhaled the scent of Constructicons from their cushions and blankets. That wasn't what he wanted right now! Are they done? Prowl's face was on fire. How much longer do I have to wait?

Oh, no. Incomprehensible bragging made him realize how wrong he was.

One of them produced a string of feverish nonverbal complaints, while the other was getting release after release. Once again, Prowl heard the Constructicon expel his tension with a squirt, and a shudder coursed through him.

Will they ever be done?

Again, muffled sultry grunts and puffs of someone complaining needily of his lack of completion. It was prolonged torture. The aborted cries seemed to convey pleading for mercy, end my suffering, finish me, please. All my components are aching for you. I can't wait much longer. They didn't care anymore as their blatant slamming reverberated.

He remembered exactly how Bonecrusher's lips pressed against his face and how massive Bonecrusher's palm felt on Prowl's belly, every gust of air coming from the Bulldozer's vents, mouth, and nose when he held Prowl close to his chest. Prowl's body was throbbing and burning to the core. When their shouts pierced the air, he manually inhaled through the nose and squeezed his optics shut.

"Wrap this up, guys. Bonecrusher and I have to get up early!" growled Long Haul in response to their release of tightly-held breaths and drunken giggling.

"Mhm...mhm..." Bonecrusher grunted in his sleep. Uh...that sound made Prowl's abdomen backflip and pulsate hard within in anticipation.

And then the motion is the washracks stopped. After some time, the light was off, too...but he was still throbbing between his legs.

The Constructicons were finished, but Prowl wasn't. He was itching and aching for touch. He needed some type of release, and the fact made him tremble with anguish and shame. Surrounded by darkness, deprived of the solitude of his private room, alone and awake in the silent company of sleeping mechs laying so close to him but still too far apart for him to reach, he wanted to wail out of despair and loneliness.

Chapter Text

"Some mechs here actually work hard during the day and we need a good sleep. Why must you be so obnoxious?" In the morning the Constructicons were all up, talking angrily in hushed voices. They tried to contain their emotions to let Prowl sleep. However, some of them found it particularly hard to do, especially usually withdrawn and calm Long Haul.

"We went to our wash-racks." Defended himself Scavenger.

"That's fine." mocked Long Haul, his tone of voice livid. "Too bad you didn't close the door and the light was shining straight into my face. You fucked so loudly the neighbors probably heard you."

"Since when do you care about neighbors?" Butted in Bonecrusher from the nearby couch. He was the only mech not disturbed by Long Haul's wrath and the night romp of Mixmaster and Scavenger.

"Since Prowl's with us." Whispered angrily Long Haul. "I'm so tired. You can't imagine! How about you, Crusher?"

"I didn't hear anything." Yawned Bonecrusher. One could launch a bunch of explosives and the Bulldozer wouldn't budge, his sleep was that deep.

"I didn't want to make a row in the middle of the night. Look, I'm trying to be understanding. I know the two of you have needs. You can fuck all night long and feel vigorous in the morning, but most of the mechs aren't like that. And no, I'm not shaming you, Mix, I'm only asking you to be more considerate next time." Added Long Haul at Chemist's exasperated sigh.

"Yup." Simply added Hook at which Mixmaster rolled his optics.

"I'm merely warning you." It was rare for Long Haul to be mad but an indignant puff from Mixmaster riled him up. "Look, Mix, if you complain of the excess energy, I'll find you a new job. Believe it or not, there's plenty to do at the construction site, even though the power is still down." Long Haul's opinion was valid and Mixmaster couldn't stomach the thought.

"Why are you ranting about me only? Scavenger was the most blatant. He moaned so loud as somebody fucked him in the rear port and eye-socket simultaneously."

"Scavenger is innocent because he's stupid and vulnerable to your ideas."

"And you Hook better shut up, you fucking drunkard," bridled Long Haul. "We're taking it easy on you just because of your inflamed joints, but in contrast to Prowl, you don't look sick to me. You're just fucking hung-over. Let me get at you again."

"Heh, only I'm a good guy today." Beamed Bonecrusher from behind a datapad watching a compilation of demolition fails with amusement. He burst into wheezing laughter when mechs on the video clip scurried away after an explosion had gone wrong.

"Turn that thing off! All of you shut up!" Warned them Hook gesturing towards Prowl. "He's waking up."

Prowl's hands began groping his thigh even before his optics shutters opened. He relaxed when he found his gun and looked at the Constructicons.

"Hello, Prowl." Smiled Scavenger and clutched Prowl by the arm. Prowl twitched and tried to free his arm, but the grasp on him did not loosen. The Autobot shrunk a bit in surprise then widened his optics in confusion as he saw Mixmaster slap Scavenger with force in the face. Scavenger was just as shocked. He fell to his knees next to the couch and looked confused at Mixmaster, then at Prowl, then back at Mixmaster.

"I'm sorry Prowl, don't mind him." Pleaded Mixmaster. "He's impaired."

There was a brief tremor in Prowl's face, something unreadable, that made them all feel they all done something wrong. Silence hung in the air while he analyzed them, but then a doorbell brought them all back to reality. Behind the door stood Blurr with a large box. The Autobot made several steps inside to get Prowl's signature. After a short, dull chat, Blurr appeared to be mulling over something. He hesitated while looking at Scavenger who did not dare to move from his knees next to the couch Prowl was laying on. The Con was closer to Prowl than he meant to be and Blurr realized it.

"I can't believe you let yourself be defiled by them, Prowl." Announced Blurr turning to leave and stole a glance down at Prowl."

Prowl's optics narrowed and focused on the runner.
"Devastator is the form in which I'm able to unleash my true power." Responded Prowl swiftly. "I had heard the gossip. The fact that you feel grossed-out by me combining with the Constructicons only proves how short-sighted and small you are."

The Constructicons exchanged glances. Their attention had become centered on their Boss.

"I will show neither shame nor hesitation even if it means turning myself into a weapon to accomplish my objectives. Unlike some, I am above social prejudice."

"That's not what I meant." Grinned Blurr, masking his astonishment and regretting that his glossa was faster than his legs sometimes. At that remark, the Constructicons moved their heads in unison and locked their blazing gazes on the hapless messenger.

"Do you even know what you meant?" Asked Long Haul quietly in a not-typical, menacing manner. His bad mood would probably be slow to fade.

"Whatever happens in this alcove is our business only. " Added Hook piercing the blue runner with his visor.

"Have it ever crossed your mind that Prowl has friends who are worried about him?" Blurr huffed in defense feeling cornered.

"Ah." Taunted Hook. "Then you should worry not as our intentions are pure, Autobot. Despite our mishaps, we strive to show respect and support to our boss, unlike some of his ...friends." He glared indignantly at the blue Autobot.
Blurr studied Prowl in search of answers but the Tactician's optics expressed nothing. He was unusually still and quiet, he held his door wings low. The ex-SIC observed Long Haul walking Blurr to the exit and saying to him "You'll be better off minding your own business, Autobot. Thank you for the fast delivery."

An awkward silence hung in the air, although most of the uneasiness dissipated.

"Open the package. It's for you." Said Prowl suddenly. "I heard you need more rations to work efficiently."
Constructicons got excited when they saw the contents of the box.

"Oh, there's some high-grade too! Thanks, Prowler!" Smirked Bonecrusher. "But wait...who's the formula for? We're not newbuilds, you know."

"Sorry, that's actually for me." Said Prowl to Constructicons' surprise. The formula was rich in compounds but its taste was too distinct for adult mechs to like. It was unexpected that Prowl wasn't deterred by its specific flavor.

"You know, with all the Energon you got us we can cook something more palatable." Cautiously suggested Mixmaster, to which Prowl gave a short, dismissive answer.

"There is no need."

"Prowl, umm...Are you mad at us?" Mixmaster did not take his optics off him.

Prowl cocked his head and paused drinking his Energon." As long as mechs are efficacious experts in their field, I will turn a blind optic to their occasional bullshit." His stare intensified.

"I'd like to underline that I want to have no part in your meaningless squabbles." Continued Prowl slowly sitting up. "I see you're quite independent but if you need any resources, send me a message and I'll arrange them for you."

Suddenly, Prowl felt a firm grip under his shoulder and his thoughts scattered at the sight of Bonecrusher's chest. The Con grabbed him and Prowl's gaze jumped from the hand under his arm to Bonecrusher's face.

"You need not aid me - you should not be aiding me." Said Prowl through clenched teeth after a long moment of gathering his thoughts again.

"Are you sure you can walk on your own?" Asked the Bulldozer. Prowl simply nodded.

"Thank you for your support." For once he did not look so unaffected.

******

"Huh, the couch smells of Prowl." Muttered Scavenger nosediving into the pillows and blankets. "He kinda smells like...Soundwave?

"Don't change the subject." Chastised him Hook." You two are lucky he was not angered by your antics. I thought he would be mad at the fucking under his nose and your collective stupidity."

"Prowl's not petty."

"But he's, you know...strange. I mean, different."

There was a vague certainty on Constructicons' and as well as on Autobots' part that Prowl had no room for any romantic attachment in his life. The Tactician had been solely focused on running campaigns and the survival of his people for so long, he hardly had time for interactions outside his work. His weary, gray face, his elegant and pristine plating, distant optics, and monotonous speech gave him an appearance of a sexless entity rather than a living person. His calm and cold EM field was a testimony and his scent the proof of his celibate ways.

Scavenger was right about one thing, Soundwave smelled the same. The Decepticon SIC had told them that his lifestyle helped him to stay driven and more creative, but the Constructicon thought Soundwave's receptiveness to other people's feels and thoughts might be the main reason.

"I don't buy this scrap." Drawled Bonecrusher with a mischievous glint in his optics. "At all."

Chapter Text

THE LOST LIGHT INSIDER

IT PECKED THE SLICE UNTIL ONLY THE CRUST REMAINED

A "necklace" made of a slice of bread and a scornful glare - these are the attributes of wealth among the pigeon community.

I was having a lunch break and suddenly saw it - explains Tailgate, our Reader. We received some photos which were depicting a pigeon wearing a bread necklace. When we asked why he decided to take these photos, he replied without thinking that he had never seen anything like that.

Usually, mechs feed turbopigeons with pellets here, but this one must have found a piece of bread. It ate the soft inside, and the rest ended up on his neck - describes the small Autobot.

Tailgate said that he sadly could not watch the fowl adorned with a crust for too long. After taking some photos, he had to go back to work. 

Even if I wanted to free the bird from the slice, it wouldn't be possible. It flew away when I took a step toward it. But maybe it ate the crust in the end - he added.

Most often, pigeons sling the bread slices on their necks on their own. In the heat of the fight, they first peck at the center of the bread. Then, they toss it in the air, and it lands on the neck as a result...  (tap to read more)

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"You can come in," some Autobot exiting Prowl's office said, passing the Escapologist by.

Getaway sighed and put the tablet in the subspace and entered the room. The morning was long past, and the heat behind the window began to build up. The room was spacious, nice, and new. Everything was white, maybe even too bright for his liking. Sitting in front of him was EX-Second In Command Prowl, one of the most efficient, persuasive, and stern employers that Getaway has ever had the satisfaction of working with. Despite the enormous stress and high risk posed by the actions carried out by him and his colleagues, Getaway liked his job. He never really imagined that he could work anywhere else, but that didn't mean he couldn't. Primus knew both of them had seen their fair share of animosity, and having each other’s company was a welcome change. 

Changes. Getaway kept a mental list of them all. By ticking boxes as he made new observations. Prowl didn't handle change well. Of course, many mechs dislike change; they deflect and oppose and dodge it. The Praxian did an excellent job of avoiding it. However, as much as everyone would like to assume, Prowl was not Primus. Some affairs in life would happen without the approval or consent of others. 

 A mouth slow to laugh. The former SIC didn't look away from his paperwork yet. His desk was well made, shiny white with crisp lines that didn’t fit his figure anymore. Prowl was wearing black eyeliner, and a classy-looking communicator rested near his wrist. Yet grime was peeking from the cracks of Prowl's armor the Escapologist was quick to discover. Combining had altered him, for better or for worse was still yet to be seen. 

Getaway sat down on the chair without much fanfare. He knew better than to speak until Prowl told him to. The silence was uncomfortable, but he was waiting. 

There was an excruciating length of time where the Praxian signed several documents before he finally looked up at his visitor. In Getaway's opinion, Prowl's face was pale and quite average-looking, except for his optics fixed on Getaway with the intensity of a serpent. It was enough to send his plating prickling, being watched so closely.

"Dark crystals?" There was no shortage of it in this office. Its bitter, tart taste was a sad and accurate summary of Prowl’s life on Luna 2 so far. 

With no hesitation, the Autobot gave him a nod. Prowl grabbed a cup and headed over to the machine. The dense atmosphere returned. 

"Chief. There are  rumors  some mechs want to  remove  you." That was what the Escapologist ended up saying. 

"Prowl's a liability." Gateway's recording of Rodimus petered in the empty room.

A liability. A supercomputer. Prowl heard it even more often, that he wasn't a mech. The idea had been slipping past him from time to time. After all, he lived like a tool, an essential tactical computer. A well-tuned instrument. Only useful, never really alive. 

"Your  Gestalt . Here's the  info  about them," Getaway said, altogether too cheerfully. The data slug in his hand landed on the table as he came closer to Prowl.

" Monitor  them," Prowl said, turning so suddenly that Getaway jumped. "Dispatch, if necessary." He ordered, his tone hard and steady. 

"They support you, though," the Escapologist shrugged. Dispatch them. Idiotic. Pointless. They've all been loyal workers. Why would he do such a thing? "Do you still want to..."

The Praxian kept a stoic face as Getaway looked at him. A look of complete contempt crossed his features before he resumed.

" Exactly  as I’ve said." 

The gaze Getaway was being fixed with didn't seem accusatory, but it still made him wince.

"Yes, Sir." 

It wasn't as if Getaway cared personally whether Prowl would die. He was aware that Prowl made him an MTO, but he felt no resentment. Instead, he turned his hate toward Megatron. The Escapologist loathed the Tyrant with a burning passion, he wanted him to suffer. Getaway wasn't the type to be idle when he had a set goal in mind. Nothing would ever give him back lost peace of mind, that he knew, but at least he could try and make himself feel less resentful about it after satisfying his longing for revenge. 

He could see Prowl's expression change from seriousness to earnestness as if he felt a deep, aching sadness.

And then he left.

*****

During the war, Prowl had seen countless cities turn into ruin. He contributed to the destruction of many, too many of them. But it never occurred to him then that among those people who would return to build a new life somewhere in the ruins, it would also be him. Someone might say that there would be no normal life anymore - not after Simazi, not after Auequitas' trials, not after cyberforming planets. However, Prowl had learned long ago that time never gives people a chance to stop, and life for sure - will always go on. Normality was slowly but surely returning to a war-torn planet. Mechs traveled to work, to friends, to look for a better income, or get goods for semi-legal trade. The traffic was roaring by, never slow enough. Some buildings were already surrounded by steel scaffolding, where work was in progress. 

Once outside, Prowl headed to the left to take a new sidewalk around the side of the building.

Luckily, he lived in a nicer part of the city. Buildings here still had all floors, some of them were even in one piece. True, most of them were damaged by shelling, and there was a bomb crater with a smooth metal surface where a crystal park once was, but one could still feel as if you were walking through a city of mechs and not of ghosts.

A liability.

Rodimus was right about intrigues and lies and about how filthy Prowl's Energon was, too. Right and fully deserving of his infamy. Except Prowl didn't deserve that, because he was the grand Autobot Tactician, who had always strived to minimize the losses.

Prowl's face was expressionless, but his optics held not well-hidden sadness. Despite his considerable experience with building walls between his mind and the outside world, some of the emotions swirling in Prowl's mind still managed to reach his consciousness...He would rather live in his own head, where he didn’t need to deal with his sentiments, his blame, or his loss. He didn’t need the weight of it. Among the Autobot ranks, he would always push down his worries, lying to himself that everything was fine. The Constructicons followed him, merged with him, and tainted him. Owning and utilizing it implied he'd be useful, right? Well, to himself, because he wasn't too convinced anyone cared. 

He heard a commotion from behind a railing he was passing by. A little detour maybe? Aw, hell. Why not? He reached his destination, finally tearing himself away from his grim thoughts. Before him, beyond where there were fences set up to keep oblivious passersby away from the construction zone, worked the Constructicons. The site contained massive piles of metal beams, broken concrete, and sacks of different compounds. 

Prowl shouldn’t have been surprised to see them but the reality struck him to a halt.

" AYYY  Prowl!"

A rumble of happiness went through the Constructicons as a whole. Prowl pushed his way through the busy crowd, changing between staring down and pointedly dismissing the stares from the other construction workers. Strangely, there were more stares than expected.

" Hi , Boss!"

" Sup  Prowl!" 

" Fancy  seeing you here." Mixmaster strode over to him. The Con looked to be a few decades younger than Prowl himself, saved for somewhat weary optics. He wore a sweet smile entirely at odds with his wicked demeanor.

"You look  great " Long Haul wiped his servos on his rag and then used the same dirty rag to wipe the dust from his mask.

Prowl saw Mixmaster’s tattooed glossa. It was... He banished this reflection before it could develop into a fully formed thought. 

Noticing him frown as he stepped, they grinned at him. 

"Hey, Prowl You came to help?" Scavenger joked, elbowing his Boss playfully. 

A ripple of chuckling passed through the crowd.

Prowl’s marble face showed no sign of amusement.

"My intention is  nothing  of the sort,” His lower back was aching badly that day, so he wanted to say his piece and get the whole talking thing over with. "I came to..."

The Praxian paused to watch Hook go about the business of strapping a belt around his hips. Prowl wondered, probably longer than he should, whether every single tool belt they were wearing weighed more than him. 

A whisper penetrated his processor, unwelcome and unwanted.

" Foreman. " The Crane said coldly as he gripped his tools tighter. "This is our site, and we are trying to get started on the next floor. The rookies are disrupting our workforce." He looked with undisguised contempt at the youngsters who were supposed to help. Long Haul too was glaring at the five young mechs who were putting his schedule behind. 

" Bring  me some  bricks ” Long Haul called. A young dump truck, spectacled and awkward looking, appeared confused.

"What kind of bricks?"

" ANY  bricks, punk!  ANYTHING !” Long Haul nearly shouted, yanking at a pile of pipes.

The smallest cement mixer squeaked in terror as Mixmaster slammed a package of ruined bricks down on the ground, causing debris to fly everywhere.

"You  fragged up  the order again, punk!"

Prowl cringed.

" S-sorry , sir," the NAIL stammered, staring at his pedes.

" Optics on me  when I’m talking to you!"

" Y-yes , Sir!"

"Do you know  what  are you doing?" The stocky mech shouted jabbing stubby fingers at the rookies for emphasis. This was the one who seemed to have a spike too big for his modesty plating from how he talked and smirked. The idea burned through Prowl like a firebolt, and he whisked it away.

" Bonecrusher !" Prowl growled in warning, pulling his tablet out. Rookies got to cover behind some flaking-off slab of concrete. It was all still a bit of a culture shock for the NAILS, and the workflow was going to take some getting used to.

"But  Boss ," grumbled the Bulldozer bearing a look of the utmost seriousness. "We've got a  schedule  to keep." 

" We called   sappers  to clear a path to us," the younglings explained why things weren't getting done. The seasoned builders looked the new workers over and wondered if it was possible to send them back.

"Be  patient  and  behave  yourselves."

Scavenger was looking up pensively for a moment before glancing back down and smiling at Prowl. 

"Like  you  are with  us ?"

Prowl, shockingly, had no comeback for that.

******

The nearby cafe was not that bad. Nice decor, clean tables, friendly service, and, most notably, delicious and nutritious fuel are all included for all office workers. It smelled like dark-pressed crystals and cake. Soft, classical music played in the background. Nevertheless, the cafe had one drawback. Anyone could stay in it, regardless of whether they were office workers. Consequently, midday refuelling, an activity Prowl liked very much, was disturbed by the typically irritating green mechs. 

 They followed him. Great. 

The Constructicons, apparently too having a refuelling break, hunkered a few feet away from the cafe's fence. They hadn't said a word since they spotted Prowl and waved. Every once in a while, they glanced at Prowl out of the corner of their optics. Pinheaded little glitches.

" You  ?" He looked at them momentarily, his optics fixed on them like he was wondering if he wanted to talk to them. 

They flinched, surprised at the sound of Prowl's voice. Recently, they had been working on the reconstruction of a nearby hospital. Only burnt ground floor walls remained of the once-grand building, but these were judged to be sturdy enough to be reused. The last time Prowl saw Constructicons, they swelled with pride looking at the still rough walls. The green mechs had been working on the structure for only 2 days, and the building had already gained one floor and a part of another. Impressive. Rewards are essential; Prowl knew that.

Hunching in the distance, the ex-Cons watched him carefully but not trying to intrude, avoiding looking him straight in the optic. Timid and sheepish. 

"Stop  stalking  me. You may come here," Prowl said, setting the empty cube down. "You  deserve  some nice fuel," and he motioned for the whole lot of them to take a seat.

"Sounds good." 

They nodded at him, signifying their acceptance of them sitting with him, then looked at chairs but opted to disregard them. With their armour clanking and rattling overloud, they stomped and squatted around his table. Long Haul sat on the ground. His breath wafted Prowl's cheek - the scent was calming and warm, with notes of maple and burnt oil that reminded him of driving along with fields on the Earth on an autumn afternoon.

" Hey , You can't bring your fuel here!"

"They're with  me; I'd  like to order some for them," Prowl firmly locked his optics onto the waiter. 

" Sir?"

One optic ridge arched up. 

"Sir," the waiter asked again, softer this time. "You didn't book a large table for six."

"I'm booking it     now    ." Prowl made a slight, conniving gesture towards the menu the waiter was holding.

"But..." The waiter's tone of voice was no longer so sure. "There are no large chairs or tables." 

"We can sit on the ground and use this table. No problem," they assured. The tabletop was at the right height as long as they were sitting on the ground. It was enough to feel the breath against his cheek, the press of that EM field against his side.

It took the Praxian two seconds to realize how tall they were. How easily they could smash him against the wall, immobilize him. They could use their immense strength to overpower and rip him to pieces with those claws. The Constructicons were the embodiment of violence, chaos, and intimidation. They could kill him with a blink of an optic. The only thing standing in their way?

"We are dirty anyway."

Prowl hadn't noticed the dirt as much as their frames - the bulk and definition. He watched through half-lidded optics a slick oil sheen on their armour and how ash fell from their tank treads and was swept away with a warm gust of wind. Like an orange kerosene lamp, the scent of heated sand was mixed with something undeniably potent, warm, and comforting.

"Are you ready to order?" the waiter asked, effectively jolting Prowl out of staring at the paint streaks on the Constructicons' legs.

"I don't have  enough data  on your preferences," Prowl looked Constructicons' way but didn't listen to their chat with the waiter.

Prowl set his elbows on the counter, tenting his hands in front of him, and noticed that although the Constructicons tried not to let it show, they were tense. After the obligatory courtesies, Prowl rested his chin on his clasped hands. He stared at Constructicon without saying a word.

He was about to ask a question, but the door opened. As if on cue, the waiter appeared in the room with two platters in both hands.

" Stupid cooks ," Long Haul said, staring bitterly at his burger, from which he picked out trimmings' remains. "They always have to add too much, damn it!" - He licked the white sauce on his fingers and bent down to take the tissues out of the subspace compartment.

"You'd better don't bring me shame." The corners of Prowl's mouth turned downwards for a second, but he returned to enjoying the soft texture of the tart as it filled his mouth with its sweet flavour. Primus had missed the pleasure of eating solid fuel.

Quietly, Scavenger went to pick his first burger. Not bothering to use utensils, he dove right in the face first. He swallowed a few bites and then drew back to enjoy it. 

"You are my  responsibility  ", Prowl stated with the sole intention of distancing himself from them. 

" Aww,  Prowler."

"My     designation    is Prowl." 

" Yes , Prowl."

He considered it for a moment. "I do not have a habit of refuelling with my subordinates."

"Well, that's a bit sad."

"Thanks for the invitation, though," a large hand patted his arm. And this short, direct contact - green, sturdy metal with white and thinner Praxian plating - was enough for Prowl to feel an electrifying, raw sensation.

"Don't  touch me,  "Prowl bristled but stopped talking to avoid the attention of the prying optics of the rest of the clients.

"Sorry..."

"You are going to   rebuild Raskol Arena,  where Megatron's  trial   will take place." He hastily changed the topic. Thinking about the trial was more sobering than he would have liked. 

Only then did the green mechs turn and look at Prowl. He had to admit that their synchronized gaze made him feel a little uncomfortable. It was a remarkable experience to be watched by those five pairs of fiery red optics. It was like gazing into the eyes of turbowolves lurking in the darkness. Inconspicuous but prepared to strike at any moment. These mechs were exactly that, not to be taken lightly, and whoever did so would sooner or later regret it.

"Why are you   so sure   that Megatron is   unable to change  ?" Hook asked, ignoring Prowl's earlier statement. 

And then something incredible happened: Prowl's optic shutter twitched. The entire left side of his face twitched as if due to some peculiar, nervous tic. 

"Why are you  defending  him?" the ex-SIC narrowed his optics. "You've  been in my head!  You had learned how much I     despise  him," he finished in that warning tone that sent most Autobots running for cover.

"Because the  war is over ," Hook replied with a shrug.

" OVER? " Prowl smiled from the very corner of his mouth. This unsightly, malicious countenance did not often appear on his face. He rather kept his features blank on a daily basis. "Do you have   any idea     what Megatron     has done     and what he is  capable of    ?" He made sure, and his tone revealed that this was only the beginning of his tirade of points.

"More or less, yes." Constructicons were looking at him again, but there was something odd in their expressions. Something even more unclear than before.

" We know."  the Medic nodded to emphasize his words. 

"But that's all   in the past, " Scavenger said as surely as if he believed in that declaration. "The Decepticons are really   trying to be  good    ."

"It's  in the past, you say? There's  no logic     behind this statement." Prowl turned to the Excavator with the fullness of the sinister gleam in his optics. Hook was disloyally glad that it wasn't him the Foreman was looking at now. "So, in your opinion, it is enough to throw a careless speech, declare that you are going to the good side, and suddenly all sins of any given mech are absolute?!" 

"But Boss..."

" It does not work like that! " He got up and raised his hand to Scavenger's face, pointing at him accusingly with his index finger and throwing lightning bolts out of his optics. " The murderer stays a murderer!  "Prowl wanted to strut with arrogance, hoping all five would be offended and leave him alone, preferably for the rest of his life. But at the same time, he also thought it'd be wrong to insult them for the bullshit they still believed in. Constructicons might not be the ones who were famous for being mind-bogglingly brilliant. Not their fault that they weren't smart or enlightened like him. Before the war, they were keeping their noses to the grindstone. During the war, they were doing the same thing. And now, after the war, they would be using their hands their whole life if people like Prowl did nothing to emancipate them. One of the most vulnerable classes which have been brainwashed and fed Decepticon propaganda for millions of years. 

Besides, he had something to thank them for. They helped him after the Killswitch attack. Renovated his hab suite, assisted him to heal twice from migraine, cramps, and a few little things. He was fed up with their nattering about health risks. This wasn't something he was used to, and at the same, it felt...genuine. He also suspected that their nosiness was honest and backed with actual feelings other than pursuing profit. Prowl was curious about mechs, who gave a damn and made him feel like he was worth something.

" I thought you chose me!  Megatron and I are the     exact opposites    !" His dental clenched hard enough to crack. It was Prowl's first month as a Gestalt component, his first month as a leader of the Constructicons, and he had definitely expected it to be challenging. However, nothing could presumably have prepared him for how tough it really was. No one could have prepared him for how it truly felt to be on his own all the time without his Autobot allies, and no one could have prepared him for how handling his Gestalt would be. 

Prowl couldn't help but think about Devastator, which terrified him. Those were the mechs who chose him. How could that be? These mechs answered eagerly to a leader who's no longer valued among his friends. Mechs who were okay with Prowl being Prowl and decided it was alright to stay. Sure, they're Decepticons, but who cares. Not him. A loyal subordinate was better than what he was used to.

In contrast to most employees Prowl had, they always smiled at him. There wasn't a single dumb task they'd refuse to do. In that obsessive, invasive way of theirs, they adored him. He never thought his life would get this weird.

Crimson optics were watching him closely the whole time. Scavenger opened his mouth as if to say something, but not a single word came out.

" Everyone deserves  a second chance," muttered Long Haul.

" You  gave  us  a second chance," they tried to appease him.

Prowl struggled to keep from rolling his optics. Several sarcastic comments made it almost to his lips but died on his cautious glossa.

"We  want to take care of you  too. You   need   medical assistance-" 

"It's  none   of your   business ." Prowl sounded more hostile than he meant. But instead of the stubborn jabbering Prowl anticipated to follow his harsh tone, Constructicons' EM fields engulfed him, attempting to calm his nerves and pulling him in like a soft caress. Warmth ignited in his chest.

He recoiled in shock.

" Do not touch me!  "Prowl fired back.

"Boss is   right , Mixmaster." Bonecrusher turned his big head at the comment, radiating an aura of considering calm. "It's  not   a good setting to discuss his health." The mech had a deep voice. A soothing one. It was the voice that had recently invaded Prowl's daydreaming and disturbed his recharge. The Praxian wrinkled his brow and stared into Bonecrusher's darker gaze of deep pity and rising concern. He hated how weak the mech in front of him was, making him feel so embarrassed under this intense scrutiny.

It was all tense silence until... 

"I'll see you  tomorrow  in your  office ," A slight nudge on Prowl's shoulder wheel brought him back to the real world as the Surgeon stared at him impatiently, waiting for a response.

These few seemingly innocent words made Prowl feel as if he had been hit by electricity that second, and, strangely enough, the impulse was not at all unpleasant. 

"So what's gonna happen to Megs?" Squeaked Scavenger.

Prowl blinked. He felt he was on the verge of losing patience; he was tired, his joints ached, a low fever was prickling his cheeks, and he still wanted to preach at them, but he knew it would be counterproductive. 

"Megatron is going to  undergo trial , like  any  other  war criminal ," Prowl's tone was final and absolute as if burning a slate of iron. 

"Well, okay…"

"Get back to  work  ." He blurted, sensing that he would lose his nerve if they didn't part ways soon. Then he turned demonstratively on his heel and headed toward his office, feeling a pang of irrational guilt. Amazingly enough, that seemed to stun the dumbafts into silence. 

He shook his head, turned right, and the illusion was broken. Here it was impossible to ignore that the war had just ended. He walked mindlessly over the hills and valleys of rubble for a long moment without seeing a road whose proper route would be hard to see anyway. Although the debris had already been removed from the ground and the road was clear, the sides were still piled with concrete and warped metal protruding from the piles here and there. Single walls stood skywards, threatening the passerby with empty eye sockets. 

It was a pleasant, cloudless day, and despite the miserable landscape, hugging NAILs were strolling past heaps of debris and trash. Their laughter irritated Prowl, who felt like he was wandering in a graveyard. From time to time, vehicles with coffins passed him by. Such a bleak view was nothing new to him. He had heard on the daily news about thousands of corpses buried in shallow graves or lying on the streets. Most of them had already been incinerated last year. However, he still found himself stunned that new ones were excavated almost daily. More dead Minicons meant more carcasses to clean up. Although they weren't Cybertronian, seeing massacred members of mechanical races was still upsetting. He had not been there, but he knew from the Constructicons that they also found a few bodies during cleaning the ruins of the hospital before the reconstruction began. The surrounding squares and yards were full of laying badges.

The Tactician didn't know why he was thinking of Constructicons so often. His inner musings were filled with them and had been for days, he realized. No one had ever taken the time as Constructicons had, and he had been stupid enough to think it implied something. This is where the problem arose for him. Gazing into their bright, sincere faces, Prowl didn't know how to react to this problem. He had no plan of attack and no defence. The memory that haunted him was Bonecrusher's handsome face looking down at him, the sure touch of his hands. Full of warmth and life. The entire trip back to work, Prowl couldn't get the scent off of his mind. Their scent. 

It was supposed to be a peaceful trip. Was it too much to ask? One simple trip from point A to point B. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't see a Decepticon burdened with two large Energon canisters. Only when one of them slid from the mech's fingers and fell with a loud bang, was Prowl brutally pulled out of his reflection. Before he could assess the situation, his hand reached his handgun holster, and he hid behind a hole in the wall in one step.

"I'm  sorry, Sir! Sir? It's an Energon canister, not any bomb! " The Decepticon stammered at the sight of Prowl aiming at him, who was still huddled in his hideout. " Please,   please,  Sir!  "The mech was young, but his face seemed strangely old to Prowl. His optics were empty, as if lifeless - almost like the windows of nearby buildings. Prowl wondered if his gaze sometimes displayed the same emptiness. He should have asked someone about it. 

He knew he had no one to ask.

With two guns pointed at the unfortunate mech, Prowl was cycling air heavily, looping the mech's words in his processor. 

It's Energon, fuel, not blood. It's pink, not purple, he reasoned, but his fists and teeth were still clenched. "Old instincts die hard," he said finally and turned to leave.

Eventually, away from the Constructicons and intrusive Autobots, he visibly sagged. 

*****

He was tired after the long day. Especially since he has been working continuously for several days dealing with information surges, politics, and debate, seeing the right people at the right places and money. But he couldn't take a break now, as dutiful as ever, not a dozen hours ahead of schedule. Hook had to understand.

With a drawn-out sigh, Prowl leaned forward and propped his elbows up on the desk. "I'm exhausted," he mumbled to himself, gazing blankly out the window, at his chronometer, and again at the datapads in front of him. A few more kliks, and he should be going home. Prowl could not say when this prospect started to burden him with such... no, not unwillingness. It was too strong a word, but... Resignation?

The Praxian slowly got up from the table, secured the data with passwords, carefully closed the drawers, and checked three times the arrangement of his items. He refused to acknowledge that he was delaying his return home as long as he could. 

Twenty minutes later, it was all over, and Prowl semiconsciously ran a hand across his face, trying to wake up enough to reach the berth in his hab and fall on it. He felt scraped raw, emptied, and automated.

He grabbed his communicator and keys from the table. Not wasting time left his office as soon as he turned off the lights. He filled his vents with a deep breath of cool night air when he stepped on the stained pavement. In this city of concrete and glass, roads were dark despite all the lights coming from flats and street lamps. It wasn't a far walk to his apartment, only a few blocks away.

Now, returning home alone, he could only count on the relaxing silence of the empty room - as long as the Constructicons were done with tinkering in theirs. 

The passersby mostly gave him critical looks and occasionally surreptitiously dissed him, ostensibly sharing the opinion that he was a disgrace to the Autobot movement. There was something about these mechs that told him he shouldn't approach them directly because they as well looked like not the best kind of people. The crowd thinned as he wandered further from the office. 

He didn't want to go home yet. Going on patrols so many times taught him when he was being followed.

A metallic sigh filled the street. His senses prickled in alarm. Something whistled, and a clangorous, echoing zap hit the audios of anything around. Prowl crossed the road and took shelter in the shadows. He had memorized the layout and the city and could skillfully maneuver his way through the rest. Ragged footsteps came behind him, and Prowl's hand palmed his gun. An acid pellet whizzed through the air with a faint sizzle. Their headlights were burning a hole in his optics.

" Show yourself, you coward!  "

Said mech pounced towards him, and Prowl made a quick decision. Not wasting time, the EX-SIC pulled the trigger, then stood still as the attacker crumpled to the ground at his pedes. Another person approached him.

"Who are you?" Prowl's spark began to sing in his audios as he closed the distance between himself and a second mech. Prowl slammed the opponent into the wall with all his might and fired his gun again.

The third killer remained silent. This one did not lunge at Prowl. Instead, the two faced each other. Reflexively, Prowl shot him in the chest. The assassin dodged it, and before Prowl knew what was happening, the mech had pinned him to the wall. Ruby optics stared into him, and the Praxian felt wrath buzzing inside him. Every instinct in his frame was on high alert. He dropped the gun. His claws cleaved into the attacker's faceplates, and the fight became chaotic. Luck was with him. The EX-SIC wiggled out of his grasp, and then the jinxed mech pressed him into the wall with a blade at his throat. Prowl's hand was quick, and Prowl sliced the mech's underarm faster, which twisted out of Prowl's grasp, and his knife tore through the attacker's throat. The Praxian let the frame drop from his hands, watching it tumble down with a soft thump. Heedlessly bleeding in agony. Messy. He screwed this up.

" Nice fight,  Boss!"

Maybe this was a trap, but it didn't feel like one. Not with the way they were cheering at him.

" Mercy    ..." Constructicons heard the assaulter's static shriek, weak and stammering. Apparently, that fragger took his time dying. Bubbles came out of his mouth. Writhing, spilling purple. It was a truly eerie sight.

"Aww,   slag   ." They cursed in the dark. " What now  ?"

" Send  cleaners ," With his voice as monotonous as usual, Prowl said to this communicator. Shortly after, he straightened and scanned the horizon and the buildings below, searching for movement. Prowl relaxed his doorwings from their locked position. Inside, his processor was racing, and his spark wasn't far behind it. Outside, he remained unperturbed and collected. 

The night became silent again, save for the bubbling whistles. In the distance, a clustered shadow morphed into two dark figures. A blue visor and orange optics glowed in the dark. It seemed no one could detect their EM fields. Some kind of a cloaking device. Two sets of black arms seized dead bodies and melted into the gloomy night.

" Please, help me!  "

Constructicons' shoulders slumped, and their faces dropped. The air hung heavy between them, thick with blood and confusion. The singed smell of sparkling cables reached their olfactory sensors. No words were exchanged. The avians of Luna 2 had gone quiet as if they all had present mechs abruptly lost their sense of hearing. 

"You're  Decepticons  like  me ," choked out the dying mech with a mighty heave. "Help me!"

Neither of them spoke. 

Suddenly, two silhouettes returned, grasped the dying mech's arms, and dragged him on the road, leaving a purple trail behind him. One could see weak legs kicking and hear the pathetic thrum of an engine ebbing away. And they soon disappeared in the dark.

Around them, only the wind continued to whistle. 

*****

The hab suite was stale. Pristine white, quiet, and empty. The Praxian stood calmly in his doorway, gazing into the unlit space he called his home. The only light in the apartment was dim and yellow from the wide-open entrance he stood in.

Sighing, Prowl stepped into the suite, locking the door behind him with a quiet beep. His knee joints hurt from standing for so many hours, and his shoulder wheels were sore and stiffening from holding his arm up to do calculations. It had been another long, fruitless day cycle, and he felt the harsh edges of his grievance biting down on him. He dragged his pedes across the concrete flooring that lined most apartments in this building. The EX-SIC was exhausted, and he could not be bothered to take a quick shower right now. Showering was too much work for his sore frame. He had his priorities set on other things. Grooming wasn't one of them. He loved hot showers but wasn't   in the mood to wax his armour either. It was late, and he had a long day.

Few cabinets, a clean yet old berth with no recharging sockets, a couch, and a little bedside cabinet with datapads. All furniture was cleaned and patched by the Constructicons. It looked almost new. But there was nothing on the durasteel white walls, no trophies or paintings, as you'd expect from Prowl. He didn't work here. He only recharged here. Still, one couldn't help but feel as if something was missing in his alcove, to make the place even a little cosier, so much so that it stung their optics.  

Dirty soles clicked against the floor. They stopped once; he reached for something under his berth. This was where he stored his high grade. He didn't get many visitors those days. No need to stack the bottles nicely. Prowl grabbed a random one. It was aged, and the label was worn out, so he couldn't read the type of high grade he did not care about. Drinking allowed him to take his mind off everything when drained but unable to recharge. Lately, Prowl had found it even more difficult. Fuel and respite became bitter necessities, moments when his processor wound to a stop and he returned to reality.

His thoughts wandered toward the Constructicons. They were usually brash and in your face. Now the same mechs were respectful and understanding. Prowl wanted to think it was Gestalt coding. It kind of was, really. They put so much effort into keeping him safe that it made him feel almost pitiable. Perhaps it was something much more intimate, deeper, which he couldn't capture or name. Sure, he couldn't, but he probably didn't want to either. Before Constructicons, he was never cared for so fondly and with so much devotion. They worshipped and fawned over him no matter how he told them not to. It was a bit embarrassing at times. Autobots peered at him with pity in their optics as if they understood him.

They didn't understand him, though. No one ever did.

Not like it matters.

He'd always been careful to keep his workplace relationships professional, but... There were those moments, just before his processor powered down when he could almost feel Constructicons' hands on him. It both relaxed him and awakened his senses. Their scent. They smelled like asphalt, cheap wax, and tar. He didn't like strong odours - they triggered headaches, but Constructicons' smell had sunk deep into his core, mingled with his own, and it would never leave him. Their scent was rich and so inherently them. He had seen them so many times, picking up heavy metal beams, welding materials together, swinging a hammer, and moving debris around. There was surety and efficiency in their movements. Firm but still cautious.

*****

He didn't pay too much attention to his wounds at first after the second combination. They didn't appear directly life-threatening to him, so he went about his ordinary days. After the fight, he felt the wound in his flank pulse with every step he took. The tear across his side burnt like fire. Soon, Prowl had to grind his denta to repress a whine every time he used his arm. This was beginning to get concerning, he had to admit to himself. 

The EX-SIC managed to work the entire hour alone. Nobody bothered him; nobody wanted anything from him. This could be considered a success. But the peace could not last forever and was interrupted by the faint tapping of metal knuckles against the doorway to his office. 

" What?"

He looked up from the most boring report he had ever read (though, at least once a week, he had come across a document that deserved such a name). He gazed up at the taller mech and was met by a disapproving look through a deep red visor.

" Greetings , Boss."

Despite the calm and concerned voice, Prowl jerked, then looked up again at the figure hovering above him. Hook held up a box of midgrade and stepped into the office, not bothering to wait for an invitation. 

The tall, broad, hunky mech drew near Prowl, crouching down to study him closer. Hook's scent had hit him hard, the smell of silver nitrate and metal heated under the midday sun. Prowl tried to appear unaffected, but he saw Hook's optic brows rise slightly and turn to look at him. The Praxian averted his gaze just in time.

"Any headaches?" Hook's nose was slightly crinkled.

" Not really ," the ex-SIC replied, oblivious to how Hook followed his every movement with serious, red optics. The Constructicon was already examining Prowl's posture, the way even air cycling seemed to hurt Prowl. Expanding heated metal of Prowl's joints, or something more? The big mech lifted his arm and pressed the back of his finger to Prowl's cheek, causing Prowl to flinch again. It was so big and sturdy too. 

"A slight  fever ," Hook held out a cube with blue medical grade Energon to Prowl. "Your frame needs fluids," the Surgeon's tone was grave and dark, radiating authority and causing something to stir within Prowl's core. 

"I'm  not  sick. Don't  touch me  !" Prowl gritted his teeth. In an instant, such a great wave of discouragement rushed over him that he wanted to be elsewhere, anywhere, preferably far away from the Medic.

Hook mostly ignored him. Prowl stared at the cube in his hand as it was offered. This mech had clearly been born frowning.

" Primus , are you always so   pessimistic  ?" Hook's brows drew together in frustration. 

Prowl winced but tried to exude calm. 

"I take my job     seriously    ." He had an image to keep up. The Praxian had worked hard to maintain his appearance as a stoic commander, and he hated that Constructicon Medic was trying to crack it.

"Unlike your health. How  often   had   Prowl concerned himself   with   wellness , with   more than work and service  ?" Hook immediately challenged, fiddling with his stitching gun when he looked up through his visor. "We saw what you've done."

" Huh?  "Prowl looked at him with a cocked brow, face grim and optics stern with a mixture of anger and ice. He had to clench his teeth when his neck cables stiffened. 

"We've been keeping  tabs on you,"  the Decepticon sighed with his observation. "You've  had your frame  reformatted .  Yet you've  been  driving  and  fighting . Combining took a heavy toll on you; we only want to     help    ." Hook's explanation did nothing to encourage him. Prowl didn't want to talk about it, not even with Ratchet. It could've helped his insomnia and eased the tension, but he was too stubborn. So Hook tapped his wheel to snap him out of it. 

"I'm fine," the Praxian waved away his concern with a roll of his optics. He had nearly fallen a few times that day, but so far, he has managed to regain his balance miraculously before hurting himself.

"I know it  hurts  bad. No need to   lie  to me." Hook was not surprised at the lack of response.

Prowl finally reached for the cube, eyeing it warily before looking back at this special Medic.

" Lemme see you  ." The Constructicon spoke without breaking heavy optic contact, reaching for his medpack. He drew closer, pulling out his manual supplies and tools. 

Prowl looked puzzled at first, then hesitant about whether he should accept his offer or - if so politely - reject it. Hook understood that perfectly well - he didn't like asking for help or showing weakness himself.

"Did you take any   pain blockers  ?" 

" Yes  ." Glacially blue optics turned to the Medic, supercilious and lost at once.

 They knew. 

"Do you have anything...stronger?" The Praxian said truthfully. He complied with the earlier request, too tired to argue or pretend it was nothing.

" Sure   ." The other mech's expression had lost some sternness, but he was still glaring. "You  deserve  the best thing," Hook assured as he assisted Prowl to the desk. "Have you taken anything?" Their EM field brushed for a moment. The sensation felt remarkable, almost wrong, how nice it was.

The Praxian nodded, looking slightly sceptical but still willing to trust the Medic. 

To properly examine the wound, Hook had to get close. Prowl twisted his torso and leaned back, exposing his side and allowing Hook access. He tried not to, but Prowl peeked up every so often, and each time he found Hook's optics already on him. It made him realize just how close they were, shoulders barely apart. 

Hook could feel Prowl's optics piercing the side of his face where he was bent down to look at the wound more closely as he worked, but he kept his focus on his hands. 

"Boss," his tone of voice was scolding, but he made sure to be gentle when touching the metal around the wound. Organic contamination was hazardous to mechanical beings as it tended to infect their fluids. He needed to clean the gash first. Hook dabbed a wad in antiseptic, brought it up to the other's cut, and a tremor ran through Prowl's frame.   The Surgeon picked up one of the numbing gels and applied the creamy substance so slowly, Prowl began to relax. "It'll  still hurt  a bit," Medic commented. 

Prowl endured the stitches in stoic silence save for the way his vents would hitch when the stitching gun pierced his proto-flesh, and each time he would exhale purposefully slow. Hook could feel Prowl's gaze boring holes into his helm, but he bent his head a bit and kept his attention on the task at hand. 

"Do try to avoid injuring yourself further," Prowl's face betrayed him as Hook's words were softer. "Don't transform. It's crucial." The sitting Autobot let out a short cough before stating.

"Something   went wrong   during my     reformat    ." 

The Surgeon took his time locking the first aid kit bag as he considered how to respond. So he didn't answer at first, recognizing that it was not a question, so there was no point in answering that either. And yet there was something silently hanging between them so heavily that Hook felt an irresistible need to explain himself. 

" No . My skills have been  perfected  for centuries. It's just…You didn't  have enough time     to recuperate, which put your health in danger." The words were there, biting at the back of his dental, but he couldn't say them.

Prowl nodded and waved goodbye to him, then breathed a sigh of relief when the Constructicon finally left. Prowl tolerated him, but not when he had work to do. By the time he was done, it was already dark outside, as was most of the building. When Prowl was so tired that any normal Cybertronian would have passed out, but Prowl never did, he kept going, pretending like he was not drowning. Like something in him didn't die, buried underneath the rubble of the Black Room - his torture chamber.

The antiseptic and Hook's wax traces appeared to have taken up permanent residence in his plating. Not to mention lingering on his protoform and his cheek for hours. He had thought his grease smelled good and found his plating smell enticing. 

The shower helped him recover; the warm liquid soothed and relaxed all his cords. If only it could erase the memories of the last year, it would be perfect. But some things were too surreal, too strange not to recall in biting detail. He remembered the crying, the howl of pain digging its way up through his chest alloy and lacerating his voicebox. Even more than before.

*****

After a few days, the Constructicons were assigned to work on an old temple that was in ruins. Their task was to prepare it for the visitors who would stay there until Megatron's trial. Bonecrusher, feeling more downbeat than usual, decided to take a short break. He sat on a toppled pillar and unpacked his Energon ration. As he refuelled, he stared at the only part of the temple still intact, clean, and not covered in graffiti; the canopy. 

Suddenly, the Constructicon spotted a winged creature thrashing under the ceiling. It was probably a non-sentient part of lunar fauna. The stupid, helpless thing must have flown inside the cathedral by mistake, so it couldn't find its way out on its own. It was flying too high to be caught and was too scared to be lured down. There is no way for you to get out, thought Bonecrusher moodily. He had seen birds trapped in tall buildings like this many times and how the merciless structure became their tomb. You are sentenced to endless spinning, soundless torment, and cursing out the beauty of this stone temple. You'll never have a nest.

The bird hit a stained-glass window, got knocked down, and fell as if in slow motion. A soft sound and a cloud of dust indicated where it died. Bonecrusher wanted to topple this accursed place of beauty erected for gods who had forsaken them.
 
"Prowl's calling us," screeched Mixmaster from a distance.
 
"Huh?!" growled Bonecrusher. He wasn't feeling like talking to anyone. Leaving the temple, he noticed the bird's tiny corpse was gone.
 

*****

Occasionally memory fluxes felt like he was far away, crawling through burned ruins, stumbling over broken glass. It was such a dream that woke him this time, leaving him with shallow vents and optics fixed on the void.

Online. Again and again. The night sky and then the pink sunrise came hideously early. Prowl needed to recharge. He had to recharge. Instead, he was lying online, thinking far too much. 

More or less, yes.

We know.

Finally, he got up from his berth, wincing a little when his parts protested against the action. He had been laying still for too long and felt numb except for... His protoform was tingling. It started between his legs and up to his arms. It was rare for Prowl to feel like this. 

There were no traffic jams in the streets, so he got to work on time. One look at the office, and he didn't feel like going in there. As he walked, he was studying his hands. There weren't any noticeable changes in his joints, but he felt the metal of his joints heating up and swelling. 

The afternoon sunlight from the large windows flooded the centre of the office, bathing the floor in a warm glow. The washracks were another story, but apart from that, it was nearly homey. He went through his checklist for that day as his computer booted up. 

An instant message flashed across Prowl's holoscreen, pulling Prowl from his thoughts. He'd only signed in, and already he was getting pinged. It was going to be a long day.

In front of him, there was a pile of freshly baked doughnuts which he had accepted far too gingerly from Mixmaster last afternoon. They were just the right taste, not too sweet or mild. Constructicons must have figured out that he liked this type of confection somehow. He hoped they hadn't asked other Autobots about his other...tastes. 

A single digit skimmed along the top of his face, the touch gentle and calm. A knuckle grazed the side of Prowl's faceplates with a gliding touch, tracing a line on Prowl's flushed cheek. The Praxian's lips automatically parted, and a minuscule gasp slipped past them. The finger stopped on its path, and the pad of its thumb brushed over Prowl's bottom lip. 

New messages in the inbox were still flashing red, and Prowl was certain they had multiplied by now, as always. But a low, honey-sweet voice told him that everything would be ok. Prowl could nearly tell who that voice belonged to. It said to him that it would make him feel good.

A haze enveloped and seduced him. Images of Constructicons flooded his mind whenever he glanced at the doughnuts or the scaffolding behind his window. He caressed the smooth surface of the cube and sighed, taking a swig of Energon.

Immersed in his thoughts, he felt a hand slowly trail down his frame, although he couldn't see it, and his plating tingled. It started to veer off to the right as it made its way down Prowl's abdomen to reach his thigh. The hand wandered lightly and carefully pulled his thighs apart with slight tension between them, inching closer to his core. 

No. He reset his optics rapidly, forcing the drowsiness away. He shouldn't have these thoughts curling deep in the pit of his spark casing. He shouldn't remember hands at his waist, lips on the corner of his mouth, or the finger on his glossa. He shook it off, groaned weakly, and filed yet another report. As if he didn't have more things to do. For a bot known for his calm composure, he felt particularly twitchy that morning. He felt heat settle in like his form was exposed to a fiery forge.

The white noise of the ceiling fan didn't quiet his wayward thoughts. Shifting in his chair, Prowl sighed as he struggled to read a report for what seemed like the tenth time that hour. Time itself seemed to betray him. Warmth whispered its delicious secrets to Prowl, and tendrils of charge crept over him, tempting him to lose himself in daydreaming. Prowl felt his eyelids droop. It would be so easy to doze off now…

He felt the want wash over him again, biting and welcoming like the air blowing against his front windscreen. The Praxian realized he didn't remember how long he had been reading a datapad in his hands or even if he had been reading it. Remarkably annoyed, he turned his optics to the other side of his large desk. Something tickled in the back of his mind, telling him that he was being foolish, pouring this much attention on a feeble, unimportant feeling.

The flick of lips against the corner of his mouth and a raspy pleasing sound. Prowl felt the touch of his voice for hours afterwards.

He let out the breath he had kept locked behind his lips. Many people wouldn't expect a mech like him to have urges, nor would he blame them. He tried his best to stick to his schedule and focus solely on completing his missions, but it didn't come easy on days like this.

Venting air impatiently, he went to the small washracks in his office to rinse his face. When he was done, he turned off the taps and looked at the mirror to face his stern glare.

Do not avert your optics.

Prowl squeezed his optics shut. Even the slightest touch ignited his neural network.

How long do you plan to  continue  this? 

They had given him a lot, and that's the thing that he hated most. Gifts, cookies, medical assistance, and asking his opinion. Praising everything he had sprouted from his rotten mind. Even if it did mean something, it should never go anywhere. The ex-SIC knew the restrictions about in-unit fraternization existed for many good reasons. Prowl was correct.

Haven't you already got enough  knives in your back ?

Prowl clutched the taps so hard they squeaked. 

Restrained from even a hint of warmth or acceptance for thousands of years, he felt a strange, clenching emptiness in his chest.  

The time I have now...I want to  enjoy  it.

How  long  will it last?

The taps gave up under the pressure, and the water quickly pooled on the floor.

*****

It was a mistake. His excitement didn't diminish when there was a rap on the door, and Constructicons strolled in, smirking mischievously. Bonecrusher smiled in that enchanting way when he saw him. Prowl's optics went even wider as he struggled to divide his attention between the two and made a little helpless gesture pointing at his wash racks. Prowl looked Bonecrusher up and down in his peripheral vision. 

" Watch out  for the shards," a low voice came from the wash racks, and Prowl made a concerted effort to stay focused. His optics darted over to the mechs ten times every minute.

 Get a fragging grip on yourself, Prowl! 

The Praxian glanced over Bonecrusher; an appraising look lingered on the green chest. Slowly and deliberately waltzing from washracks to the desk, Bonecrusher unhurriedly sauntered towards Prowl, watching him the whole time. Hand firmly on the counter, he stared down at the ex-SIC, his fiery stare betraying nothing. 

" You good  ?"

Prowl looked away, caught staring.

" Excuse  me?  "The bite didn't hit the same as usual when said through a clenched jaw.

Bonecrusher folded his hands cheekily over his chest and leaned back a little. It wasn't a position for a subordinate to talk to his supervisor, but the Constructicon had the vague feeling that this was not a good time to adhere to military etiquette. The mech proceeded to give Prowl a smile that was so smug, so sly that the Praxian found himself speechless.

"You okay, Boss?" His voice had taken on a deeper, huskier note. The EM field was dragging Prowl close. It was almost like a string tied them to each other, getting tighter and tighter the longer they were in each other's presence. 

" Pardon    ?" The Ex-SIC squirmed, his brows bunched in a frown, and gripped the armrests on either side of him with both hands. 

"You look  kinda weird ," murmured the Bulldozer, leaning in enough that Prowl smelled his polish. The way the glyphs practically rolled off his glossa like warm oil heated Prowl's abdomen. 

"Still booting up." After the initial flood of panic, the Praxian straightened up slowly, adopting a cautious expression. His throat was tight as he inhaled the scent softly. It was intense, buzzing with electricity.

"You don't look   relaxed,  though." Bonecrusher's voice reverberated from his chest. 

How could he tell?

" Foreman..."

The ex-SIC was stunned and silent. His optics raked down the Con's frame, noticing the heavy pelvic armour. Prowl could feel the warmth creeping up to his face. His breathing turned to deep inhales. Quicker spark pulse, way too fast than Prowl wanted.

" Oh.  Okay," It was clear Bonecrusher wasn't bothered to try hiding the amused and self-satisfied smirk spreading across his faceplates. "A     busy night , heh?" Honey poured out of his voice. 

Prowl was only half-listening, unable to concentrate on what he was talking about. He was confident the pounding in his spark was loud enough for the whole room to hear. 

" Remember   to get some     rest , Boss." His voice sounded slow, secretive, and satisfied. Prowl's mind went empty, and he could do nothing but stare openly.

"Get you  stupid aft here , Bonecrusher," Mixmaster called from the wash racks.

No matter how hard Prowl tried to ignore it, Bonecrusher could tell the charge was affecting him. Gradually, the Tactician squeezed his legs and fought not to put his hand between them. Sparks of lust kindled between his hips with a pleasant warmth. The Praxian put on his most stoic expression, despite his faceplates burning with mortification. He was entirely unprepared for all of this. He could feel his rapid spark beat throbbing between his legs, and he just knew the Constructicon could sense it. 

His little, dirty secret.

Bonecrusher bit back a barking laugh. 

Matters worsened when Prowl leaked on the upholstery. He realized that he had gone past the time of comfortably standing up and exiting his office, as the telltale state of his chair would probably be noticed. He knew it wouldn't be long before he would have to cross his legs and squirm in a desperate attempt to...Primus knew what. 

He was overwhelmed by the memory of Bonecrusher's fingers that had rubbed against his plating as if he was an expert and knew exactly how to handle him. As if he made Prowl with his hands, remembering where to press to make him do what he was told. Neither of these things should turn him on. Not even the slightest. And yet it was this way. The Praxian avoided Bonecrusher's gaze, which was far too smug, too knowing.

He wished he could bury himself underground.

*****

They were handsome. That was the problem.

Moving quickly through the streets, Prowl wondered how long Constructicons must have been watching him. 

His irritation. His hesitance. His defiance. His arousal. 

They saw it all.

Prowl felt the fire in his conduits laced with firebolts and desire. The charge burned through his tubes, burning through him, setting him aflame. He shuddered to think how he would cope if anyone else saw him like that.

Perhaps any average person would have heeded the warning, but the Tactician ignored Hook's advice and transformed. He drove, trying to escape his racing thoughts until his frame failed him. His joints radiated with a sickly burn.

 You want them just because they showed you some  scraps of interest .       May I add Platonic interest , and you, the only thing you want to do with them is  frag them . 

The cruel truth hit where it should, bitter with desperation. 

 Pathetic. They owe you  nothing . 

He found moving harder and harder as his wheels got caught in the mud. He used to be proud of them, but those times were gone forever. They seemed no longer part of his frame but loose and uncomfortable attachments. He's not even sure if they were still his. How many upgrades had he done? 

After transforming back to the root mode, his gait was reduced to a totter. It was good that he didn't drive too far from the city. He wasn't able to. The body of a cold construct has never been of much use.

He berated himself for needing this. At least they gave him some privacy. Even so, this would feel awkward, but he didn't have anything better to soothe his wanting frame. He wasn't fooling himself anymore; it was not like he anticipated he would reach completion this time because it's been ages since he had. Still, maybe, just maybe, he would fall into recharge rather quickly as a result of his ministrations. Perhaps the pain in his joints would ease a little. Then, he would sleep off the nasty fever radiating from joints and already clouding his processor.

It seemed to work. In a mechanical, detached act, he rubbed, teased, and circled his tender spot while his mind was playing an old pornographic clip. Fast swirls of simple touch over his bud-lit fireside amber. 

" Oh…"  the richness of arousal crept into his voice. His pulse raced, but he didn't care when the next moan came deep in his chest. His Energon ran sizzling as the smell of ozone filled the room. 

Reaching climax alone was always tricky for Prowl, teasing on the edge of fulfilment. This time was no different; after twenty minutes of tossing himself on the berth, he was getting close, only to feel the pleasure slip away from his fingers. The far too-familiar frustration spoiled his mood even further. The fog of charge slowly cleared from his mind. 

The night was awful. Prowl hardly found any recharge, for he was caught in delirious memory fluxes that kept him from getting any rest. Hook's advice would probably have been worth paying immediate attention to, after all. Now, however, all he could do was regret not listening to the warnings. 

Prowl wished he could block out the world. His processor was pulsing together with his wounds. However, the parts of his CPU that were still clinging to reason were roaring at him that he should at least try to call the Medic. Never had he felt like such a fool before, and never because of a Decepticon of a lower rank. 

The fever did not take long to pull him back into its dark and fiery servos.

If he died now, would anybody miss him?

 *****

"I remember the way Prowl looked at you, Bonecrusher." Cackled Mixmaster. "In the washracks, when you turned your back at him, I thought his  gaze could bore the third hole  in your  aft . I deeply admire our Boss, but this is simply too funny."

"Looks like Boss is drilling into someone else's hole now." Added Scavenger, apparently trying to be helpful by offering a piece of his mind.

"Or some bot is  drilling into  him ," laughed Mixmaster, amused by the look of Bonecrusher's shocked visor. "Feeling  jealous , huh? Boss has been aching for some hard steel all day. I didn't  know     you were into smaller frames, BC." It appeared they thought he had a crush on their new leader, and they taunted him at every opportunity about his unfortunate attraction.

"Because I'm  not . I was just  teasing  him," snapped the Constructicon. Of course, Bonecrusher wasn't interested in Prowl. Interfacing with smaller mechs was tricky and messy. He preferred robust, heavy frames such as his gestalt buddies. However, the idea of Prowl being handled by Someone else, just behind this wall, inexplicably spoiled his temper. The Constructicon sat in the dark, his brow furrowed. No, his Boss wasn't the type of mech he would contemplate visiting in the middle of the night for some self-indulgent activities. Yet the niggling thought angered him, and so had the noise.

The sounds became louder, and Bonecrusher wanted to slam the wall so hard it would break and hit the mech, who was enjoying Prowl's body in the face. It wasn't attraction, he convinced himself, just an objection to sharing Prowl with mechs outside their tight-knit group.

"I'm  tired , and I'd like to   recharge , but   he-       they don't  let me!" The Bulldozer growled and hammered the wall with his fist. " Can you tone it  down ?  "

The creaking, tumbling, and bed shifting stopped. After a beat of silence, they heard a moan that sent chills down their spine cords. The strained sound originated from the Autobot, and Mixmaster wheezed in laughter as soon as embarrassment left him. They sat silently in darkness when suddenly Hook's communicator glowed and started vibrating. The incoming call was from their Boss. Mixmaster closely scanned his surroundings when he heard a thud only a few meters away.

" Hook , it's Prowl for you...   wake up, buddy  !" But Hook was sound asleep. He didn't stir even when Bonecrusher shook him. 

"I'm  not   gonna answer it." Grumbled Mixmaster. "Prowl's probably   mad at us   because you   ruined  his game." The device continued shining and vibrating. No one dared to touch it. 

Finally, it darkened just to be lit up again by a text message. The silence was broken by the sound of an aborted harrowing transformation sequence.

Long Haul picked the device up, intending to read it out loud.

"I need  medical attention . Enter the following   code   to   access   my   alcove   ... Someone must have   hurt   Boss!" Cried Scavenger and ran like hell to Prowl's room.

" Stop  panicking," Mixmaster followed him in a slightly slower fashion.

Hook activated his optics wearily.

"Hook, you are needed. You too, Bonecrusher. I think   what we feared   is     happening     right now..." 

******

The Praxian was awake but barely conscious. In the room's dim light, he looked like a doll lying on the floor, curled up on his side. Hook grazed his forehead, wincing as he discovered Prowl burning with a fever.

" Touch  him." The Autobot's plating was scorching, his optic shutters half lid.

"He's  burning up.  "By now, Prowl was shivering violently.

" What did you do to exploit your joints so much? "Hook was outraged meeting Prowl's half-lidded optics ringed with dark circles. 

At first, Prowl didn't even register the question, too dazed to answer. He deactivated his optics for just a second, and someone leaned over him when he powered them up. He couldn't recognize him, his features were concealed by noise, but he seemed familiar to him, like a figure from a long-forgotten dream.

"Boss,   did you hear me  ?" The mech, standing over him, crouched down so his face was just above Prowl.

The Praxian looked at the medic through a blurred filter of fever, his dry mouth attempting to form a sentence. The police car twitched through a stifling numbness, and he struggled to get up, his legs unable to bend even a fraction.

"Can't  move   ." He rasped. "Can't  recharge   ." The voice that escaped his mouth seemed so unlike his own. "My   appointment   is   in 4 hours  ." The lurching pain seemed so powerful it was unreal.

"You won't go to this damn meeting, Prowl. That's at least ten hours of sitting still behind a desk. At this point, it will ruin your spine." Sighed Bonecrusher while he was inspecting Prowl's knuckles. The Tactician opened his mouth to disagree, but instead, he moaned, "No, no, no..." Weakly whined Prowl, shaking his head. Even that little movement hurt him. 

"Prowl,   listen  to me," said Mixmaster gently, so gently it was worrying. "You have a   fever , and your  joints  are  inflamed . Do you know     what it means    ?" Some of Prowl's joints were scorching hot, making the metal expand beyond the usual capacity and, as a result, obstructing limb movement. On top of that, the usually clear grease covering his joints was now thick, goopy, and black. It needed to be removed and replaced with artificial grease.

"It is  not  as bad as it looks. We will     take good care of you; hang  on." Mixmaster used his most reassuring voice and continued speaking into Prowl's audio, gentling his thumb over Prowl's cheek. 

Everything felt sharper like this, scents and flavours and touch amplified. Prowl's frame went utterly rigid.

Hook held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Fine, we will let you go. You'll have to promise me to be late to that meeting of yours because you need more sleep to recover." The Autobot had no steam to protest. He could barely hear the shuffling noises of the Constructicons around him over the rushing, thrumming pulses streaming into his audio.

"Shh, it's  alright , it won't be long," Mixmaster shushed as Prowl trembled with a muffled gasp. " Easy now    …"

He flinched at an unpleasant but fast jab of the syringe on his neck. The pain soon disappeared, and he was left feeling the pressure of several hands-on his whole frame, many thumbs working in circling motions on his sore, enlarged joints. Then cold, creamy substance was being rubbed into them, and his arms and legs stretched obscenely. It was intimate; he hardly ever let anyone touch him like this. Too much closeness. But his frame didn't care anymore - the charge was long gone, replaced by a painful fever. He was almost limp in their grip. After twenty minutes, Prowl was shifted into a sitting position and transported to a bathtub filled with cold, oily green fluid, some evaporating with a hiss when the police car was submerged in it.

" What are you doing?  "Prowl asked, exasperated, his usual stoic facade completely gone.  

"It's  CR chamber fluid . Be careful not to swallow any." It felt cold, and his plating began to ping loudly. Prowl tilted his head towards the coolness of the bathtub's walls and closed his optics, trying to endure it.

"It's  cold  ..." He stammered between ragged intakes, shivering. His hands were limp, and he couldn't bring himself to move even a finger.

"We will let you  soak  in it for  a couple of hours . It'll be even better if you   fall asleep  inside the tub."

"You'd be  fine ," Bonecrusher assured as he examined the damage. The inside of Prowl's left shoulder was knotted, and the cables twisted beneath his armour. Prowl's scars were dark and open, even if they had been partially healed. Evidence that his frame had so many invasive upgrades done without his consent. The proto-flesh was no longer bruised, but Bonecrusher could see where it had impacted everything around it.

"I feel like a     shell ," Prowl murmured as Bonecrusher's fingers moved from Prowl's arm to his spark casing burnt on the edges. 

" Shhh…"

Prowl dragged his head up, tortured. His processor might be falling apart, but there was peace in the painkiller he had taken. The Autobot tore his gaze from the sore joints to look at Bonecrusher. There was only worry in his optics like he had seen a handful of times before.

" Promise   us you'll  listen  to us." Bonecrusher thumbed at the line of Prowl's chin and swept a stray droplet from his face. 

The room was growing hazy around the edges, shimmering and out of focus. Prowl muttered something incomprehensible under his breath as he moved further away from the source of the voice. He just wanted to recharge. Was he asking for so much?

" Promise.  "The thought gripped his spark, made it seize, and thumped painfully in his chest.

" Mhm ," The police car purred tiredly, savouring the cold surface against his cheek. The sounds of Constructicon's words were coming too slowly. All Prowl wanted was to nuzzle into his pillow and sleep, slowly stopping to care about what had happened earlier between them. He could feel himself slipping but was helpless to fall…

It was quite a bit later. Bonecrusher let out a soft sigh, careful not to wake Prowl up. The Autobot was lying curled up in the bath, recharging. What a relief. There were no night visitors in Prowl's room. His Boss just woke up in the middle of the night, found out he was immobile, and tossed him in his berth, trying to make his limbs work again. Which hurt, hence the gasps and moaning...but...why did Prowl call them to fix the taps? That's a laughably easy task to do...The Bulldozer remembered sudden insecurity and hunger in the blue optics that glowed back at him. Bonecrusher had been told that Prowl never does anything without reason. 

Watching Prowl cycle air steadily, submerged into the fluid, Bonecrusher couldn't help but feel his spark clench. This was all his fault. He should not have aggravated his Boss. He should have expected that agitated Prowl would cause them nothing but trouble.

Hesitantly, he tentatively caressed Prowl's cheek, who didn't wake up. He scratched his fingers under Prowl's jaw like one comforts an inert animal, and Prowl's breathing stuttered.

" Nothing to be worried about, right  ?" He sighed with relief and disappointment in himself.

But the shadows gave no answer.

Chapter Text

When he cracked his optic shutters open, everything was hot. His head felt incredibly heavy as if it was dragging him behind. He remembered the drive outside the city and calling Constructicons. And now he was in a bath, submerged in the thick fluid and unable to move the right way.
The atmosphere rode the CR fluid from its healing properties and liquid state, and now it looked like reddish half-curdled jelly. Prowl tried to bend his fingers slowly, and his leg moved gradually and folded at the knee joints. Breaking the red mass with the movement of his fingers and feet looked hilarious and entertaining. Although he still felt the effects of fever, his processor was clearer now, and he attempted to stand up.

"Woah, stop!" Prowl gasped, going rigid. He found a green arm restraining him with a soothing strength, and Long Haul's concerned hum on his neck made Prowl shiver. He finally lifted his head to Long Haul, visibly stiffening his shoulders. The Autobot looked up at the gleaming red visor.

"You might fall and get hurt." Said Long Haul tightening his grip on Prowl. "The floor is wet, so we must be very careful." He hauled Prowl out of the bath and held him against his chest.

"I feel strange." The police car's spark wasn't calming down.

"We detached your missile launchers and parts of your armor."

Only then he noticed his spark casing was half-bare. Primus, they had a nerve! Prowl should have scolded them for it, but their actions were undeniably sincere. The strategist let out a sigh.

"You just surprised me."

His gaze swept around the room, noticing other Constructicons tidying up his hab suite and talking. Long Haul pushed Scavenger aside, carrying Prowl to the other end of the room, where the wash racks were.
The ex-SIC was carefully placed on the shower floor. Next, Long Haul put Prowl's arms on his shoulders to give him balance; he also held Prowl's waist in case the Tactician's knees would give in while the Autobot found himself biting his lower lip at the sight of his broad chest on the level of Prowl's optics, mourning the loss of his sanity. It was when he heard Scavenger entering the wash racks. As the solvent poured down his exposed protoform, the Constructicons began a chat.

It was hard to explain, but he felt a novel sensation, and he primarily shrugged it off because he wasn't sure what could be causing it. Abruptly, one of them ran a hand over a transformation seam, making Prowl gasp and his whole body bend with the strong urge to combine. For a long while, the merge protocols were firing in Prowl's head, awoken by the touch and proximity of Scavenger and Long Haul, standing next to him.

"Sorry, sir." Squeaked Scavenge
r.
He stayed quiet, peeking at their industrial armor out of the corners of his optics. The bigger mech's hands were huge, but not enough to put a strain on his knees. Prowl closed his optics as he would nap on the hauler's shoulder. Sluggishly, he leaned into their strokes until he felt a rap on his codpiece. The Autobot immediately bristled.

"Take these off." It was said with such a calm tone.

"What?" He stiffened, new concerns emerging.

"You've got CR fluid inside, and it will go bad." Behind the visor, Long Haul's eyebrows drew together. "You don't want the nasty stuff down there, do you?"

"We have seen many sparks and dirty bits in our life; we worked in the medbay, remember? It gets boring after a while." He made a vague gesture and touched Prowl's arm. "Your bits aren't interesting to us."
Badum-ts! A conflicting fusion of relief and slight affront hit Prowl in the face like a brick. Why was he even surprised in the first place? Scavenger does tend to talk trash.

Bah, screw it.

"Do your worst." He huffed through his intake and added. "If you do anything suspicious, I'll bite your face off."

"You're so adorable, Boss."

"Good to see you're feeling better."

While the embarrassment was still stinging in Prowl's cheeks, he started to care less, less and less... He concentrated on a hand on his waist, one of those wonderful big, tender, and strong hands. They were a warm, steady presence. He noticed the larger mech averted his optics when he slipped a shower nozzle between Prowl's legs. Prowl slumped further into Long Haul's body, optics half-closed, half-noticing the comforting skim of the hauler's hand up and down his side. Part of him wished Long Haul would replace the shower nozzle with this pleasant hand... The Autobot felt just a little bit uncomfortable about his thoughts, hoping the larger mech would not notice Prowl being hot to the touch and tensing nervously and his frame waking up. Mercifully, his sickness buried the now constant thrum of arousal under a veil of fever.

They were done showering him, and Prowl latched onto Long Haul as instructed. The truck had been a gentle, kind, and reassuring presence, and Prowl thought it was too good to be true because he believed he didn't deserve anything easy. He didn't have time to feel sorry for himself. When he was placed on his couch, the other Constructicons were already waiting with grease in their hands. Abruptly, they all looked up when someone overrode the entry lock, then the door hissed open, allowing in two figures.

"Minimus, you'd better have a valid reason to barge into my alcove when I'm undressed and unarmed." Prowl didn't even raise his head when the door opened.

Ultra Magnus wasn't alone. Ratchet didn't bother sitting; he rolled into the bedroom and regarded Prowl with a wary optic pointing at the green mechs with his finger. "Prowl, they broke into my medbay and stole a bunch of CR liquid canisters. Which is such a waste! The CR fluid is supposed to be recycled many times!" Prowl remained in front of him as stoic and steady as the mech ever was.

"Have you got any proof?" Scavenger blurted in the first thing that came into his brain and instantly regretted it.

Ratchet looked menacingly infuriated. "Surveillance cameras registered them entering the medbay." Narrowed blue optics glared balefully at the Constructicon, making him shrink.

"Scrap..." Muttered Mixmaster. "Scrap, Hook, I'm sorry." The cement mixer was in such a rush that he had forgotten about the cameras. Something mischievous must have crossed their faceplates as Ultra Magnus' face twitched in repressed rage. Clenching their jaws, they remained quiet. Of course, Magnus knew.

"On top of that, they stole our power generating unit and the power tools." The Former Enforcer of Tyrest Accord said the thing grating on the nerves of all Constructicons.

"Well, scrap." This was too much for Mixmaster to listen to. "How are we supposed to get work done when we have no tools, power, or place to prepare our compounds!"

"Yeah, yeah! You got that right, Mix!" They nodded furiously.

"These stupid ass brownouts are driving us crazy. They destroy our tools!"

"Yeah, I'm done fixing and adjusting them in my free time!"

"And yes, we wouldn't need your precious CR fluid. Given enough time and place to do it, we can produce it on our own. Thank you very much, Autobot." While Ratchet looked intrigued, Magnus felt his brow furrow in confusion.

"Why didn't you ask?"

"Every time we asked to use the lab, we were told to go away." Their hard-luck story was quickly turning into a bitching fest. "Go away, Decepticon, shut up, and work, Decepticon, blah, blah blah..."

"Shut the fuck up, all of you." Prowl interrupted the inane babble icily.

The Constructicons ruffled, got quiet, and then beamed at one another.
"That's the spirit, Boss!"

Prowl shook his head. "What have I just told you? Hold your tongues and watch." He turned to face Ultra Magnus. "Can we trade days in the brig for another punishment?"

"Yes. According to the Luna 2 law, you can pay 5000 shanix each." Magnus reminded him sternly. "I doubt they can afford it."

"5000 shanix each? That's crazy." Hook repeated incredulously.

"I'll pay." Came the silky voice as Prowl locked his icy optics on Ultra Magnus'. "They're under my command now."

"How dare you, Prowl! Even if I'm no more duly appointed Enforcer of Tyrest Accord, I cannot allow such wayward behavior!"

"You cannot allow it? Who do you think you're talking to?" Prowl said adamantly as he used his datapad to transfer the credits, still looking into Ultra Magnus' optics with open audacity.
"Why are you defending the Decepticons? You're not... trying to combine with them in the future, are you?"

"First of all, they're not Decepticons. They're Constructicons." Prowl stood elegantly, letting the fabric roll down his shoulders, almost exposing his brightly glowing spark. "I'm not just planning to combine with them. I'm fulfilling my purpose!"

"I take back my words. I was wrong. Constructicons are not your friends! Devastator is an abomination that will make you go mad, Prowl!"
"Some humility and silence might save you a servo, Autobot." Snarled Bonecrusher. Mixmaster immediately covered the bulldozer's mouth with his hand.

"An abomination? Do you think these men are abominations? Do you think Protectobots are abominations too?" Prowl bared his tiny fangs. "Then look at yourself, Minimus Ambus, parading in a dead man's shell! What are you?" It was said with an emphasis on "what."

"Because you'll never be Ultra Magnus that I knew. You had never even met him." He continued. For a brief moment, there was a flash of something dark and sinister, greedy, and wicked on Prowl's features. "Devastator is just a machine, and I will not submit to a machine! I shall make it bow to my will!"

The blue mech's face jerked, and he raised his fist, idly brushing Long Haul's arm, who happened to stand next to him.

"Good sir." The red visor flashed threateningly. "Please do leave. Or I'll hit you."

"Very well." Said Magnus while moving, still looking acidic. He received a dismissive flick of the door wings. "You're walking a thin line."
Watching Magnus leave, Prowl canted his head to the side, feeling a little bit smug. Ratchet, however, was not amused. The old Autobot moved unhurriedly to Prowl's berth opposite the couch and sat on it. Spreading his legs, he placed his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers. The medic shook his head and turned toward the police car slightly. Then, he locked his optics with Prowl.

"You don't see anything wrong about displaying your spark to your subordinates like that?" That was slightly odd.

"No. Should I?" Prowl replied, shrugging and then wincing. "They were promoted from construction managers to my nurses. Besides, I don't care. The fever makes me feel funny... AH!" He gasped, and his knees buckled under him. If it wasn't for Scavenger, he would fall on the floor.
"You shouldn't stand up." Chastised him Ratchet. The medic watched with concern as the police car was eased back onto the couch, stretching out and grasping the cushions. Prowl never displayed even the most minor degree of discomfort if he could help it.

"I'm putting you on medical leave."

"But-!"

"Do not question me," Ratchet interjected, and Prowl closed his mouth. "I am not done talking. You're to remain on bed rest till the swelling abates." The medic gave Constructiconsa a meaningful look. "Take good care of him."

"We will."

"What's more, I want the same amount of CR fluid you all stole from me."
The Tactician studied Ratchet for a while.

"They will produce twice the amount they stole. I will see to it."
"It's kinda odd that Constructicons keep breaking into Perceptor and Branstorm's lab. I believed your men got keys to their own one, didn't they?"

For the past ten seconds, Prowl stared, optics broad. "Oh..." Prowl was beginning to rue his decision to open his mouth. "I have the keys... I recently called Mixmaster and Bonecrusher to my office but forgot about it. There was, um... an event." He paused as flashes of them in his bathroom invaded his thoughts.

"I leave you to your new medic. He knows his craft." Snorted Ratchet and finally turned to leave, stepping back. When he did, masking his unease Prowl cast the green and purple mechs a rarely-seen smirk, and then...
"You!" He snarled, feeling bold again. "If you get in trouble, report to me first." He smiled intently. "Me, and me only. Even if it's late at night. Do you understand?"

"Okay..."

"I can't hear you."

"Yes, sir!" They frowned and stared in skepticism, then suddenly got teary-eyed.

"Bawww, you saved us!"

"You spent a lot of money on us... just like that?"

"We know you're loaded but this is still a lot of money! Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!"

"Ow, you're crushing me, you half-wits! Is it too much to exercise a bit of respect?" The Autobot managed to utilize the best deadpan Prowl expression he could deliver while being hugged by three Constructicons.

"We love it when you talk like this, Prowl. You're the real Boss!"
Their chief tried not to look annoyed. The list of praises went on another minute until Prowl interrupted it brutally.

"It was hardly wise to do anything without notifying me about your plans."
Hook grimaced.

"It was hardly wise to transform and prowl the streets, Sir."

Prowl went quiet again. Hook straightened and looked at Mixmaster as the cement mixer approached the sofa with a grease bucket in his hands. A touch on his arm stirred the Autobot. "Let me finish the work we've started." The ex-SIC nodded and wordlessly held his hand out. Mixmaster glanced at him, then gently rubbed some salve into Prowl's joints.

"How long will I be this useless?" Prowl was staring sullenly in the middle distance.

"About three weeks or so." Hook informed persistently.
"About three weeks..." He repeated, feeling mildly dazed.

"You have been very distracted lately, Prowl."

So they saw he was a little stiffer than usual.

"Tell me why did you transform. Were you pursuing a fugitive?" Primus! They were still on about that! Since the medic brought up the issue, Prowl'd been in a foul mood. Could they somehow read what was going on?

"I was not."

"Then what is the matter? Something's bothering you?"

"I have found myself restless." The mech stated, leaning back on his couch. Prowl's speech was as cool as ever, but he put a hand on his neck more jerkily than he would have liked and hissed.

The medic vented. "Transforming and combining isn't a good idea to eliminate stress." Hook's visor locked with Prowl's optics reproachfully.

"We were imprinted with the need for closeness and transformation, but seriously, Prowl... We know you have plans for Devastator, but you can't combine when you're sick."

The Tactician didn't know what to say to this, and that just made him all the more upset about the situation.

"We only want you to be healthy and safe."

Now he was feeling... He didn't know what. Most likely remarkably disturbed.

"Does combining imprints..." Weakened and irritated, Prowl saw no further necessity to hide anything. "...frustration buildup?" He kept his frown when a faint whine of air sucking in against vent fans escaped one of the Constructicons. All his thoughts got wiped clean abruptly and startlingly.

"No." Said firmly Hook dampening the entertainment of the remaining four." No, I don't think so."

"So glad I amuse you." Prowl ground out through clenched teeth.

"I have a feeling it might be a dangerous idea to bring this up," Continued Hook calmly. "But in your current state, you risk dislocating your hips during an interface, and you would not want that."

Prowl gave the medic his best indifferent look. "Yes." He unenthusiastically agreed after a moment of glaring at the medic. "It's a dangerous idea," He said, dismissive. "I hardly ever engage in such activities."

"I guess it's difficult for you. You are everyone's Boss."
"Autobot rank code is that strict?"

There was no answer - Prowl was too exhausted - and, to be quite honest, he wanted to drop the subject. He offlined his optics and leaned his head back. His bitter demeanor began to crack.

*****

Affection tugged at Mixmaster's spark, and his Boss was discontented. He was probably still horribly excited, and despite that, Mixmaster suspected his interfacing array was still complaining. Additionally, when the chemist rubbed grease into Autobot's hip joints, Prowl vibrated with tension.

"We still all good, Prowl?" Mixmaster wanted Prowl to feel safe, the stress to drain from Prowl's frame, and he needed to see the hard lines of his faceplates smooth away. But Prowl was sitting straight, his optics fixated on the wall opposite his couch.

"You are not supposed to be talking about this." The Autobot chastised him, his face still blank of expression. "Where are you keeping all my weapons?"

"Over there." Said Mixmaster gesturing vividly. A large pile of small guns, laser blades, Brainstorm-developed devices, and Prowl's personal belongings, Constructicons extracted from him before bathing, rested forgotten on the table. "There is one more thing..." He was staring at Prowl, looking nothing short of frightened.

"We extricated it from you when you were at your Black Room." Began Long Haul.

"And..?" He turned his head away, ignoring their troubled gaze.

"We noticed you had it reinstalled."

"So?" The Tactician said dismissively. The chemist couldn't help the tears welling up in his optics and a hard lump blocking his words from escaping.
"It breaks our spark, Prowl." Mixmaster's shoulders rolled uneasily, and Prowl could see that maskless, child-like face setting into lines of honest sorrow. "That you might even contemplate using it."

Prowl took a deep, shuddering in-vent, shaking his head, stretching his limbs, and sinking back on his sofa. Still, Mixmaster thought he didn't relax any of his cable muscles. His Boss needed more than medicine, bathing, sleep, and Energon.

"There is no need." Prowl jerked away when Mixmater's light, cool finger touched his face. His Boss was probably reliving all the pain he endured in captivity, and Mixmaster's chest hurt at the thought.

"We mean no harm." Long Haul held his giant open hand just below Prowl's chin. It was the hauler's silent way of asking without voicing the question.

Prowl sighed, and after a while, one could see him focus and move his jaw slightly. A single false tooth showed up between Prowl's lip plates. He held it briefly, his face grim, and finally dropped the tooth on Long Haul's hand.

"You all right?"

Prowl's silence was a way of answering. It was as if Mixmaster hadn't spoken.

"Umm...we will be leaving..." Said Long Haul and Scavenger standing up, but Bonecrusher stayed in the room when the door slid behind the other three. Prowl appeared to be pondering over something and locked his gaze lost and questioning on Bonecrusher and Mixmaster. The chemist approached Prowl's face and noticed his Boss looked less well.

"Were you all sick like I am now?"

"Yes."

"What is the survival rate?"

"One to thirty."

Prowl's breath hitched.

"Do you understand the seriousness of this situation now?" Bonecrusher's voice went quiet and gentle at Prowl's masked distress. "We must stay with you in your quarters to aid you for a few weeks, and you're too weak to care for yourself."

While not dangerously high, Prowl's fever needed to be attended to. They gave him medicine, which he downed without a single complaint. As long moments passed, Prowl's frame relaxed slowly, his shoulders lost tension, and his worried expression somewhat melted away from his face. The awful part was that the Constructicons knew Prowl wanted to be left alone. Yet, they weren't done with his maintenance when they timidly asked for his spark casing to open. Their Boss set his jaw and nodded begrudgingly. His fever-glazed optics fell on Constructicons' hands before ordering his spark iris to dilate. Bonecrusher and Mixmaster hesitated with soft swabs in their fingers, captivated by sight in front of them.

"Stop staring at me." He felt overwhelmed by his Gestalt's attentions.

"Haven't you seen enough sparks in your lifetime?" Prowl sounded almost sad.

"We have."

"But yours is the most stunning of them all."

Chapter Text

When his temperature would reach a dangerously high level and just after his medicine was administered, for a short moment, each day, Prowl would be pulled into Long Haul's embrace, strong arms encompassing his dangling limbs. Prowl would lay his heated cheek on Constructicon's cool arm and relish in the calming coolness against his feverish face, allowing himself to be held limp in his arms. Long Haul's apprehension would grow in his face the longer the Autobot cuddled closer to him, listening to the low rumble of the hauler's engines.

It shamed Prowl how much he was dependent on the Constructicons' care. Not that there was anything wrong with the attention they provided: their bedside manner was something Autobot nurses should learn a thing or two about. Being doted on so much made Prowl feel lame sometimes, but he knew it was unwise to argue with them now. He let his mind wander between Prowl's experiences with them over the past weeks. He felt so small beside them. When Long Haul held Prowl's hand, it looked relatively tiny to the giant hands surrounding it. Long Haul was gentle and patient, and Prowl's worries and panicked thoughts ceased with every interaction with him. The Autobot liked the oily warmth of the baths they gave him, how mesmerizing the ripples on its surface looked, flowing in hypnotizing motions. During the baths, he felt almost docile, with his head rolled back against the wall.

The big Constructicon was an exception, though. Prowl would snap at the rest of them out of confusion concealed by annoyance at their assistance. This was different from what his subordinates should do for him. He should not be a figure to be fawned upon and pampered like a newborn. In his lifetime, he'd been to many hospitals and infirmaries. Still, even his team on Kimia didn't give him experience such as this. And all this pastry Mixmaster was cooking! It tasted so good! It was a shame the tactician only nibbled at the donuts because he wasn't hungry, and working his jaw in a state of fever was tiresome.

The blanket he nestled in was stained by the residual bath oil seeping from the petals of his armor. Although weak and feverish, Prowl still found time to look at a datapad in his hands to analyze current trends in the Intergalactic Stock Exchange Market and to contact his broker as he was lying on his belly on his couch. He regretted not giving his broker free rein of his shares, and now he was annoyed by how things had gone during Prowl's absence. His absence...

"Three weeks," Prowl hummed while looking at his datapad. He picked it up to read a few lines to be reminded that he was in no shape to do some reading and put it back on the couch. He may continue reading later that day. Constructicons were moving around him to arrange his things, and he admitted to himself that their background presence was comforting in a way. They kept their conversations down, and there were rarely more than two together in the room at the same time.

The heat was too much to bear...While trying to drift off to recharge, he thought of Constructicons. Of course, he did, more and more lately. His door wings scrapped the couch's surface, and Prowl gasped in surprise at the sensation. Lying in silence, he reminded himself that it was silly to be brooding over this. So he liked burly mechs, big deal. So what? The Constructicons weren't attracted to him. It wasn't the end of the universe. Oh...He was too sluggish and tired to continue reading, so he succumbed to a shallow nap.

*****

After a week spent working together in their linked labs, Constructicons did not turn out to be a bad company, Perceptor realized. Although giving the appearance of a crude, reckless bruiser, Bonecrusher was careful in the lab environment. Having the explosives backfired in his face too many times in the past, he knew too well one ought to be cautious in the proximity to explosives and chemical solutions, and Primus knew what Brainstorm was currently working on. He even invited the scientists for a glass of Engex, and they were surprised he didn't get himself drunk. He just laughed loudly and gestured vividly. Mixmaster, as it turned out, was articulate and quite intelligent. As long as one didn't mind his jokes about suicide and creepy giggling during mixing chemical solutions, Perceptor admitted he was a generally decent fellow.

"You're doing a great job, Head Scientist Perceptor," Bonecrusher said gruffly, elbowing the Scientist.
"It's just Perceptor." Answered the Autobot politely. The two Constructicons showed up in the lab off-shift, which was unusual. Apparently, Bonecrusher was not done with his speech.

"Perceptor, we appreciate your hard work. We also want to apologize for the breaches to your lab..."

"There's no need-" Perceptor could do less than murmur a reply before Mixmaster proudly announced.

"... that's why we brought you a cake as an apology token!"
Perceptor's mouth fell open slightly.

"Hey!" A familiar voice echoed throughout the room. A cake was a clue word among the Autobots because more of them would automatically show up no matter where or when it was uttered. Brainstorm greeted them. "Holy scrap, you got cake! Ahem...I apologize." He corrected himself. "What - whatcha talking about?"

"We umm... our boss wants to see you." Started Mixmaster grinning at the hypnotizing effect his cake had on the two Autobots. "He has a paid project for you two. He did not say what it is, but only that you will understand."

*****

The moment they entered Prowl's hab suite, something changed. Appearing outwardly unfazed by the green mechs, Perceptor and Brainstorm pushed past them toward the couch. The scientists would have to endure quizzical, long stares from Constructicons who were currently on task to keep an optic on Prowl. The ex-Cons' gaze bore an ominous glint, though none of the scientists chose to bring this up. Their friendly disposition was long gone, and the scientists were intensely aware that the Constructicons were ready to spring and dispatch them rather crudely if they chose.

"You have guests, Boss."

Prowl stirred in front of them, and it took a moment too long for him to blink. Then he closed his optics, perhaps not entirely understanding what the other mech was saying.

"Prowl..."

Not without a great effort, Prowl slowly turned to look at Mixmaster and blinked blearily again through the haze of fever. Too tired and groggy to even complain, he just grunted and let Mixmaster put him into a sitting position. He was too out of sorts to put any real effort into swatting the chemist away.

The Praxian only had a few visitors except the Constructicons, who were keeping watch on him as they phrased it. The war had obliterated his relationships. It kept him so isolated that he had almost forgotten he had a private life. Not many mechs were eager to see him out for personal reasons. The rest were discouraged by Constructicons' constant lingering presence in his hab suite, even though they rarely dared to interject, merely listening to Prowl's conversations.

"My resources have been decimated," Prowl said flatly. His optics shutters and his entire frame grew heavier the longer he sat. Though everything in him ached and burned, he remained still, broadcasting cool detachment. Perceptor gave him an inquiring look. "I believe I have enough credits to pay for a commission."

"That was not what I meant," Perceptor said cautiously.

"You are the only one I trust to do this for me." He said that even though he had learned from his own experience, it's unwise to assume things.

"That's one way to put it, I suppose."

"Is the price too small, or do you have a problem with my body?" There was something rather hurt in the way Prowl asked.

Constructicons' visors flicked up then, and Brainstorm didn't look away quick enough to dodge being caught gawking.

"I merely meant, are you sure..?" The question was faint, distant. The Scientist attempted to put a hand on Prowl's arm, only to notice, startingly, that a large, green palm held his wrist just an inch away from Prowl's plating. Bonecrusher shut his mouth into a narrow line and stared intently. At the same time, Brainstorm cringed at the way the Constructicon grabbed his friend's hand.

"You do realize I must touch him to take his specs?" The Scientist frowned and sat up a little straighter, eyeing the Constructicons with curiosity and concern. A little territorial, huh?

"Oh, does that mean you agree?" Prowl fixed him with a look.

"Yes, I accept your offer," conceded Perceptor finally.

"I appreciate that you...you..." Prowl said dopily, but he did not finish the thought before weakness overtook him.

"So what are we waiting for? Gotta start now!" Brainstorm said enthusiastically, and he pushed his way past Constructicons and popped a squat next to Prowl. He started taking Prowl's specs, ignoring the silence ringing unpleasantly in his audio. A new project, oh boy.
When the scientists were done, the bulldozer took Prowl into his arms carefully to not squeeze him too tight. Next, the Explosive expert crossed the room and put Prowl in his bed. Brainstorm and Perceptor watched as their former boss sagged comfortably in his bed as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Witnessing the legendary violent, most feared combiner team as civilized people was a peculiar sight. The scientists opened their mouths to ask. They had questions. What was happening here? Before they could decide what to ask, Bonecrusher's gaze roamed on them as they stood confused.

"Aren't you all concerned?" Started Brainstorm timidly, not threatening them with accusations, just merely inquiring.

"About what?" The bulldozer grunted, glancing suspiciously between Perceptor and Brainstorm.

"The rumor mill." He responded simply.

"Why do I get the feeling you are assuming rather a lot about us, you Autobots?" Hook commented snidely, narrowing his optics in suspicion.
 
The scientists' expressions turned from confused to slightly hurt at the remark. Then the dump truck hissed in annoyance and decided to butt in.

"Very well, Autobots, we get that the two of you, in particular, might be concerned a bit about Prowl's well-being." Long Haul stared dead at Brainstorm's faceplates, his expression tense and annoyed. "But what makes the rest of the Autobots feel the right to question who comes to his room and how long they stay here?"

"I thought you scientists weren't petty." Mocked Mixmaster. Bonecrusher gave them a sort of inquisitive side-eye and said:

"He is not a hostage. He's our boss, and our job is to protect him. Lay a finger on him, and I'll rip you in half." The Constructicon said in such a normal tone of voice that it made the scientists' optics nearly pop out of their eye-sockets. They tried to formulate a response to this. Still, all thoughts on the matter failed them at the sight of Bonecrusher smoothing the fabric draped over Prowl's body in one tender gesture. "He'll be alright. You can leave him."

The scientists looked at Hook for a more detailed explanation, but he just elegantly showed them the door. Hoo boy. The time for conversation was up, and the hostility was almost palpable. Constructicons said goodbye curtly.

A few minutes later, when they had already left, Bonecrusher sat on the floor next to Prowl's bed, watching videos on his datapad. He noticed that Prowl's head must have slipped, nearly resting on Bonecrusher's shoulder. His boss was still sleeping; the Constructicon could tell by the slow air cycling by Prowl's vents he could feel against his neck. Bonecrusher gazed at his tranquil face. He admired his immense intelligence, fierce drive, aggression, and force of will. The mech sat quietly, looking at Prowl's surprisingly elegant profile and realizing he could not force his gaze away from it. A little glow fluttered in his belly, which he didn't want.

*****

It was complicated, this thing the Constructicons had going behind the closed door. It was far from innocent, dulce, or overly passionate. Nonetheless, it was familiar and safe - it helped the ex-Decepticons trust each other in these violent times. Through the good and the bad, they've learned to live together long enough to know when to push further and when to back off. And most importantly, there was always someone up to some easy play. With their arrangement, they could always ask who wanted some fun, when they wanted it, and if they should leave shortly after or stay for longer for some cuddles.

One day Constructicons decided it would be nice to relax together. Scavenger kicked his leg over the Bonecrusher's waist and rolled his hips. He had missed this, he realized. The soft-hard bolt of the brute inside his tightly wound, sopping, rubbery flesh made his head spin. The bulldozer sighed heavily, the warm air whisking against Scavenger's plating and making the excavator tremble as the shaft Bonecrusher pushed into him again was thick and throbbing.

Opposite them, Hook nuzzled his helm lovingly against Mixmaster's hips and allowed him to push himself in gentle circular motions. The medic gave a contented sigh and shuttered his optics, sticking out his aft to give his buddy a good working angle. He looked away from the couch's padding. Things were getting more heated next to them as the demolition expert took his spike away from Scavenger, teasing the flustered mech. The excavator whined and squirmed rawly, trying to shove his hips up and get Bonecrusher back inside him until he thrust back into him steadily.

"Harder! Faster! Harder, dammit!" Scavenger groaned, one hand clutching Bonecrusher's neck and the other irregularly spanking bulldozer's aft. Bonecrusher quickened up his pace, and the sounds he was making began to reach a peak just as Scavenger's sensory net was about to explode with pleasure. Not realizing the demolition expert was warning him, Scavenger sent Bonecrusher tumbling over the edge with one particularly hard spank.

"Woahh, scr-a-a-p, Crusher." The excavator gritted his teeth in anger and desperation, producing a creative string of curses.

"Ahh...Prowl!" Bonecrusher came hard with a sharp cry.

Out loud, just like that.

Everyone in the room froze.

"Wow, wow, wow! Did he just?" Mixmaster furrowed his nasal ridge and supported himself on slightly shaking arms as he bent down to nudge Hook, who was just as stunned as him.

"Yeah...you heard that right." Admitted Scavenger in the haze of pleasure and desire, then made a funny face and giggled. Bonecrusher lay on Scavenger, panting heavily, satisfied and equally embarrassed. The Constructicons propped their chins and gave him merciless shark-like grins.

"He said Prowl!"

"I was gonna smack you for not letting me come first, but this is way too funny!" Scavenger wiped his tears. He even poked the bulldozer on his helm as he tried to stop himself from chuckling.

"It's just a tongue slip!" Not wholly recovered from overload and pouting, Bonecrusher glared at the Constructicons, which made them snicker even more.

"You came with our Boss' name on your lips!" Hook held his belly aching from laughter, and Mixmaster was only a step away from falling off the couch. The chemist, in particular, liked to say things that fragged up Bonecrusher's mood for laughs.

"What the fuck Crusher."

The bulldozer rolled his optics but didn't dignify them with an answer. They were obviously not done mocking him yet. This was a brilliant opportunity for his nasty buddy Hook to give the chemist a needle too.

"Watch out, Crusher, and make up your mind fast because Mixmaster's not baking all the donuts for no reason at all. He's gonna seduce Prowl away from you!" The medic opened his optics wide in pretended concern.

"Shut up!" Mixmaster punctuated his word with a sudden roll of his hips, making Hook cry, who dropped his head down between his straining arms and a whine coiled in the back of his throat.

"You kiss the ground he walks on." Ridiculed Hook, the corners of his mouth going upwards. The comment was on point: Hook realized though he didn't know, he should brag about it or regret it.

"Can it!" The chemist breathed angrily. With one swift motion of his arms, he gripped the medic's throat, choking him. "Want to say something more?" Riled up, Mixmaster assaulted his partner with forceful thrusts, so Hook had no choice but to hang on for the ride. "You have to give me more of that," he ground out when his insides pulsed deliciously.
 
Scavenger swallowed loudly, looking at Bonecrusher, who let out a bark of laughter. "Work for it," and he showed him down with a wide grin.
"You'll be pleading for gallons of salve for your sorry aft after I'm done with you." Oh, Mixmaster was mad. So, so mad. The medic defiantly spat in his face making Mixmaster force his fingers into Hook's mouth and grab him by the jaw. The sharp sensation made Hook's body spasm, and he jerked forwards and down. Finally, Mixmaster shuddered hard and curved his body forwards over Hook's. Seconds later, they were all laying on their backs on the too-narrow and sticky couch, gasping at the ceiling, feeling lazy and unfocused, except for Mixmaster, who was fuming despite the pleasure surging in his systems.

Suddenly, Hook's drunken laugh rang in the room, and Mixmaster threw a cushion at him, then strode off to the washracks without a word, slamming the door shut.

"What is your problem?" Asked the medic without looking up.

"Did you think you went a little overboard with this? Gasped Scavenger from under Bonecrusher. The well-screwed mech looked up and looked him over.

"Sweet younglings, don't you know I like to be screwed this hard?" Snorted Hook. "Or do you mean the spitting? Oh please, he and I have done far worse..."

Scavenger didn't say anything else for a while, then looked at the clock, startled.

"Quick... let's clean up before Long Haul learns we were fucking on his couch without him."

"Hey, Mix." Growled Hook, "It would be nice of you to help us clean your filth from the upholstery!"

Mixmaster emerged from the bathroom with a bottle of lube in his hand and theatrically threw it out of the window, then disappeared back inside, making Hook scream.

"Son of a glitch!"

Chapter Text

Prowl awoke to the muted sound of music coming from one of Constructicons' directions. His frame shook as he sat up. Praxian's processor throbbed from laying on the couch for too long and lacking movement. Still, he quickly noticed his forehead wasn't the only part of him in discomfort. Now what? Oh, so fragging lovely to wake up to the most intimate, unfulfilled urge warming in his core. Trying to give himself something to take his mind off his frame, he rolled over to grab a datapad to read gossip about himself.

Prowl hadn't been concerned with his image before; he maintained the coolheaded persona without many struggles. He usually stood in the shadow of more prominent military figures, not drawing too much attention to himself. Despite having rigid people skills, he was famed for his high calculating and tactical abilities. Prowl was damn good at what he did, and it'd taken him over a few millennia to get here.

It all suddenly changed. The Praxian's reputation had always been questionable. It was in shambles; he had let out a few angry outbursts in public. To his credit, he cooled quickly and adopted his usual stoic facade to spite Starscream and Rodimus...Focus..! He restored to shifting his weight from one side to another, but how could he concentrate when he constantly felt a goodbye gift from his fitful recharge? 

The situation surrounding his figure was tense. Autobots had been giving lopsided looks, and most would steer clear of him. Prowl thought they secretly feared he was under Decepticon control because five hulking mechs with a taste for the daring, and sometimes that of the stupid, regularly occupying his hab suite raised many questions. Scavenger especially would talk Autobots' audios off about Prowl and Prowl only, how great he is. When they seemed curious, he went on and on and on, unintentionally feeding the gossip. They practically lived together, he thought and saw them in his mind. There was no doubt his image needed rehabilitation. Otherwise, he would accomplish...nothing...amongst...the Autobot...ranks...Ah...As his door wings grated against the futon, his internals gave a light, warm spasm...and he bit his lower lip.

He rose up and stumbled grotesquely into the room to shake off the feeling. When his joints were not swollen anymore, Constructicons let him limp around his berthroom, explaining that some walking was good for retaining mobility. But they would be straight by his side if they heard some noise or noticed he wasn't moving for too long. Constructicons were anxiously listening to his air-cycling like he was a newborn. Audial receptors were in constant search of danger. Attention was something other than what Prowl wanted right now.

The icy shower was all around him, the metal-cutting droplets hit his body, and Prowl was a composed mech again. Void of the undesired flare, void of any feeling, calm like a bloodless statue. His nose's syrupy, purple streak warned him that he was still a living mech, a haughty, beaten, and bitter creation of loneliness.

Stripped from parts of his armor, he became cold in minutes. Constructed cold and constantly feeling raw, unlike the forged bots. Continuously has issues with self-regulation, freezing extremities, and his spark periodically wanting to reject his body that wasn't meant to carry it. Old and new parts combined appeared regular and harmonious on the outside. Doctors said his neural network was seamless, but the searing roar of synesthesia he was cursed with was an enigma. They believed he was born this way. Something about his fragile, unraveling nervous system went wrong. Life excruciatingly pinched and pulled his frail neural web. He dreaded another frame upgrade threatening a new lease of neuralgia.

They will be there with me in a moment. They will reprimand me because I don't care. Better move.

The shower was tortuously cutting. The movement of raising his head made darkness block the world from Prowl, and he could only limp forward. The ache of his lower muscle cables began to compete with his headache. In a moment like this, he was thinking of many of his nameless soldiers inching forward blinded, his own blunders and the suffering he put his people through, guilt closing in his hardened spark. He deserved to be trapped in the chaos in his own head with no one reaching for him.

Someone stepped closer, and Prowl forgot about his inner debate. He expected a growl instead of a hum of disapproval. Yet before he could leave, a blanket was cast around him, and a strong arm folded to encompass him. He anticipated someone to reproach him, not a comforting grip and rub on his shoulder. The next thing he knew, Prowl felt someone wiping his face delicately as if he was something precious. The mech accidentally grazed his warm cheek on Prowl's cold nose when picking the Tactician up.

"I'm taking you back to your berth, Foreman. We don't want to suffer Mixmaster and Hook screeching, right?" Prowl couldn't see, but he could hear the Constructicon smiling. "I'll get a tongue-lashing for not watching you closely. I wanted to give you some privacy." The Autobot could feel the warm air on his forehead as the Con exhaled. "In your recharge, you looked like you needed it."

*****

It took half a second to sink in, then Prowl's thoughts came to a screeching halt. He slowly turned his head, optics narrowed, mouth pressed into a thin line at the unsubtle innuendo.

"You thought I was having fun."

"Umm...yeah?" Bonecrusher cocked his head, vague puzzlement painted over his face as he laid Prowl down. "That's why I left you alone, Leader." He hadn't expected Prowl to take his comment personally.

The Praxian glared harder, the paint-stripping glare. "Bonecrusher..." That single word was ominous and, at the same time, somber. A sigh escaped Prowl's lips as he depressurized, his brow ridges furrowed under his helm. "How little you know about me."

"Well...That ain't true, Boss." Smiled Bonecrusher. "We saw what's inside your head."

"Then why I can't recall what's in yours?"

"When we aren't linked, we can't remember the details; we would all go mad if we could. That also means your and our secrets are safe with us."

"What is so special about me..?" Bonecrusher knitted his optic ridges in hesitation. Was it a trap? Maybe he didn't know Prowl well, as he had said before. But seeing his Boss in such a miserable state, he understood maybe Prowl wanted to hear why. Perhaps, at the moment, he needed to hear that.

"Your mind is magnificent. You have always had mad grit, persistence, and courage." What are you going to say at that, my mech? Prowl squinted at him.

"I am no longer the mech I was."

"But I have a recent memory, how you stood calmly when the hell broke loose and the way you shouted orders...There was no slight panic in your voice, and when I heard you, I knew we would be okay, that you would make good use of us, and we would be whole under your hand. You give us meaning."

"The whole new era has begun, and we'd love to be deployed by you. We saw your deepest desire to see Cybertron thriving again. I know Mixmaster and Hook would laugh, but..."

"... It'd feel right to finally build something. 'Cause demo and wasteland get boring after a while."

Neither his face nor body language gave much of Prowl's feelings away, but Bonecrusher observed him very closely. A distressed tic of the door wings fled past Prowl's iron self-control.

"I see you're in a foul mood." His Boss appeared inattentive and folded his hands just under his chest. His optics were vacant. "Is there anything I can do to help with that?"

"..."

"Let me guess, you're in pain." Assumed the Constructicon, after a long moment of anticipating a command to frag off and leave, that never came.

"Sorry, I haven't noticed. Got caught up in talking."

He let his hand wander to Prowl's fingers observing strictly the response or lack thereof. Again, there wasn't any imperative to stop touching.

"You don't have to prove to anyone that you're strong. You don't have to pretend you're fine when you clearly aren't." He spoke in an easy, measured tone. "It's not a business discussion or a briefing; there's just me."

"..."

"You know, Foreman, I cannot access your head now. It'd be helpful if you used words to communicate with me and us. I'm listening. Hm..?"

The police car cycled a long slow breath. His door wings rested limply on the couch.

"The same thing as nine weeks ago," Prowl caved.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember." He reiterated when the Tactician tightened his mouth. "I'm not mocking you, Boss, and I honestly don't remember."

The frown flattened. Hesitation and shame clashed in Prowl's optics.

"When you were renovating my hab suite. I slept in your room."

"The headache?"

"…no." Prowl's optics dropped to the floor, apprehensive but also anticipatory. Conflicted.

"Oh, I see..." Smirked Bonecrusher. Finally! The Construction was pleased as hell with himself. "Want me to help?" A tiny motion of Prowl's head followed the proposal. That's all. There will be no more words coming from his Boss. More probing was clearly unwanted. Bonecrusher could only succeed in winning this much.

"Don't worry." Knuckles cracked. "I promise I won't...entice you any further."

Prowl closed his optics, inhaled long and deep, and just continued to sit, calm but worryingly unresponsive, still ruthlessly uncooperative. The Bulldozer himself had to make him lie down. Bonecrusher did the usual routine he practiced with his companions. This was easier because the Tactician's plating was much more transparent; he didn't have to dig his fingers too deep and curl them harshly. Prowl's breathing was quick and rigid between his narrow lips. This time, three brief, medium prods did the job of loosening the wound and stubborn knots and halting the ache. Seeing the controlled, commanding, reason-bound Tactician tossed by a hurricane of conflicting impulses was equally enthralling and terrifying. Behind a wall of self-control, Prowl fought to curl into a ball in avoidance and to vaguely interact more with Bonecrusher's fingers. His breath strained his body, minutely seeking pressure when the Constructicon pulled back.

One extra push just below his bumper, and everything was switched off. In the blink of an eye, all movement stopped. Any troubling sensation buzzing in his Boss was snuffed. Faint hitches became steady breathing. Bonecrusher bent down to splay his hand on Prowl's half-bare chest. The Tactician seemed peaceful, comfortable, and protected, held down by the reassuring weight, oblivious to attentive optics behind a crimson, scuffed visor, cataloged every detail.

*****

"You're not even trying." Choked Hook when Bonecrusher assaulted him with an electric whip. "Why don't you try a little harder, Crusher."

The Bulldozer appeared a bit quieter recently, even subdued. He was a little disinterested in his regular hobby of wrestling and smashing stuff.

"Told 'ya I'm not into this stuff." Sighed the Constructicon. If Hook hadn't known him so long, he'd have thought the mech was exhausted. But the theory didn't quite sit right. "Upper-crust frolicking is not my thing. Maybe you should have asked Mixmaster to entertain you." The Bulldozer replied, absently whipping Hook again.

"Mixmaster's not talking to me."

"What a shame, then."

"You look thoughtful." Grinned Hook and stuck out his tongue.

"I'm not falling into this."

"What are you not falling into?"

"Into fragging you. Goodbye."

Chapter Text

"Once it is installed it will be almost impossible to detach it from your spine. I will ask for the last time: do you consent to have those modifications installed?"

"Yes, I do."

"Very well!" Said Brainstorm enthusiastically. "I am very proud of this endoskeleton. It is light and fits under all kinds of armor or mods. You're gonna love it!"

A moment later, Prowl stood with a sleek and elegant appendage connected to his back, arms, and legs but still missing a large part of his armor. Brainstorm was pumped in contrast to collected and modest Perceptor standing nearby.
"Let's put it to the test!" Beamed the scientist. "Throw this table." He gestured at the long countertop, standing in the middle of the scientist conference room.

Prowl cocked his head disbelieving. The Constructicons too shared a puzzled look.
"Just do it," Brainstorm's optics gleamed.

"Woah, scrap!" They all laughed as the long table flew up and then landed with a crash. "You go, Boss!"
Prowl was smirking with satisfaction, and one couldn't tell who was smugger; he or Brainstorm.

"And here's your new armor. We went for the sleek form like Drift's new look." Prowl let them attach his new outer plating with an attractive chest surface and put on his brand-new helmet with a long, and pointy chevron.

"How do I look?" He smirked at them.

Constructicons' mouths hung open for a while."You're slaying, Boss!" They cheered.

"Your smile is a lovely addition," Added Mixmaster smarmily, making his boss knit his brow ridges.

"But that's not the end for today!" Brainstorm got even more animated. "There's more cool stuff," He said, showing Prowl a transparent box with three small green buttons inside.
"What are these?"

"These are one-time use pocket warp gates." Said Brainstorm. "My newest invention. They can warp you anywhere, but use them in the direst need. They're even more unhealthy than the standard space bridge. Once you activate the bridge burns down behind you."

"We haven't tes-..." Began Perceptor, but Brainstorm didn't let him finish.

"Here are three of them. I'm giving you three only because more radiation dose after dose is too unhealthy. Call us for more next year."

"How much?"

"Oh, it's just a little extra for our generous patron." Winked Brainstorm.

*****

Everyone was having fun, everyone was laughing along and drinking, the bar bustling with excited voices.
Within the first five minutes of Prowl standing in the door with five hulking mechs behind him, the whole bar stopped. Their eyes were on the Autobot for a solid moment. As the astonishing effect passed the crowd realized it was Prowl and a fleeting look of unhappiness formed in their expression. Rodimus stopped talking, and his good mood instantly vanished.

"Is that you, Drift?" Someone called quietly from the distance but the Autobots picked it up quickly. Showing himself in glory to others was supposed to open a brand new chapter in the Tactician's life. Healed, looking fabulous, and ready for new challenges but assembled Autobots didn't think so. The laughter started to echo across the bar, some louder and others low. Rodimus, however, kept his wooden expression despite intoxication.

"You put Overlord on our ship." He slurred, a glint in his eyes turned into a glare. High grades made him grumpy and nasty, itching for a fight.

"You agreed to it." Answered Prowl redundantly, because the Lost Light's captain was not up to a balanced conversation and intoxication fueled his abrasive audacity.

Rodimus fleetingly looked affronted, as Prowl had offended him. "You manipulated me!"

Why is this my life? Prowl didn't want to argue and he wanted to just accept the blame but there were certain instances he believed he was right. "Should Overlord stay on Cybertron and help with the Decepticon uprising then?" He couldn't just let Rodimus talk him down like this in front of the Constructicons. Autobots all around them shifted uneasily on their benches.

"You left Fortress Maximus and other prisoners on Garrus 2." The orange Autobot snapped, rushing closer toward Prowl.

"Don't you remember? You were stranded with me and other Autobots on Earth for three years without communication." He refuted his claim. "How could I know..."

"You're a piece of scrap who sends other Autobots for certain death." The former Prime slurred pointing an accusatory finger at the black and white Autobot.

"That's what war's like."

"You made bad decisions and my friends died." Rodimus went on. "You think you're so smart, you think you're so tough, but the Autobots were losing thanks to your bad tactical skills."

"You think I'm the only one that hasn't suffered? The mind con-..."

That, in turn, got Rodimus laughing.

"There again goes your other excuse. Stop blaming the one who's suffering the most for your mistakes." Rodimus held such an audacious expression that fueled further Prowl's anger.

"I make these decisions and the blame's on me." Prowl's voice got louder and louder until he was shouting. "The blame's always on me so people like you can be all noble and always know what's right! Would you like to swap our places?"

"Would you, Rodimus?"

He scuffed again. "You fraternize with the enemy because you have no friends and no one wants you. There, your servanthood to the Autobot cause goes right through the window. You're just a piece of scrap. Stop making excuses because no one believes you anyway." The loudmouth drunk started spouting again. Bar visitors continued to make snide remarks under their breaths.

"Yes, Prowl. Would you ever stop making excuses to explain your shitty actions away?" Hollered someone from the back of the room. The look on Prowl's face exposed his upset for a second, turning away from the crowd to hide his expression away. The others grumbled and nodded, growing disinterested in this banter, going back to their drinks again.
The awkward quietness was interrupted by sudden shouting as their stares turned behind.

"Heh!" Smirked Vortex. "Looks like both Decepticons and Autobots enjoyed hearing you scream. It serves you right!" His laughter was by far the loudest of the bunch.

"Your new look doesn't do you justice. Your hideous face and personality ruin it." He rudely remarked.

It was not true Prowl was ugly, Bonecrusher thought. Every cable muscle in his frame tensed for a moment, his anger level reaching a point it hadn't reached in a long time but he sat still.

"You look like a service bot in it." Now the petty hate got the better of Rodimus and the crowd cringed in turn.

"Stop humiliating yourself, captain."

Although he resented forcing himself to stand back like this, beating the orange slagger wasn't going to be much help right now. Bonecrusher calmly approached the Autobot visibly surprising him with such a simple motion. The Constructicon took another step closer, standing in front of him. Everyone in the bar witnessed Rodimus' confident stance melting away.

"Prowl doesn't care what you say about him. But I do. I care deeply, Autobot." Said Bonecrusher towering over the mech. Rodimus jerked back a bit.

"Sir, you had enough high grades for today." Said calmly Cyclonus grabbing his captain by the arm and nodding respectfully to Bonecrusher. The Constructicon nodded back.

"Whatever!" Snapped Rodimus and headed towards the exit.

The combiner team lingered in the bar for a while engaging in casual talk, inch by inch moving towards the door. Returning to his quarters, Prowl walked with his door wings held low. His face appeared to be sagging in boredom and conceit, but they could see the stiff hurt in his optics.

"Forget this idiot, Boss." They tried to offer comfort.

"Redemption for my deeds has long passed. I understand that they despise me because of who I am but I hate it when they accuse me of things I didn't know about."

"Boss, you look like you're in pain again. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to be walking that far yet."

"Come with us." Mixmaster tugged gently at Prowl's arm. They surrounded him from his sides and behind so he only could move forward straight to their room.

Prowl had no idea how he had ended up here, but there he sat in Constructicons' hab suite watching a movie on a hologram. The Tactician loved to watch thrillers and point out any errors he spotted, but he hadn't done that for ages, because he had no time and also because doing this alone was not fun. It helped to take his mind off the nasty situation. He allowed Mixmaster's hand to rub surreptitiously at his arm, and he slowly leaned on the Constructicon. They spend the evening just watching the movie. Prowl slumped against the Chemist and finally dozed off. Mixmaster's hand remained at Prowl's arm, petting it in circular motions, his gaze soft and warm. His Boss seemed so peaceful, so...untouched by anything.

A faint, barely there, longing moan escaped Prowl's lips.

"See?" Whispered Mixmaster. "He's fallen asleep just ten minutes ago. Up until this time he was pretending to recharge so he could touch my side without us noticing. See how touch-starved he is..? Damn fragger's too stubborn to admit this." Mixmaster noticed Prowl was more bothered by sex deprivation than he'd ever allowed himself to show. It sure saved him the trouble of constantly feeling ashamed, he guessed.

The fact of Prowl's looking for someone to get him the business had been embarrassing and funny at first. He pretended he didn't need to get laid and they pretended they didn't know he needed to get laid. But that got old after some time and their curiosity grew stronger.

"I can't imagine not getting any spike for more than a week, not to mention living without you guys." Muttered Scavenger.
"I admit Scavenger finally said something relevant." Added quietly Hook.

Mixmaster appeared to be thinking intensely and he finally began. "Guys, I know he's not our type, but he looks tasteful...He's got a nice face, beautiful blue optics, and those pretty door wings..."

"Why are you saying this so suddenly, Mix?"

"I know he's short but his new plating suits him..."

"We all know he looks great in his new armor, you dumbass."

"I just...I dunno...He always looks so uncomfortable and isolated." He began carefully. "If it changed things for the better I wouldn't mind helping Prowl, you know..." Mixmaster looked to the side. "Burn off some steam in a berth...What's so funny?" The Chemist whispered in annoyance at their stifled breathly noises.

"He turns you on." Teased Hook and covered his mouth looking at recharging Prowl.

"He doesn't turn me on." Sighed the Cement Mixer. "I just wanna help him. It breaks my spark to see him troubled."

"He's a grown mech, Mix. Don't stick your nose into his business." Long Haul breathed inaudibly, his back hunched forwards.

"Remember Scrapper?" Mixmaster didn't give up. "We were unsure about our feelings. After all, he was our boss. He shied away from us for a long time. We finally hooked up and we fell in love with him instantly."

"I don't want to fall in love with Prowl." Hook rolled his optics. "I chose him to be my boss because he's got a brilliant mind but not to be my lover."

"Admit it, you're still holding grudges after he bit you."

"It has nothing to do with that." Hook cut the teasing off. "Besides, servicing Prowl without being turned on by him seems very disrespectful to me. Nobody wants to be a pity-fuck. He will learn about our feelings in our next combination, so it will ruin our relationship with him. Don't you remember? We have been working so hard to earn his trust so he can sit next to us in a bar or watch a stupid movie."

"I agree." Declared Long Haul.

They sat in silence for a long moment.

"I can give him head." Squeaked Scavenger and covered his mouth, realizing he had made too much noise.

"You give head to anyone interested in you for more than half an hour."

"That's not fair, Hook. I've been exclusive to our team for a very long time."

"He's right, Hook. Let Scavenger be."

"Long Haul, how about you?" Asked Mixmaster apprehensively looking for support.

"I'm not very interested...But if anything, I would always choose Prowl before anyone outside our team. It kinda disgusts me to hook up with someone outside our group and risk catching something nasty. Maybe I'm getting old or something. I can accept Boss because he's one of us, and he's like...clean, you know. I would prefer not to, though. I'm just afraid I'm gonna hurt him. He's so petite. But I also don't want him to get hurt by an assassin, for example, so I'd prefer to take care of him myself. I want to do something to make Prowl happy. I'm on the fence." The dump truck clarified in a hurry. It was not an uncommon practice for Decepticon assassins to pretend to be a service bot and slice the throat of a recharging mech. Hook depressurized with a hiss.

"Well... I guess I can give him head too. If he ASKS me first. Which will not happen anytime soon. I'm not gonna propose that to him." Shrugged Hook. "But that's all I can do. I want to make Prowl happy, but I don't want to get too involved."

"Hey, Crusher!" Muttered Long Haul. "Why are you so quiet? Share your opinion."

"What?...Hm...I say you're talking too much." Bonecrusher concealed his surprise with a grin.

"Oy Crusher." Hook stuck his tongue out. "We all know you've got hots for our Boss."

"Hah, you exposed me!" The Bulldozer faked a stifled laugh. "I can use some variety in berth too. Only so many times one can fuck your ugly mug." He joked quietly, and Hook flipped him a bird. Bonecrusher shrugged him off. "Maybe Prowl's good at it? I bet still waters run deep in this one, especially because he's so sex-starved."

"If you guys don't mind servicing Prowl, guess it won't hurt to ask him." Mixmaster stared at Bonecrusher anticipating him to join him.

"Nope." Answered the Bulldozer. "That's your idea, so you're asking him." And he was back to his datapad.

"But will you support me?" Mixmaster watched the concentrated expression on Bonecrusher's face.

"Yeah, yeah..." Came the unsure reply.

*****

The Tactician woke up to the delicious scent of confectionery prepared by Mixmaster who gingerly scooted closer to Prowl with a plateful of treats and a little fork. The rest of the Constructicons were sitting afar from Mixmaster and Prowl, engaging in all kinds of activities.

"For the love of Primus..." Whined Prowl, turning away from the fork. "Mix, I appreciate your efforts, but please do not feed me by hand." The Autobot grumbled looking away. "I don't need help, I can refuel on my own."

The Cement Mixer pouted but said nothing. Mixmaster just didn't like the obvious fact that the Autobot couldn't unwind at moments he was allowed to. But he had a plan...

"I wanna ask you something, Boss." He said with a troubled smile on his face, pure out of care gently nudging the Autobot's side with his elbow. The Tactician stared and Mixmaster looked back at him with a reassuring smile on his lips and somehow that convinced Prowl to listen to him.

The Praxian unknowingly kept on staring at Mixmaster with ignorance in his eyes and a cheek full of sweets, not the kind of look he'd have if he knew what was coming.

"Go ahead."

The Chemist waited for a second, letting the silence grow between them before getting to the point.

"Look Prowl...this may not be any of my business, but I'm concerned about you being alone this long. Without having a close friend, you know." His Boss didn't react at first. Prowl did not answer, only crooked an eyebrow in wonder.

"Without getting the touch of another mech." Mixmaster was struggling to find the right words.

A look of embarrassment flashed all over Prowl's face, and he seemed hesitant to speak. He dryly forced the sweets in his mouth down his throat. "If you haven’t noticed, not many of the Autobots want to hang out with me. It's nothing new." He whispered going for another cookie to occupy his mouth and hands.

"I've seen that expression on you before. You've tried to use this trick one too many times on us."

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure you're okay with that? Because it doesn't look like that from my perspective and it hasn't for quite some time to me." Noticing Prowl's reaction Mixmaster quit searching his gaze and went for Prowl's audio receptor. "We've sensed you're very uncomfortable around us at times..." He whispered soothingly, and each breath felt like a little kiss. "But that's not because you're afraid of us. Quite the contrary. And it flatters us."

The cookie grew in Prowl's mouth, and he swallowed it loudly. He couldn't help but close his optics, head falling back at the back of the couch, his face on fire.

Mixmaster's voice was so quiet the words morphed into sounds of soft lips smacking and little puffs of air. "You think about us at night...and these thoughts don't let you fall asleep." The expression on Prowl's face indicated the world has just spun in front of his optics and it encouraged the Chemist to continue.

"We know the cause of your insomnia..." Said the Chemist even quieter, straight into Prowl's audio, like a little secret the other Constructicons were not supposed to hear. "We think you're flaming with suppressed frustration...to be physically pleasured...Your body demands fulfillment." Mixmaster took Prowl's hand and placed a small kiss on the fingers, mouth still close to Prowl's temple.

"Your urges grow stronger and stronger each night. You dream of someone coming to your berth to consume you." The Tactician didn't notice that the whole room was listening to Mixmaster's invitation but he did notice Mixmaster took away Prowl's hand and placed it on Prowl's abdomen, then covered it with his own, large hand.

"You're itching for it." The palm started rubbing sensual circles on his belly, slightly rocking Prowl in place. The Tactician opened his optics to focus them on the large palm hypnotizing him with promises of sexual bliss.

"I know you like my sweets but I have something even better. Say a single 'yes' and I'm gonna give you everything you want on this very couch."
 
The Cement Mixer has been crafting the best approach for hours only to have it destroyed by Scavenger.

"I can too, you know...", started Scavenger. "Go under your table and make you feel good." Hook faked a cough.

"It doesn't have to be Scavenger. You can choose from anyone!" Swore Long Haul running to the rescue. Hook gave him a mean shove but it was too late. "Though I admit, Scavenger is excellent at giving head."

The moment they said it Mixmaster's spell was broken. The Autobot's lonesome stare went on Mixmaster then he glared back at the rest of them unhappily. All Prowl did was shake his head at them, expressing quite a strong look of objection.

"I don't wish to be spoken to like this." He said, acid strong in his words. He got up and their eyes meet for a moment, Prowl's head turned away first, looking most sour.

"I know we've been playing a broken record, but we're really worried about you. How can you be in a good mood when you go around alone and unsatisfied all the time? You just work and work all day! You're thinking about new tactics and scheming even when you're not behind your desk anyway. That's crazy!"

"I can't interface with my men." Prowl held firm on his tone, truly not amused with this proposition. Trying to regain his more relaxed look and get his shocked nerves to calm down.

"Oh, giving head or fingering isn't interfacing." Butted in Scavenger. "It's just fooling around, you know." Mixmaster facepalmed and the others groaned collectively.

"Mhm...I can give you a massage if you want it." Said Bonecrusher in a way that was difficult to read. The Constructicon has been quiet this whole time pretending to be engrossed in watching videos on his datapad. Prowl realized the Bulldozer's observant gaze didn't break as he kept a very close watch on his Boss from behind his visor all that time. Prowl felt a hot current race from his belly right to his face and then to the brain. He couldn't help but get this nagging feeling whenever around him.

"You...It's not funny." The serious look he held sprung into something vulnerable and hurt. "You're pulling my leg."

"It was never meant to be a form of mockery." Replied Hook. What a stubborn mech.

"First off, I'm your superior, second, I'm not into the casual interface." He grumbled his stare away. "And third, I'm not your type."

"But Boss, we ARE your type. It's not a big deal." Mixmaster shook his head and played along. "It'll make you unwind and finally have some fun."

The Tactician scoffed, expression suddenly going a whole lot darker. "I won't have fun, that's for sure." He mused silently and rubbed his face in a defeated manner. As those words left him they were instantly detected.
"For sure? What do you mean: for sure?" Bonecrusher asked and just kept staring into Prowl's optics with that smoldering and intimidating gaze of his.

"We will be careful! We know our ways in the berth. No pressure!" The Constructicons made placating affirmations in panic. "Look Prowl, if you don't want it, that's OKAY." Mixmaster tried to smother the fire they raised with their dense talk.

"What do you mean, FOR SURE?" Bonecrusher kept on prying and the Autobot hadn't noticed the Bulldozer was kneeling right in front of him. His gaze traveled toward the Tactician's face but eye contact got denied. Prowl was already almost completely suffocated by the situation. Bonecrusher sighed and backed off.
Prowl breathed deeper than he had done in a while.

"You've made a great effort to help me heal. Your assistance is most appreciated." Without Constructicons, Prowl would have been left feeling utterly alone over and over again. An easy target for his enemies, broken and wounded laying in a cold medbay bed with no one to talk to. "But I don't want anyone's pity. I despise it."

Silence fell back into the room after that, and it felt painfully awkward. The Tactician didn't own any of his gestalt mates' explanations, of course not. There was no way in hell to change Prowl's mind now. He sighed, his voice turning into saddening color.

"Listen...can we just pretend this conversation never happened?" While up to this point he allowed them to dig deeper they found something like fear, hesitation, lust, petulance, and...boredom...they now bumped into something brittle. Something it was too soon to talk about. They decided not to push any further.

"Okay, Boss. We're sorry."

On the way to his office, he wondered why was their proposal so difficult for him.

Chapter Text

They thought he would be shying away from them in shame, annoyance, and anger for their bold move, but he wouldn't. Something changed, and from the state of fever, he became cold.

Cold, cold, cold.

Forever cold.

His optics were like a blue sky in winter, reflecting the ice and frost beneath them with no trace of a distracted and vulnerable thing he broadcasted during his illness. Once healed, then the Tactician was really in his element.

He was moving with grace in carefully practiced gait. He stood elegant and tall, his smile was chilly and full of sharp teeth. The intensity of mindfulness returned, the excellent mind focused on tearing through new projects like fire.

Finally, Prowl was himself again.

It was the Prowl they all fell in love with, their guiding hand, the intelligent, ruthless, and ambitious Prowl they have missed. Before now, Mixmaster believed his boss was this way but it changed because the Chemist had gotten a bit better at seeing past that unreadable mask. How did he do it? Hide his emotions so well? The Autobot's vulnerability did not drive the Constructicons away from him. Mixmaster's spark developed a new kind of fondness towards his boss. As of late, Mixmaster believed this Prowl was fragmentary and he wondered each time they shook their hands why Prowl's ones felt chilly and numb like all energy and life were sucked off him.

*****

"Chief, there are rumors." A familiar voice chimed cautiously. He saw thin optics in the dim light. Getaway was just as good at getting in as at getting out the places. The chief looked up, acknowledging his appearance with a hum.

"Welcome, Getaway." Prowl nodded his greeting, muttered as he made his way to crystal press machine. "What brings you by?" The Tactician looked up from his cube filled with hot and dark, sloshing liquid. Prowl was always doing this, feeding his visitors this tasty concoction and sweets, trying to engage his guests in conversation to soften them, to appear a bit more friendly. Prowl was never good at chit-chat and while meeting his long-term employees his efforts were most of the time stiff as a board before he went straight to the business, anyway. Getaway popped a straw in his glass and wondered why the Chief bothered.

The Tactician's mannerisms weren't completely awkward or inept, though. If a new business partner had a meeting with Prowl for the first time, he would regard the Tactician as well-rounded, softspoken, and reasonably supercilious. Getaway's apt optics saw the effort put into this behavior; the little gestures, the big gesticulations, keeping an eye-contact, voice modulation, practiced movements, practiced smirks, and verbal reactions that were supposed to be emotive. It all had nothing to do with the awkwardness. It was precisely calculated.

"I’m…observant enough to see that as of late you behave differently. It's not normal for you to be so off-guard, Chief."

"Your report." The imperative was sharp like a knife.

"There are many opinions about you." It seemed to be the opening the EX SIC had been waiting for. "People say you're mind-controlled and a Constructicon's slave."

"Getaway...Tell me something I don't know about." The Tactician raised an eyebrow. "Because I pay you for it." All of Prowl's special agents received regular, handsome donations to keep him informed without making Prowl step in the spotlight.

"An assassin is out to get ya." Announced Gateway but Prowl kept a bored expression fixed on his face, hiding his interest. The Autobot didn't say it out loud, but this was very serious news indeed.

"Not the first and not the last."

"I'm serious. Dou you want me to hire mercenaries?"

"No, do not do that," Prowl repeated himself with more weight. "I don't want more attention since my assassin Arcee got caught."

"As long as I keep the Constructicons I'm relatively safe," the Tactician continued. Sometimes, it was hard for Prowl to believe he was, even though he was guarded by five, possessive mechs but he kept on telling people that he felt protected around them. That's what he wanted people to think about him and them.

"Chief...I believe you have a use for them, even though they're unruly. I know, you can easily negotiate their release from the brig. They're Decepticons, though." He made a humming noise of challenge.

Indeed, they were Decepticons and the Tactician had let them watch him sleep, his serious illness forcibly pushing the emotional conflict and distress away. Constructicons offered their care and he took it and as a result, their lives blended. Prowl was far from being tamed, yet the idea of their touch didn't make his insides rip him apart with panic, anymore.

"They're completely obedient." He countered because it was expected. It was a lie. Of course, they weren't.

"You're relying on them too much, Chief. You took them to the bar as bodyguards. People say you're flaunting your team at them."

"You know fair well Getaway if it wasn't for doing business I probably never would’ve set foot in a place like this."

"I mean, they follow you everywhere, but..." His Boss was not someone you would call pleasant. He was cool, calculating, and feared. He was strong-minded and incredibly smart. Was it enough to keep the brute Decepticon Combiner team on a leash? "What would happen, if they left? You'd defenseless."

"How perceptive of you." Came the caustic reply, but Gateway's opinion was true on so many levels. Yes, Prowl could see that and he realized he wasn't sure how to live his previous life anymore, they combined with his so closely. No heavy footsteps behind him, no large shadows following and watching his back. No one barging into his office uninvited complaining, that he should feed himself more often, no baked donuts on his desk. Constructicons could leave that and leave him just like that, and for some reason, they haven't. Yet.

"People say that you are very close." Gateway knew that sometimes the uptight types like Prowl liked to be humored by some bad mechs, for example, a Wrecker and then let them walk away just like Prowl did until he needed the said Wrecker to scratch these itches some more. As far as Getaway knew his boss was celibate but he knew Prowl had had these itchy urges scratched occasionally in the distant past when he was still very young. Prowl had indulged himself a few times across his lifespan but then chose not to engage in physical contact any further. So it was even more exciting this time Getaway noticed Prowl was entangled in something more than a sporadic tryst. He just wanted to know what the Constructicons were really up to, that’s all. Sure enough, Prowl wanted to as well, else he wouldn’t be so vague and unconfident to speak about them. "Rumour has it that you love them." The Escapologist visibly tried to keep a brassy smile off his optics, but, small though it was, a glint appeared anyway.

Love. Even in his most vulnerable mood, such a word had no real place in Prowl's vocabulary and a sour wince split his calm features. Lust, yes, but not love. The reality was that Prowl sort of ducked and covered from the word that named the elusive thing he has always suspected he could never really catch, never really experience...He could only hope that they stayed long enough with him until the war is over. From the moment the spy walked in Prowl knew that Getaway was up to something that would undoubtedly provoke him and he refused to be provoked. Damn spies.

"The bond goes both ways. They won't survive without me." Prowl thought all living creatures selfish, striving to exchange benefits to keep the status quo.

"We have to stick together to keep the assassins away from me and the DJD away from them." He let them stay to have personal medical staff and security guards, and because the power of Devastator would not fall in the wrong hands. Prowl had done it because he needed Constructicons for his master plan... Hadn't he? He had tried to find comfort in the thought of them being a team and nothing more. You shall never be attached to anyone, Prowl, because life, one way or another, was going to get the last laugh.

Getaway considered Prowl as a good boss, he didn't want to be his friend, but he couldn't think of anyone more competent than the Autobot. The Escapologist liked working for him as did the other spies and scientists. Spying for his boss for safety reasons was something Prowl allowed him to do, so Getaway monitored him for any dangerous signs of enemy influences. Any change to Prowl’s routine was enough to be investigated.
He understood his Boss now.

"What are your orders, Chief?"

"Kept your watch, noiselessly, as you always do because I deeply believe your loyalty would always ultimately be with Autobots." Said Prowl transferring his attention to files spread about on his desk, gaze flickering among them. The statement wasn't even feigned as such, it was a demand to leave.

Now was not the time to question or correct his boss and Getaway stalked away from the office.

*****

Just a check-up. Not that he didn't trust them...He trusted them but he still didn't. That's why he went to Ratchet and listen to what Hook had told him before, just to prove himself he still had a choice to pick his medic. The tension between them was enough to make him gulp. Of course, if the Constructicons hadn't accepted Prowl, the Autobot wasn’t sure he’d have survived the reformatting and combining. The suffering had been agonizing enough. The Tactician would barely be able to get himself operating again on his own, in the infirmary without a team ready at his beck and call.

There was someone else waiting on the other side of the medbay and Prowl turned his head towards the silhouette.
"We are almost done." Ratchet concluded and invited the unknown mech to come closer. The Autobot slid out of his seat, armor petals flaring in confusion and anger. He waited, hoping an elaboration of his sudden visit would come sooner than later. The CMO was silent.

"Ratchet, I had a meeting scheduled with you, not HIM." Prowl gritted his teeth, accusatory. The Psychiatrist was the last person he wanted to see at the moment. His voice was sharp and his footsteps sure as he stepped over to the mech in question.

"I do not wish to talk to you."

"Prowl..." The orange mech stood straighter as he was addressed.

"Because I know it won't work."

"Why do you think so?" The question was hesitant.

The Tactician spent a few seconds exhaling profoundly and standing there with stiff shoulders and stance.

"I recollect you told me I have these two things..." Said Prowl frostily only to cut himself short. "I remember how you and previous therapists tried to make sense of me and come up with something to help me and missing, so I am long done with the therapeutic sessions that offer no answer. It is a waste of my time."

Rung didn’t look the slightest bit amused.

"I admit there is no single effective solution to your problems but recent events might be worth talking about." Finally replied Rung. "They are difficult for any mech to make sense about."

"How can you help me understand how is to be mind-controlled and forced to combine when there is no literature about it..?" A sad, unknown tune broke his voice. "How?"

"It is similar to other traumatic experiences."

"It is not." White and black doorwings were all steel and tension. Rung ignored the gleam of moisture that lingered on Prowl's optic corners.

"Prowl..."

"I refuse to be your case study." Prowl gritted his teeth. "I refuse to be looked at like I'm some kind of a specimen." That sentence wasn't enough in Prowl's opinion, so he wasn't done spewing out his icy rage. "Like I've just said I am done with psychotherapy. It's beating about the bush mostly." Prowl squinted at Rung, his expression between weary and annoyed.

"I'm sad you think this way but remember that untreated issues cause even more issues."

"Why did you call him, Ratchet?" Prowl asked again, this time softer, with more patience and less accusing, ignoring the therapist, and turned his optics towards Ratchet who looked almost hurt.

"I had to." The voice was quieter than usual, troubled, and lacking his typical abrasion. "You tend to continue working far past what's plausible and healthy and now you're pushing it too far. We don't see you around anymore, you stay in your room with..."

"I do not. I merely visit them and they visit me, we have neighboring rooms. They're not overstepping, unlike you, Ratchet. It is you who roomed with a Con on Lost Light." His doorwings hiked with disapproval as he was inching towards the door.

"Drift's not a Decepticon." Sighed Ratchet, and watched as the Tactician turned once more to look him in the optics before exiting the room and the med bay entirely. The CMO sat down on a chair and rubbed his face with both hands.

Rung gave Ratchet a caring look. He wanted to know what was going through the CMO's head, but more so why he reacted to Prowl's words the way he did.

"I shouldn't have interfered with your talk, Rung." Ratchet's shoulders slumped. "I drove him away. It was stupid of me to think he'd fall into my trap...But I'm kinda curious why he thinks you're incompetent."

A cough echoed the spacious medbay.

"A long time ago when he was a young mech he sought help for an unrelated issue of his." Said Rung and Ratchet couldn't help but smile sadly at the memory of young, innocent Prowl from 4 million years ago.

"I was less experienced than I am today I was unsure and very careful to diagnose him properly. Perhaps I dragged it for too long... He sensed my hesitation, grew impatient with me, and left."

"You can't make him visit you, can you?"

"Legally, no, unless you have some hard evidence on him doing something dangerous. We both know he's very clever and careful to cover his tracks. Even if we found something, he would probably view our efforts as hostility towards him. So intelligent and yet so stubborn..."

The stretching silence let Rung observe the medic. He then asked.

"You feel you failed him by leaving for the Lost Light quest." The statement was met with a deep sight.

"Not only for that." Breathed Ratched. "I had failed him many times by allowing unnecessary harm to happen to him."

"There is no way to live our life without indirectly causing harm to other mechs, Ratchet."

"But I inflicted it."

"...Tell me about it."

*****

The Demolition Expert stared blankly at the screen of his datapad, his eyes deeply focussed as the shiny glyphs bounced in front of him. He was looking for a paper instead of a fail video, but why now? Flicking fingertips across the screen, his gaze was drifting across the many headers. Some of them were in Tarn, but many were in Neo Cybex as well. Identifying a title that he recognized, he excitedly tapped the screen.

Someone lingered behind his back and he stirred. Then a mech materialized to break him free from his internal monologue. Bonecrusher realized it and the tablet's screen he held in his hands faded to black.

"What?" The Con moaned all tired, forcing himself away from the tablet.

"I haven't seen you reading for a long time." Mixmaster dropped his optics bashfully.

"What's all this simpering about?" The Bulldozer asked gruffly.

"Wanting some attention from you, Crusher." He watched Mixmaster give one of his abashed smiles, body language, and facial expression clearly saying the type of attention he was seeking. The Chemist leaned down, caught his lips in a truly indecent kiss, and drew out away with a winner’s smirk.

"You should have asked me directly." The words rumbled precariously off Bonecrusher's glossa.

"You're anxious, right?" The Chemist muttered against his chin. A soft smile appeared on his face.

"Anxious? Pfff!" He snapped back, lightly perturbed, then continued simply. "It's just...I've waited for so long, and finally, the thing can be toppled down legally." He grinned, but Mixmaster knew Bonecrusher's grin conceals all kinds of things. The Chemist would know, it was practically Bonecrusher's default expression.

"You hope, he'll be watching?"

"Yeah..."

"Forget about him now, because I'm right here." Flirted Mixmaster and straddled his friend. Not a minute had passed the two were getting a little heated and heavy now. Mixmaster put hands under Bonecrusher's hood and he tightened his legs around Bonecrusher's middle, which hugged their hips together more.

"Ouch! What the fuck?"

"What's going on now..." Grumbled Bonecrusher.

"A can of bird food wedged itself in my knee. Yeah, you heard that right." He added when Bonecrusher's facial expression shifted from lusty to dumb. "I swear Scavenger finally lost his mind. He is in a junk accumulating frenzy again. Yesterday, I discovered a large bundle of wires in his cabinet.

"Time to unleash Hook on him." The Bulldozer had a faintly smug look on his face.

"I have a better idea...Unleash yourself on me Crusher..." The last part was murmured with Mixmaster grabbing Bonecrusher between his legs.

*****

"You know Crusher, I've always liked you the most."

"Why?"

"You're just so patient with me. So extremally patient. Despite the way I am, you're never judging, you never scream at me as the rest do."

"Right, I'm not arsed by their scrap. You should stop giving a shit too, Mix."

*****

Mechs crowded in front of the railed site waiting for the spectacle to begin. Constructicons had the help of the local police to overwatch the scene. Autobots, Decepticons, NAILS mingled together waiting for a show.

Except for him. He wasn't there with them, but Constructicons got the second-best thing.

He stood alone on the nearest tallest building, arms on his chest, looking down on them like they were toy soldiers on a map.

Ultra Magnus' imperious voice blasted out of the speakers above, informing them that the spectacle had begun. And then it happened...The counting...the Constructicon's hand pushed down the detonation switch...the crowd held their breath and the Demolition Expert closed his optics and a pleasant shiver ran through him. The feeling melted into the state of tranquility in the palace of his mind and Bonecrusher parted his lips when the explosives woke up one by one. He knew no one could see the explosions, they were a distant, occulted staccato. The measured rhythm reverberated in him and he turned from the crowd and towards the sound slowly, peacefully, void of the crowd's tension, because he knew exactly what would happen next: the most beautiful sight in the world.

Then it all fell like a force of nature, like fire, water, and wind working together in a perfect tornado folded the building inward. It was collapsing gracefully, cleanly in a cloud of dust and cheer sounds, aquatic cannons were spraying water on the site.

It was magnificent.

When the smoke sets there will be a place for something grand to be built upon.

In moments like this, Bonecrusher felt proud. In moments like this, people realized that controlled demolition requires long-term planning and not just brute force, leveling explosives placed accurately, hours of triple checking all the connections. Precision and patience and the fact he held back for so long made the culmination all that spectacular. The crowd stared in awe and maybe, maybe for just a moment they understood the perfection of it all because it was truly a form of art.

There's one more thing...Allowing himself to tear his optics away from the site and the crowd, the Bulldozer looked up. Ah...

The figure on the roof flickered like a ghost and the Demolition Expert separated his lips in a smirk.

Bonecrusher wielded raw, brute power.

But most importantly, he knew exactly where to hit.

*****

Darkness had fallen once more, and the Tactician had been thinking the entire day to leave his office for some quality time to himself. He was laying in bed without motion for some time, but his brain ran rampant with visions from his recollections and certainly from his vivid imagination.

Prowl felt swayed by the spy’s talk. That was the thing; Getaway, like all special agents, had been trained to search for information, and to be extremely sensitive to gossip, to what people were whispering. People had their kinks, the Decepticon/Autobot roleplay was a thing, not to mention cross-faction affairs.

Until now, Prowl was convinced he covered his inclination towards the green mechs well enough. He'd always hated that idea, felt revolted by the notion of being touched by a Decepticon, yet a part of him had had to admit there was something about that picture...Bonecrusher's wide frame with chipped green paint, shimmering red visor, his hands casually touching him...Prowl suspected it would stay with him for a very long time. How sick was it that even his hands gave him a thrill?

Finally, he acknowledged, that he didn't feel any repugnance anymore...And as easy as it had been a few previous days to pretend like their sexual offer didn’t happen, that night Prowl couldn’t stop guessing about what might follow the next day. To say that the Autobot was frustrated would have been an understatement. He was still shaken up by the intensity of Mixmaster's incentive, his spark speeded up at the recollection and pleasant fog surrounded him, suddenly becoming more tempting than Prowl had been prepared for.

Before that, he’d fantasized about Constructicons of course, but never so vividly. He shuddered as he recalled about the way Bonecrusher walked, swagging like he owned the world. Prowl's cable muscles all tensed up every time his abdomen trembled, and the pressure was growing more painful. What was deemed decompressing oblivion took a turn for the worst, a struggle not to fondle himself was all Prowl could concentrate on.

Flashes of the excitement when Prowl stared at Bonecrusher minding his business reading something on his datapad struck him...and more powerful current that ran through Prowl when Bonecrusher stared back. Hours later he still felt the weight of the Bulldozer's gaze on his shoulders. Every time his t-cog sent a sharp spasm up his spine, Prowl's foggy mind fought the urge to press his thighs firmly together. It felt like his entire frame was yielding to the orders of his array.

Prowl recalled the shimmer in those ruby optics unveiling all the barely restrained stamina that he’d always been more than ready to exercise, his hum dangerous and thick with promise...The memory stroked Prowl hard between his legs, nudging him in all the right spots...Sticky wetness filled him with every flinch the longer he was trying to avoid dealing with it.

Bonecrusher's low growl was pushing him, circling his most vulnerable body part packed with nerve endings making him slick and swollen in mere seconds. Before he knew it he was gently rocking his hips back to get more contact with the firm surface of his berth until he forced himself still, frozen in place and helpless against thrashing of his array.

With optics smokey and hazy with lust, his need to be satisfied has increased to constant tingling and he was so ridiculously frustrated he wanted to scream. It felt so sinful, so lewd to touch himself, even though arousal was turning him inside out. Prowl hungered after Constructicons, he wanted them inside him, and they promised him a sensual, bumpy ride. In basic words, in elementary logic, it made no sense why he held himself back. It was ridiculous, but after all this time he was still afraid of them.

He just couldn't bring himself to.

The sleeping pill only lowered his walls instead of lulling him to sleep. He kept exhaling, feverishly. It burned him with shame but he couldn't stop clenching against his scalding emptiness. The shallow pushing proceeded for several minutes and every klik that went by made it tougher and tougher for the Tactician to stay still. Just as slumber edged back, Prowl sighed, his pelvis was moving before he's even realized, his hips jerking back and forward, craving stimulation, slowly giving in the passion washing over him, his mind a jumble as he tried to fix his trail of thoughts in vain.

The Tactician was vaguely aware of pounding becoming even wilder, his aching little bud greedy for contact. It was his imagination but he thought he could feel heavy grab on his waist hauling him off his feet just above the ground, and hard hips that slammed him from behind. Prowl was puffing through the open mouth like he was about to faint, his head reeled as he was groping in search for something to hold onto but the power was taken away from him by the grinding onslaught.

The world lingered around him as he was losing himself in the pleasure that was pulsating, dripping down and welling in cracks of his bed. He kept making shuddering noises, tipping back his head. His thrusts became rougher and lost their rhythm until his whole body flexed and seized, his face screwed up as his hips quivered and gyrated erratically with abandon, his sparkbeat loud and thudding.

Chapter Text

There was nothing extravagant about the bars on Luna 2. Disintegrating for ages and blown apart by perpetual unrest, the shaggy establishments relied on endless efforts of bartenders to even hold most of the structures standing.

His audios picked up on the distinct rowdiness and cackling of Combaticons feasting the day’s questionable achievements or lack of thereof over dubious distilled brews Swerve and Blurr had concocted.

A Decepticon made his way over to the broad bar counter at opposite the sitting Combaticons and leaned back against the side of it. Just as planned the Constructicons walked it accompanied by a white and black figure. The Combaticons became grumpy in a flash. The Decepticon smirked and spoke out loud.

"Interesting that the Constructicons still hang out with that broken Autobot thing."

"Yeah. Real interesting." Growled Onslaught.

"The feared warriors teaming up with such a measly punk." The Decepticon went on, a mocking, humorous ring to his speech.

"What kinda statement is that?" Onslaught accompanied his answer with an ominous growl. "You call them warriors? Don't be joking. The big Dev is relevant but without Scrapper, they're just a bunch of fools!"

The Decepticon stared at him, agitated by the outburst.

"I thought they're dangerous, feared warriors." The Decepticon grumbled, not looking up from the Energon cube.

"You know less than nothing. They built the arena, not fought on it." A pair of yellow optics lifted from the Energon snacks in a bowl to glare at him. "They're just fucking builders with fighting skills of a regular grunt. Once they had got the taste of the real combat they did everything to weasel their way out a battle by offering med aid, drugs, cake, or some scrap like that." He concluded.

"Not a bad survival tactic, I must confess." Vortex chipped, returning to sipping his Energon cocktail.

The Decepticon glimpsed at him guardedly from time to time but recognizing that Combaticons were still there, he went on to asking small questions.

"How come?" He blurted out..

"High Command used to send them to the outposts when the battle was practically over to help and built stuff." Onslaught snorted, gesturing to the Constructicons.

Well, the Combaticons were in a foul state of drunkenness now. The Decepticon folded his arms on his chest. "Sorry, I didn't want to bother you." Collecting himself, the Decepticon pulled his glass closer to the edge of the table.

"No, no, stay." Hiccuped Blast Off devoid of all humor. "We're gonna tell you all about these imbeciles, right guys?" He indignantly exhaled out of his nostrils with a hydraulic hiss.

"Yup."

The Decepticon met Onslaught's gaze without resetting his optics, keeping it there so he could not look away, prompting the tank to go on with his rant.

"They're strong together but weak apart. Smoke and mirrors, and scary expressions on their mugs. You saw what happened when Megs send Big Dev to battle on Earth. And guess what, poor Scrapper got aced by a single Earthling because he was alone." Onslaught muttered as he watched Brawl down a big mug of potent Energon in long gulps.

"I liked him, he was a very polite fellow." Added Brawl.

"I don't agree with you." Blast Off continued talking about the previous topic. "Maybe they're not seasoned warriors but you don't wanna mess with one of them because next, you'd have to deal with five of them. They usually hang around in a pack. The most dangerous is, in my opinion, Mixmaster."

"Which one is it? The handsome one?"

"They're all handsome." Answered the Combaticons ready to murder him if the Decepticon wanted an elaboration of the subject.

"The medic?"

"No."

"The big one?"

"No!"

"The pipsqueak?"

Combaticons rolled their optics collectively.

"The strong one?"

"No..."

"The cement mixer?"

"Yes, that one."

"Gotta agree on that, this one is stark raving mad." Butted in Brawl, a tint of unease in his voice and a flash of honest fright behind his visor.

"What do you mean? From my observations, he's a usually positive fellow, I guess."

"Oh don't be fooled, mech." Onslaught snapped as his optics were sparkling with hatred. "When he appears very happy he is also the most prone to get volatile in merest seconds. Once a blue moon he goes fucking insane."

"You may never know the mood he's in." Said Blast Off in a serious tone. The large Decepticon sounded bewildered. "The muppet knows his way around chemicals and drugs and you never know what substance he's currently high on. You don't make him your enemy, period. Bakes good cake, though."

"The most intelligent one is Hook the surgeon." Butted in Brawl.

"Bruh, the intelligent one?" One could have detected Onslaught's optics roll behind the visor just from the intentional way he said it. "He's uppity and fucking stuck up smart aleck."

Vortex's optics gleamed. "Hook secretly harbors a strong sense of worthlessness so if you wanna see him mad ask where his medical license is. The clown attended the Academy but never finished the last semester. Oh wait, maybe don't do that he's into the humiliation and sado-maso kink." Laughed Vortex.

"How in the Cybertron did you acquire this knowledge?"

"Well..." Giggled Vortex. "He also drinks a lot."

"The pipsqueak is the stupidest one but never lower your guard around him." Warned Onslaught. "Maybe he's got bad sight but a surprisingly good memory. He hoards all sorts of bootleg crap and loves dumpster diving."

"Maybe it stimulates his lobotomized stump of a processor." Snorted the helicopter.

"When your stuff his gone, you can risk asking the chumps politely to return it, because it's 99,9% possibility the pipsqueak stole it. They may give the thing back to you but I'm not so sure about that."

"Pipsqueak gives good head too." Added Vortex.

"Oh and there's the bulldozer guy with that idiotic grin of his." Sneered Blast Off. "Bonecrusher's not as stupid or aggressive as some give him credit to. He lessened his bravado ways when he's got his ass whooped by an explosion gone wrong. His pastimes involve grappling, drinking, and web browsing."

"If I were your built I wouldn't provoke him, though. The vice-like hands of his are the last thing you want around your head or any body part for that matter, and I admit he is strong. The big dump truck guy is only a bit stronger than him." Concluded Brawl with an uncharacteristic insight.

"What about the big dump truck guy?"

"Long Haul...Well, he's a boring mech. Hard-working, strong but boring as hell, and not very bright."

"You're forgetting someone." Vortex mumbled with a loud yawn. "The Autobot is a part of their team now. I heard they call him their boss." He added, his optics dancing with amusement.

"Yeah, they call him that in public." Blast Off was unaffected, of course. "I can't get they chose to obey him, it's likely the other way round."

"Ohh, it's so delicious to see the famous Autobot Tactician, the stoic, the almighty Prowl of Petrex so, so completely broken." Mused the Combaticon leader. "I fought against him in many battles and he kept brutally obliterating my men without risking staining his white hands with their blood, so it warms my spark to see him ravaged."

With that being said, Brawl appeared to be thinking profoundly.

"Damn you Onslaught, I imagined them touching that runt for a second and this is too disgusting."

That comment was met was an exaggerated sigh. "Then you should not try you imagine it, you dense fool." Retorted Onslaught. "I meant it figuratively, not literally. I'm not a rotten psycho. Besides..." The Combaticon smirked with malice. "There is no need to further beat him, as dragging him down from his crystal tower is the ultimate and the sweetest humiliation."

"I am, well, unsettled that Constructicons hanging around him and their pledged obedience. True or not, the DJDs don't investigate such ambiguous issues." Vortex's grin did not pass, but something about it changed nevertheless.

"I am getting a bit anxious, guys." Blast Off responded flatly. "It's better to dispose of the Autobot before DJDs take an interest in this establishment."

"...I have a great idea."

*****

To most mechs, standing calmly with a cigarette on a roof at night was not easy to get accustomed to in such uncertain times. There was always a possibility of danger lurking in the shadows. Perceptor was not most mechs, however. He always had his favorite rifle with him backing him up for nighttime cigarette smoking. It was just a little something to get some anxiety off. It was surprising to see Perceptor smoke, but no one ever asked about this new addiction. On some occasions, they sometimes asked him why he preferred the disposable cigarettes to an electric cy-gar to which they received his answer, that electric cy-gars bring back painful memories.

The well-known scientist and a perfect sniper had to compensate for the damage that was left in his head making his senses primed to a verge of pain. Every difference in his surroundings like scantiest oil odor or cushioned footsteps was noted, though he did not often deliver any hint he had spotted something. In such a silent night his acute senses fished out every vibration from the darkness, and he could tell whom the approaching footsteps belonged to.

Someone was nearing him fast not wanting to be noticed but Perceptor knew these footsteps.

Back then and now, all the same.

It wasn't Prowl's attitude of considering fellow Autobots as toy soldiers that perplexed Preceptor's scientist team. It was a bit morbid, but that was Prowl's job. The police car had a sharp mind to do his business that far surpassed any need for decency. All scientists knew it though some felt safer than others around him. For the most part, they had usually dismissed it as an irrelevant oddity. Prowl kept them breathing on the battleground and even if his tactics were questionable, no one could dispute he got results. So long as Prowl was on their side, the scientists didn't care what ambiguous strategic project he was currently running.

Prowl had been an enigma, a well-tangled series of coils all bound to each other with no obvious pattern. All those millennia Percepor had worked for Prowl taking more and more projects. The SIC's new ideas were very stimulating to Perceptor's processor always searching for a new solution and pushing his limits. Perceptor knew Prowl as his superior but also a more intimate friend watched him walk cold and calculating, logical to the core, cool and elegant, sophisticated.

The Tactician was usually speaking in sync with Percetotor's scientific talk. Prowl was always interested in Perceptor's inventions and listened to him with intent, asking him the things he didn't know and probing for more explanations listening actively and that made Percetor feel valid. Someone who understood him and was willing to listen and not get fatigued making ignorant remarks when they didn't understand him. No dismissive gesticulations or rude statements. Prowl was just blunt, but he was not dismissive of Perceptor's point of view. The microscope always pondered why Prowl was not interested in becoming a scientist himself. He unquestionably had the cerebral and imaginative capacity to become one and to make new projects come to fruition.

Perceptor inhaled gently, delicately, smoke bearing with it the potent crystals. It was sinking lazily into his internals. Perceptor had held it for several kliks before he exhaled the long stream of fog.

Prowl and Perceptor used to have a friendly relationship but as the war progressed they were slowly but steadily drifting away from each other. And then the Parasite ordeal happened. Perceptor didn’t suddenly find Prowl or his company offensive but even so, he preferred to spend time away from him. He didn’t mind Prowl in Kimia facility – but he quit visiting him in private. It seemed better for both of them, that’s for certain. For Perceptor distancing was a terrible necessity because the way their involvement worked wast tearing him apart.

Inhaling too much vapor at his last vent, the scientist choked noisily.
The day before Perceptor had seen Prowl retching in the bathroom the blood that sluiced down his throat from his nose. Prowl, what had been done to you he asked himself while taking another drag off his cigarette.

What was done to him? A half-year of being unable to control his body and mind took its toll on his former boss. He used to walk all calm and tall now for Perceptor's practiced optic Prowl's gait was so uneven, though he was one of the few who saw that. The endoskeleton helped pedes to overcompensate his injured back but Perceptor imaginative optic saw through the armor where all joints toiled sickly. The smooth gait was not smooth enough, the chilly smile not chilly enough, and the glacially blue optics not so clear blue anymore. Perceptor discerned something in his friend's soul just broke. The microscope still called Prowl his friend even though he acted like the worst imaginable one.

At some point in his lazy, internal wayward wanderings, Perceptor was made to believe there wasn’t a cursed thing he could do to stop thinking of what Ratchet had just told him about Prowl. And most importantly did the others know?

Now Constructicons were trotting in the dark not far behind his former Boss, passed Perceptor's position on the rooftop, and disappeared in the night. The scientist's thought that Prowl was mind-controlled crossed Perceptor's mind for a split of a second. Then again, Bombshell's demise ruled out the possibility. Mind-control was not an easy thing to do unless you were wielding an intellect matching one of Bombshell's, Perceptor's, or Brainstorm's, so the possibility was very low.

Lost in his reflections was not always a safe place to be while sitting on a rooftop, and he saw a faint shine coming from somewhere around his back. He rapidly pointed his small gun behind him, not looking away from the dark view in front of him and toying with the trigger.

Perceptor remained still until a mech fully emerged from the darkness.

"Wow, and I thought I walk silently. How did you spot me, Snipercy?" Asked the mech.

"Don't call me that." Perceptor seemed to hold a grudge against him. "My microscope lens has the capacity to see what's behind me." The scientist said impatiently and turned slowly towards the mech. He regarded him with his typical no-nonsense, stoic gaze.

"I'm returning the thing I borrowed from you." Announced Getaway at Perceptor's suspicious glance. He sighed.

“How many times must I tell you?" Began the Escapologist. "It is my job to reveal these things..." Perceptor's optics stayed narrowed on him for a bit longer. There was a faint sound of a mech transforming in the darkness and a starting engine.

Suddenly, they jolted at the unexpected shouting, and the Autobots crouched on the roof, optics searching for danger. The Sniper brought the scope to his face and cussed after he lost his cigarette.

"Wait, WAIT!" Someone hollered and two engines roared in the dark and disappeared in the thick night, and after some time the Autobots depressurized.

"The smoke gives you away to your enemies." Mocked Getaway after the noises died down completely.

"There are no enemies here." Retorted Perceptor lighting up a new cigarette. "Just our old habits."

"Can I have one?" Getaway noticed the small ember in the darkness. A bothersome quietness hung in the air like a heavy cloud.

"I don't have any cigarettes left, sorry." Looking half-annoyed, Perceptor managed to retort, though not as quickly as he would have wanted.

Getaway watched him several seconds before wordlessly pivoting away on his spur into darkness.

*****

Prowl forced a gulp of high-grade Energon down his throat. It ran down his intake scratchily, like rust, scouring it hard the whole way. It was the first time in weeks he allowed himself to drink something more potent. Prowl set his glass down and activated extra ventilators. Why was it hot in here, or was it just him? Had Mixmaster put too much high-grade Energon into his cocktail by mistake? Or were the energy being conserved again anticipating more blackouts? Gradually, he raised the glass to his lips, movement adjusted to minimize the nip in his belly every time he did so much as twitch.

Flickering data from the computers that ran louder than before in the dull office. The roaring ventilators of his console table were enough to disguise the thumping pulse of Prowl's spark, he hoped. There was an issue. An issue that he didn’t know how to deal with. It had started two days ago when Prowl failed to stop himself from dreaming about his green team. In the morning, Prowl mentally beat himself over and over disappointed and disgusted with himself. Right then and there, his self-control was beginning to bend. It was a nuisance that he would rather have done without. He had been forbidden to transform for quite a while, and his T-cog was beginning to protest. The worst part was, the aching T-cog was placed next to any Cybertronian's intimate components.

It was nearly enough to settle that whole encounter with Mixmaster from several days ago of his mind. Almost. For the first time in numerous centuries, Prowl found himself hungry. He had no idea of discerning just how much of that hunger displayed in his optics now, as he took another gulp of his drink. Prowl didn't swallow the last sip of his cocktail and put it on the table. He didn't let go of it, keeping the glass in his hand instead, rubbing his digit on its walls.

The Tactician was still attempting to think when his internals twitched and his hips canted instinctively. He gasped and bit his lip but kept ignoring it out of sheer stubbornness. Such a small thing shouldn't interrupt his workflow.

The cool, unyielding metal chair gave little to none comfort to the Prowl's back, and is door-wings ached. He sighed as he rocked forward to the edge of the chair. A half-a hour has passed, and Prowl now kept his fingers on the keyboard to finish up what he started, his glass was forgotten and discarded away from his focus. Regret came to his processor belatedly; he shouldn't have had an intoxicating beverage because it was diluting his self-control. Prowl’s mind whirled.

You're so stupid you still think you will win over your body?

Oh no, he wasn't but he still wanted to delay it, especially at random moments his body seemed to think it was owed an interface. Though he managed to return to his work, unfortunately feeling fuzzy and weak after some time. Sadly, drinking potent Energon was a bad idea because it was affecting his productivity. Prowl had overestimated himself but didn't give up working. Eventually, after some time, his interfacing array made itself known again. The twitching woke up to life and it passed the point ignoring it was possible. He wiggled his hips back and forth, then from side to side then forced himself still. The Tactician felt a warmness, or rather a heat that was so much more passionate than he could have possibly conceived.

Prowl let his legs wrap together, and his feet curled. Something slimy, surprisingly heated, began to trickle and he went tense, biting back an upset moan. Several centuries without interfacing with someone just decided to catch up with him. Bothered beyond reason, he got up. Hoping moving around would stop his needs, Prowl pushed himself into a standing position. "C-calm down.." He told himself. All that effort to avoid people because his wants had been too powerful. The Constructicons were truly too hot for their good making his brain short-circuit. The Autobot repressed, and pushed down the emotions thinking they would be better locked away for how sinful and perverse they were. Prowl plagued himself with so many thoughts that he felt himself turning absurd. An hour later, the Tactician had been pacing around in his office in a feverish manner. He so desperately wanted to break free out of his office and go for a long ride outside the city. Surely, it would burn off the steam, but every time he almost found himself going out actually on his way to do so, he had to remind himself that he mustn't.

For just a split-second the thought of going to Constructicon's quarters flitted through his mind. The police car couldn't exactly help the thoughts he had. He mentally chastised himself. The idea of letting loose felt abhorrent and dangerous. A long time ago, he promised himself he won't do it ever again. Moreover, it was not worth the aftermath. The thought that they would see his memories during the future combination filled him with chilling dread and scalding hot embarrassment at the same time, even though it ached, the tension was relentless, his trembling chamber was crying out get a fill of release that he dared not give it, trying to relax. Slackening up, even slightly was a mistake though, for as soon as he did the feeling flooded him back ten-fold and he senses his control slip away.

Exhaling softly, the Tactician vibrated at the memory of their voices, his optics growing wide. His T-cog felt bigger and more overstimulated than ever, his control even thinner, while his insides throbbed with hunger. He was not going to give in to the feeling, he had to be in control just some more before Constructicons return to their quarters so he will be free to go outside to burn off some steam. Trapped in his office, he had to wait a little longer. Now his interfacing array throbbed painfully, and Prowl felt a tiny bit of wet heat flow from the inside of his body.

Why are you still so stubborn?

Then he wandered back to the desk to sit on a chair, where he relaxed a bit, but then the rest made his need even worse. Now he was panting uneven breaths and biting his lips. His fidgeting had turned into full-blown rocking in his seat, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could test his frame like this. After some time it formed a pool beneath him, which was slowly spreading out. His focus was split, and now his processor was consumed with the dispute of the single question of whether to go outside now risking meeting the Constructicons or combusting from heat.

Even if you will endure their stares, there is no way to hide your lust away from them. You reek of it. And stop kidding yourself, you will suffer later anyway, so why are you holding back yourself like that. Because you don't deserve anything better.

For any other mech, this would have been pleasure and fun. But for Prowl all he was feeling was inadequacy combined with agony and undertow sadness.

*****

Mixmaster and Hook were leaning against the wall of a bar. The others were chattering and having a good time while Prowl was walking past them without acknowledging their presence. It seemed that in ignoring the problem, he’d let it get really bad. Unfortunately, they noticed his discomfort yet said nothing. But with the way they were eyeing him like hawks, he felt almost afraid to turn back and greet them. Again, if they were to ask, they would do it, as he was hardly looking comfortable. As long as he was trying to suppress it, they weren't going to do anything to show that they already had him figured out. By some turn of fate, they didn't follow him.

Free of the company of other mechs, his belly tingled in anticipation of a release. His well-practiced, dignified stroll turned into an irregular bounce after he passed Perceptor smoking on the roof behind. As he was taking a few shaky steps he transformed, alerting the mechs behind him, mortified by what he had just heard. Prowl was desperately trying to move quicker, but then he understood that he couldn't move any faster. Unfortunately, he was at his limit, and speeding up would only cause pain in his joints. He was not even remotely okay. Enjoy the ride, he’d told himself and a blue pang twisted in his spark. It’ll be over before you know it, he knew that from experience.

Chapter Text

Prowl did not understand what was going on but had a mood as if things were getting out of hand like he might be losing himself somehow. He sent them a text message. : I'm okay. Do not follow me.:

The ex-SIC realized that the Constructicons stopped driving after him but there was a vehicle with an unfamiliar engine rumble that was nearing him. Someone was approaching fast and Prowl felt a shock of dread. He sped up as he heard three shots being fired on the ground behind his bumper and just before the wheels of his pursuer.

The vehicle stopped before a small red dot on the ground and pulled back. Prowl transformed and ran to the dark alley, his instincts commanded him to escape. He climbed on top of a building then ran on the roof and prepared himself to jump. He overestimated the space between the buildings and his limbs too; he managed to catch the edge of the roof but smashed his nose, so blood ran down his chin. He growled and hauled himself up. Before he knew it, two hands grabbed him by his armpits and put him on the ground.

"You put on weight, Prowl."

"Perceptor?"

"No single thank you for saving your sorry aft? If it wasn't for my rifle he would get you."

"I apologize, ah...Thank you, Perceptor."

"You're welcome. I'm not sure if that mech was a threat, but I prefer to be careful. His engine sound was not familiar."

"I thought so."

"You've got blood on your nose. Want a cigarette?" Prowl took the cigarette offered to him with shaky hands.

"You can have a whole box." Perceptor offered.

"No, thank you. I'm good..." Responded Prowl. "Good to see you returned to your lab. You look happier." He produced this awkward sentence cringing at how lame it sounded but Perceptor didn't mind it.

"I am." Perceptor laughed. "How do you enjoy your free time?"

"Not much changed for me." The Tactician shifted his optics. "I'm not on sick leave, so I still manage my estate, and my teams, contact my lawyers, and representatives, commission new projects, and have a few new ships to buy. I host at least five daily videoconferences." Prowl tried to conjure an elusive image of life without the fighting, only him and his friends relaxing and pursuing their interests, but as soon as he tried to immerse himself deeper in the fantasy, he discovered there wasn't much he'd like to do. Maybe there would be life with better medical care so his health would become stabler and he might enjoy more newly discovered things in his life. At that moment, he couldn't picture himself on a regular day in a peaceful life.

There was only emptiness. 

"The war may be over, but it's better to be prepared." He concluded lamely.

"I mean, you finally found mates." Commented Perceptor, grinning.

"They're not my mates!" In the depths of his spark, head, and interfacing array blossomed heat so scalding his vision swam.

"Come on, Prowl. I see the way you look at them." He winked. "When I got involved with Drift, the Autobots didn't like it either. They said I lost my mind by hopping into his berth. Perhaps they imagined I was not a mech, just a lab decoration." The Scientist huffed in annoyance.

As if he was above such needs.

To most Autobots, it felt outrageous that Perceptor discarded his job as a scientist to become a sniper. They condemned his choice, as they condemned his wild relationship with ex-Decepticon Drift. That unfortunate day on the Decepticon warship, Preceptor got shot in his spark and also in his optic, then fell down on the ground, lifeless. His Autobot friends left him thinking he was dead. If it wasn't for Drift, he would have died for real. The ex-Con risked his life to come back for Preceptor, then jumped with him, covering Perceptor's wounded spark casing.

"When I got injured, it took a toll on my mental health, and yet, my friends weren't much of a help to me. They all criticized every single decision." Drift was the one who guarded Perceptor in the CR chamber and welcomed him with open arms, while other Autobots were shocked by Perceptor's new ideas. Out of grief and desperation, the scientist produced a new chest shield, a spectacle covering his damaged optic, and a rifle tailored for his specs. The Autobots didn't like he was out of the lab on the battlefield, leaving away scientific work and losing himself in Drift's embrace at night. In a way, they were correct. Such hasty decisions were uncanny for calm and shy Perceptor but were they truly bad?

"In the end, my mental health worsened and even Drift couldn't make me well again. I was shot in my head, destroying a part of my brain..." He sighed. "After that, I...I believed I would never return to my lab again. I assumed I will stay broken forever and that I won't even be able to do what I treasured the most in my life."

Prowl didn't know what to say at Pereptor's confession. Confused, he looked away from him into the night.

"I left for Garrus 9, and I wished..."

"When I sent the Wreckers to Garrus-9, you joined in because you hoped you would never return," Prowl stated bluntly. "And Drift didn't wish to join you in an assisted suicide."

Perceptor cleared his throat and continued. "There was a gap in our cerebral aptitude, but I have no regrets because Drift is an incredible mech. We all change, Prowl, and things do get better." Perceptor put a hand on Prowl's shoulder.

"Brainstorm gave me a serum that rebuilt most of what's been destroyed in my head. It turned out I exaggerated the extent of my head injury, out of despair, I suppose...I returned to my lab, and I yearned for it...But I'm still a sniper."

The sunrise was approaching, and Perceptor stubbed his cigarette in his hand.

"If you want to be with the Constructicons, no one has the power to set foot into your relationship..." He smirked, turning his face towards the warm glow of the morning sky.

"Perceptor, I'm not-" The Tactician would have been offended if somebody else had insinuated it.

"But you want it."

"They're my subordinates."

"They pledged alliance to you, but they're not a registered unit, as far as I remember."

"I have issues."

"Then again, so does everybody else."

"..."

"They care for you deeply. I've seen it." When Prowl looked at Perceptor and could see the smile in his optics. "They're so fiercely protective of you."

"They want to ensure their future by making me their master."

"Don't be cynical." Perceptor knitted his brows, growing annoyed with Prowl. What a stubborn mech! "Even a mech socially inept like myself can see how the Constructicons follow you. I saw them carrying you in their arms with extraordinary gentleness, how they fed you by hand with care, how they rocked you when you couldn't sleep, bathed and massaged you when you groaned in pain."

"Y-you!!! How did you learn of it!!?" Prowl's optics went wide with confusion and shock.

"Uhh...Brainstorm and I visited you in your room, remember?"

"You were spying on me!" Prowl saw through that lie.

"Well...no...y-es, I mean..." It was odd to see a face like Perceptor's look so flustered. "I installed mini cameras in your hab suite because I didn't trust them at first. " Perceptor admitted with a quivering voice. "I was worried..."

"HOW DARE YOU PERCEPTOR!!!"

"I apologize, I was just worried...They've been deactivated a long time ago and they fell apart as I designed them. Don't go away Prowl! I'm SORRY!... I'm sorry..."

*****

"PROWL, CALM DOWN!"

But Prowl didn't hear them. He was in a total frenzy of destruction, throwing tables and cabinets, ripping the upholstery and rubbery mattress, and eviscerating pillows in search of nonexistent cameras.

"Please, come to me...I-I...Have a cake for you, Boss." Stuttered Mixmaster from behind Long Haul, who was trying to make himself as unnoticeable as it was possible.

"I DON'T WANT YOUR FUEL!!! I'M. NOT. HUNGRY."

"PLEASE STOP!" Scavenger ducked when a broken cabinet flew past his head. His Boss was steaming mad, snarling, full of hatred, and violence, and unwilling to be helped. The Constructicons tried to talk sense to him in between dodging the projectile furniture and covering from his fists.

"Why should I?!!" The cameras Perceptor put in Prowl's hab suite were offensive to him for several reasons. So he decided to find them, no matter that Perceptor assured him, no, begged him to stop, because they were deactivated.

"Boss completely lost it!"

When there was nothing movable left to wreck, he broke the mirror, clutched the taps in his wash racks, and tore them away, water quickly spilled onto the floor before Hook sneaked his way to the bathroom and dammed the liquid. The Constructicons watched in pure shock as Prowl started to peel and tear the polymer paint covering the walls, coffers, and anything he could reach with his claws in search of the spying devices.

"You look smoking hot, Foreman."

The Tactician visibly bristled.

"I know what I look like, Constructicon!" He screamed through gritted teeth.

"I'm begging you, don't piss him off more." Hissed Hook into Bonecrusher's audio. The Surgeon feared Prowl's rage, like the rest of them but the Explosives Expert. Who was now approaching this ticking Autobot bomb...

"Woah, what an impressive demo, Foreman." The Bulldozer came closer to his furious Boss, seemingly collected in the middle of this whole trainwreck. "But I think you'd want to take a break, have some cake and return to wrecking the room later."

"Do not talk to me like that!" The Praxian was losing steam with each passing second, and he knew it. He was finding it hard to manage even a bit of the indignant fury he had originally felt upon Perceptor's confession.

"Please, settle down."

Prowl stared into his optics, and Bonecrusher met them unflinchingly. With one quick motion, too agile for a mech his size, he shoved Prowl onto the damaged sofa, flipped him on his belly, and held his hands together.

"PRIMUS BONECRUSHER, BE CAREFUL!" The Constructicons gasped with shock.

"IF YOU INJURE HIM, I WILL TEAR YOU TO SHREDS!" Roared Mixmaster as Prowl's face began gushing purple Energon.

"Nah, it's just a nosebleed! He's having another one, don't panic..."

"HOW DARE YOU CONSTRUCTICON!" Prowl's fury ignited anew. While he was tossing under Bonecrusher's mass, disregarding the sickly strain on his frame. Looking up, the Tactician met the blazing optics of the person who had seized him. The buzz which came within his head suddenly made him feel icy dread.

"I have to force you to stop harming yourself, Prowl." The Con muttered threateningly. "You transformed though we forbade you, you ruined this place, not caring for dislodging your muscle cables and joints. Or the work we put into this place."

"I don't care if I die! I hate you! I hate you, I HATE YOU ALL!" No doubt Prowl was a pathetic thing to look at, losing all his dignity, spitting garbage from his mouth, and thrashing like a youngling in a fit of temper.

"That's enough!" Growled Bonecrusher, when Prowl tried to bite his fingers. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

Something inside Prowl's mind split and the boiling wrath was immediately snuffed out. Delivered by anyone else, the words would have carried hate he didn't care about or condescending mockery he despised so much but the words coming from Bonecrusher conveyed something else. Prowl's pounding spark surged Energon to his nether regions with force as he labored to stifle a gasp. He bottled a moan up when he imagined Bonecrusher mounting him.  That's lewd, Prowl of Petrex , and he screwed his optics shut to push the erotic vision away.

"What are you doing to me?" Prowl's voice wavered with tension when the Constructicon grabbed him by the scruff of the neck under Prowl's helmet and began pushing his digits deeper.

"Calming you down." Bonecrusher looked down at the Praxian, who was staring crosseyed back up at him. He growled then added a clarification seeing Prowl's frightened gaze. "I'm touching focal points on your neck to relax your frame." Which indeed helped. Prowl's frame was slackening if he wanted it or not. Although he ceased moving, his fans were still wailing. When they finally quieted, Bonecrusher let go of Tactician's hands and turned him on his back. While Prowl attempted to stand up, Bonecrusher got hold of his neck again, kneading it. As the steam was leaving his Boss, the Con laid his hand on Prowl's chest and listened to his slowly but surely calming spark beat.

"You know, all our efforts to make you well are going to waste..." By the end, the sentence had a more frustrated tone, and Bonecrusher let go of him.

There was a lingering awkward stillness that hung in the air like dense smog.

"I apologize for not listening to you..." Prowl whispered as confidently as he could. "For wrecking this place...I'm so ungrateful...and I...I don't hate you." Because hating them would make all of this so much easier. They were trying so hard to earn his approval and trust, his rather pitiful thought ran, and he made an airy, sobbing sound.

"You made a hole in the wall. A HOLE IN THE WALL. What made you so worked up, Boss?"

"Tell us. What's wrong?"

Each time they asked the question Prowl's gasps grew shakier.

"What's wrong, Prowl?" They didn't give up. 

Everything was wrong. Prowl only shook his head and looked elsewhere. Autobots stopped trusting him, and his friends turned away from him. And his best friend Bumblebee was dead. He lost a good chunk of his financiers, connections, and contacts. His ex violated his brain. He had been mind-controlled for a year, made to do things he didn't want to do. He had his body operated on, he was tortured, overpowered, and forced to merge against his will, and then chose to stay with his foes to help him fix the scars that would otherwise lead to his impending demise. He was being spied on by his associates and touched by violent mechs pushing his boundaries. The awful thing was, no one listened to him. Prowl was exhausted, restless, and wounded, he vomited, he bled, and he couldn't sleep. He was forbidden from transforming and interfacing, even though he ached to drive and fuck so badly. He had a team, a team that will leave him as soon as they learn of his deep secret. Because he didn't deserve anything better. And, and, and...!

He exhaled.

"Perceptor bugged this room." There was a small and plaintive sound leaving Prowl's mouth.

*****

To their dismay, he ordered them not to pursue the Scientist. Although still annoyed, the Constructicons seemed content with Prowl's confession (well, most of them), yet they suspected he hadn't told them the complete truth. The unnerving thing was, that they got accustomed to his presence so well that they began recognizing shifts in his moods, and as a result catered to his needs even better. The Praxian wanted to be alone so they left him alone to give him time for gathering himself up and going to work. Prowl wasn't able to refuel all day, nothing could go past his constricted throat, he was that infuriated and shaken.

The Tactician was almost covered by the enormous heap of datapads laying on the desk in the center of the office. Although he wrecked his bedroom in the morning after coming back from his trip, he still managed to host all his conferences. He didn't sleep last night at all, so he was tired, yes, but also angry which gave him an injection of energy to keep going about his ordinary day. The Tactician was still mad at Perceptor for daring to stick his nose into Prowl's private life, even though the Scientist (how dare you, you rascal!) apologized for his sins. Now sitting in his office, he groaned and read over another paragraph in the compact report before him, bothered beyond reason. His exhalations of irritation grew more frequent as the hours went by. He had enough trouble for today.

A stack of ready documents was growing in size. These requests had to be answered by tomorrow afternoon, so the Praxian was tearing through the papers like wildfire. If he wasn't so angered, he wouldn't be so invigorated and productive, and even though the day started miserably for him, he was content with the volume of work he managed to do. Tearing himself from the papers with irritation, he poured himself a glass of engex - a precisely calculated amount this time, ensuring that the paperwork would be done before the mixture hit his head. The Tactician anticipated that because of his shattered nerves, he wouldn't be able to recharge that night, even though exhaustion was beginning to take its toll on him. A glass of Engex, or rather a bottle of it, would do for tonight.

It wasn't unusual for him to stay up after a particularly powerful outburst of bottled-up emotions, which were becoming more frequent over the past decades. Even if he didn't lose it completely, he would think obsessively about the thing that enraged him, saddened him, or excited him and a glass of engex was the only thing that helped him fall asleep. He looked somewhat pestered at his documents but returned to them upon the realization the faster he was writing the sooner he will go to recharge. He had to fetch his essentials from his quarters, as he anticipated sleeping in his office that night. His thoughts trailed off as time went by. Prowl's consciousness drifted off to the day’s events. Absentmindedly, he licked his lips and snaked his hand down to the top of his thigh.

Don't be a creep, Prowl of Petrex, he berated himself mentally.

How foolish and upset he felt, upon returning to his quarters that the rubbish he created out of madness was swept away and the furniture he hadn't been able to break down entirely had various makeshift patches. That made him feel, very, very lame. So he took a large swig from the bottle retrieved from the hidden stash which happen to remain whole out of sheer luck, and he perched down on his couch because his bed was now gone. That should neuter his niggling thoughts of humiliation and inadequacy pestering him. After such a senseless outburst which most likely drove even Perceptor away, he required more guilt-desensitizing potion he downed till the bottle was dry. There was no necessity to come back to sleep in his office, he reasoned. No need to switch on the lights and look at his disaster either.

Reclining on his sofa, he tried to fall into recharge, but he had a rather curiously embarrassed thought involving Perceptor. The Scientist and Prowl were alike, well, recluse mechs. In his lab, Perceptor was all talk but off work... It was extraordinary that Perceptor confided in anyone, and he told Prowl a lot about his private life. He shared his many emotions expecting that Prowl would find hope for a better future. Things would get better...

Perceptor cares about you and you're mad at him because he was worried that five dangerous Decepticons could be harming you behind closed doors. Stupid cameras you couldn't even find because they ceased to exist! You made a fool of yourself, you offended your friend, and your...your...

Another shameful idea formed behind his Engex-lidded optics. Perceptor would hole himself in the lab while Prowl was doing his job which required planning battles, issuing commands, debriefing his subordinates, and hosting conference meetings. In his youthful days, Prowl even used to give lectures at the Academy. At first glance, Prowl appeared more communicative than Perceptor, who didn't talk too much if it didn't involve scientific work. He was such a loner. Yet it turned out Prowl was even more hopeless in having relationships than him.

To put it simply, the socially clumsy Scientist Perceptor got more spike than Prowl had in his entire life. PERCEPTOR. "That means you're a fuckinG inCel Pooowl of Petrexf," he hiccuped as he came at that sour but true realization. "You worthless, defective thing." In the dark, there he was, slurring nonsense, sitting on his bare, torn couch with no one but himself to keep him company. It wasn't long until he brought himself back to reality, he noticed a growing tension in his abdomen, and something inside gave a rather telling twitch.

You need that Constructicon shaft Prowl, you need to try it. His voice in his head suggested eagerly.

They look fine, so fine his spark beat increased. When Bonecrusher held Prowl by his neck it was not the touch (although it felt nice and relaxing) that entranced him. No, it was the big, hard bulge he had ogled from behind his optic shutters. He whimpered at the thought, his fans kicked in and his unused hole gushed arousal.

"It doesn't become you to lust after your subordinates," he repeated to himself.

You can’t keep curbing your desire all your life. You need a good, hard reset, but only the Constructicons can give it to you. You want them to fuck you long and deep just the way you need it.

Embarrassed and frustrated beyond reason, Prowl threw himself onto his sofa's mattress. He knew it was selfish that he wanted something more as if it wasn't enough the Constructicons were giving him fuel, care, praise, company, and healing. He would take and take without giving anything back in shame. Because he had nothing to give but his aching soul. The one more thing he still craved from them was a carnal pleasure, yet he couldn't force himself to ask for that for so many reasons. Relationships weren't his forte. Making friends was hard, keeping them was even harder. The Tactician didn't want the enemy - Constructicons interacting with him under any other circumstances, so why would he yearn for more intimate contact? That's absurd. But maybe...

Maybe he likes it when they smile at him, enthusiastic to see him. Or maybe he fancies the warmth that's pooling in his lower abdomen when they touch him. Or maybe he likes the hot feeling that blossoms in his chest when they knit their eyebrows looking at him behind shimmering visors. Or maybe he enjoys squirming when he's laying on his back at night as the memories of their voices and growls come back to him. Maybe he relishes in tiny spasms his insides are giving when one of them chews on his bottom lip. Or maybe he likes the way their engines sound and their warm, soothing caress. Too bad he won't ever be able to lay with them. At first, he thought of them as dumb degenerates, but then he realized he was very, very wrong and he could make a long list of their positive traits but now, ohhhh...he couldn't because he was intoxicated with a passion thundering in his chest...

The EX SIC had been sexually cold most of his life but on the rare occasions he did feel lust...it smothered him hard. And now all reason had left him because Engex diluted it.  Why can't you just calm down for five kliks, Prowl of Petrex?  His Engex-distorted awareness played a series of snapshots that merged into a dream.

A peculiar fantasy submerged him, in which Prowl knelt in front of Mixmaster. The Chemist was holding a fork with a piece of shortcake and was trying to give Prowl a bite but each time the fork was nearing Prowl's mouth it hit him in the cheeks, his chin, his mouth corners, or the nose. The Chemist kept on missing his mouth and the cake fell. Then, Mixmaster prepared another forkful of cake and the dream repeated itself in a loop. Prowl was grunting aloud rolling on the couch.

"I'm hungry...feed me...I want...I need...Ah!"

The vision was slowly fading in favor of a different one saturated with desire. The Tactician pressed himself into the sofa's armrest with a grunt. Of all the things that could come to his half-conscious mind, a dream of being plowed hard into this sofa determined to flood Prowl and he had no energy to resist the temptation. He couldn't help himself. The Tactician began frotting on the sofa whilst remembering the pressure of their hands on his back, chassis, legs, and neck. The Autobot was warming up fast and with each spike in temperature. His fans roared, he felt so achingly empty.

What am I doing? Am I doing this?  In the complete darkness, he was dry-humping the sofa chasing more of that perfect friction with a big frown on his face and bared fangs. The heat haze was shimmering from his open mouth, and the pit of his throat lit up with tiny embers as the rest of the miniature orange diodes lit up outside and inside of his frame. A squirt of lubricant accompanied by a distinctive, metallic grumble from his abdomen meant parts of his interfacing array arranged themselves to invite a guest.

"Oh...more...more...touch me!" Prowl realized that he was making a gasping moan with every thrust his hips made, but when he tried to stop, the thudding engine warmed up in his core, hissing sounds escaping cracks in his frame. He had never noticed he had more hot air jittering about his quetching frame.

What would the Constructicons think of Prowl if they walked in and saw their Boss rolling his hips backward to chase any stimulation he could get because of his blazing hunger, and because the relentless pounding he was currently dreaming of was not enough? What would be their reaction upon seeing Prowl tossing his head back and beginning to lose control of his grinding thrusts, reeling in desire when his channel began to ache in a debilitating emptiness? To his hot-as-hell embarrassment, it felt extremely good.

In the darkness, there was more radiation, more dancing heat from his mouth, and his frame vibrated giving a cacophony of uneven beeps. Prowl saw Bonecrusher with his optics closed, he dreamed the Constructicon wrapped his hand's on Prowl's waist forcing him brutally on all fours, then showing his thick, pulsing steel into Prowl's quivering channel and pumping him full of it. He squeezed Prowl's hips in place as he thrust up into his sopping heat. Prowl's interfacing array had just sent a powerful, urgent signal to his brain module that it wanted to be stimulated deeper and it forced him to bend violently at the waist.

"Ohh...harder...deeper...Oh...I need..." The Praxian shouted out when he bucked his aft back into Bonecrusher's domineering thrusts. More parts rearranged themselves inside his scalding valve with an insistent clicking sigh. It spasmed jetting lubricant on his legs, sofa, and even the floor but he wasn't even nearing climax. These were delicious miniature spasms and squirts which were supposed to prepare his frame for the main event.

Unfortunately, the Tactician was so drunk his concentration was starting to waver, and his movements began turning increasingly aimless and unsatisfactory at the worst imaginable moment. Chagrined, he cursed when something in his mind or frame stubbed his flame.

And like always, the Tactician felt the specific moment the dream changed. The Autobot tried to resist it, to break his way back to wakefulness, but the dream proceeded no matter the struggle. The night visions weren’t alike but linked in some way. Prowl knew it would happen.

Bonecrusher morphed into Chromedome, who injected him in the neck without a warning.

Prowl screamed in devastating terror and fell from the couch in his empty dark room.

(...)

"...You okay Boss?"

Chapter Text

"Wha-Why are you here?" Prowl sobbed, scrambling from the floor to sit on the couch. "Do not come closer!"

"You screamed. You weren't answering your comm." Long Haul touched Prowl just slightly. They were just trying to make sure Prowl was alright, of course.

"You're crying, Prowl. What happened? Did someone hurt you?"

"I said...don't come any closer...hmf..."

Scavenger wanted to lean on the couch but pulled back when he felt something slimy on his hand.

"We thought someone attacked you." They justified themselves and backed off. "You demolished this room earlier today in a fit of rage, and you were moaning and screaming just five minutes ago." Said Hook moving one step forward.

"Back off!"

They tensed and took one step back into the corridor.

"Ngh...I wasn't answering because I've...ah...just woken up! I had a nightmare..." 

"You sure you're okay?" The answer obviously didn't satisfy the Constructicons but kept them from asking any more questions.

"Yeah...Go...away..." Prowl's optics frantically pleaded in the complete darkness, addressing both Constructicons and the arousal in his body. They were disturbed and came to check on him – and how awkward that felt!

"Go away...and...close the door...behind you..." The last thing he wanted was for Constructicons to come closer and ask if he was okay when some of his orange led diodes were still glowing erotically.

The shaft of the corridor lamp disappeared as they closed the door behind them, leaving him alone. 

*****

Nautica, Skids, and Riptide were sitting on bar stools sipping Energon and chatting happily, in general wasting their time away, when one of their tablets lit up. 

"Oh, Lost Light Insider has just updated." Riptide gingerly took his tablet in his hands and opened the app.

"You subscribe to this tabloid?" Said Nautica, disbelieving. "I wouldn't pay a single shanix." She rolled her optics, hidden behind her glass with a straw, but Riptide shrugged her comment away and immersed himself in the gossip magazine. Riptide loved these articles. Nautica knew it was only a matter of time before he advertised the spiciest one to them, and they would have to suffer listening to it (or not). She unintentionally made a face, and Skids laughed.

"Come on, Nautica!" He raised his voice and nodded to the femme sitting next to him, who quickly produced an annoyed sigh as she picked up her drink.

"The madmech wrecked his hab suite."  Riptide read the headline.  "I was afraid for my life."

"That's a good one!" Skids grew interested in the article. "Read it aloud, Riptide. Go on."

"Okay..."

THE MADMECH WRECKED HIS HAB SUITE. "I WAS AFRAID FOR MY LIFE."

Instead of enjoying his well-deserved leisure time on Luna 2, Autobot Sky High will be recovering from yesterday's horror for a long time. He almost died when a projectile desk chair flew past his head. Prowl of Petrex, ex-Second in Command of the Autobots, ran inside his own apartment shouting, started flipping tables and destroying furniture. Nobody was killed by a miracle.

"Is it the Prowl? My former Boss?" Asked Skids and pointed to a photo included in the article featuring enraged Prowl with a bed cabinet in his hands. He confidently took a sip from his drink and was suddenly extremely curious.

"Yup! But wait, there's more..."

"It wasn't just an angry shouting," explains Groove the Protectobot. "Prowl was howling, destroying his room, trying to beat people, and even punching holes in the wall. My friend lives on the same floor and says that he was anxiously hiding under his bed with a pistol in his hand. He has bad anxiety attacks and couldn't bear those screams."

"It's quiet for now, but what happened then was terrible." Another neighbour living on the same floor recounts yesterday's happenings and starts to get nervous at the mere mention of those events. "We're afraid he might lose it again."

As it turned out, the ex-SIC was seen returning to his hab suite with a bottle in his hand. "Prowl was drunk and very noisy, just like the Constructicons who live just next to him, and I can't stand their loud quarrelling," added the Decepticon.

"We heard that Prowl still has connections, and nobody can really do anything to him." Complains the ex-Decepticon Blast Off. "Besides, he hangs out with the Constructicons, and everyone is afraid of them because they can be dangerous."

However, this is not the end of the story yet. Other residents who got involved in the discussion added their five cents. They want to remain anonymous. "If they kill me, no one will find my body." Says one of our readers.

Atomizer, on the other hand, has come to terms with the fact that his neighbours are loud do-it-yourself enthusiasts. "Well, when the renovation started, there was drilling, hitting, pounding. All week, even on weekends." He sighed. "I am sometimes pissed off by the noise, I admit it, but luckily it doesn't happen every day anymore. It's their room and their business."

One of our readers, who wants to remain anonymous, could not sleep because his neighbour was very noisy at night. "Prowl probably tore some insulation off the walls and floor in a frenzy because you can hear everything from his room now. He was experiencing loud overloads." The mech said that with embarrassment. "When I said this to my friends, everyone thought it was extremely funny, but I was terribly disturbed by it," he concluded.

The reader also shows us photos. One picture shows Long Haul with an arm on Prowl's shoulder. In the second picture, Scavenger is wiping Prowl's nose clean. In the third, Hook is holding Prowl's hand close to his face.

One of the tenants, the CMO Ratchet, believes that the residents of the tenement house should not be interested in such issues at all. "Who cares?" He wrote laconically.

On the other hand, another resident of a block of flats, Scientist Brainstorm is not against the relationship: "I support these mechs! Long live free love!" He cheers.

What is your opinion on that matter? Do Constructicons and Prowl break the law?

"Behold the cherry on top: The comment section."

"Woah, 384 comments in 20 minutes."

COMMENT SECTION (384 comments) tap to read

fckdecepticreeps:  This article is horrendous nonsense aimed at degrading the Autobot Movement.

AllHailMegatron: RE:  "This article is horrendous..." 90% of them act against their moral principles? How can you not want to do something but still do it?

( tap to see +50 more comments)

Gears:  Constructicons' washracks are behind my wall. The noise is fragging brutal. 😩

talksalot: RE:  "Constructicons' washracks..." just join them. dream heptagon  😜

scattergun RE:  "Constructicons' washracks..." agreed the chumps frag fast like a jackhammer  😜 

mindwipe:  RE: "Constructicons' washracks..." I would scream from behind the wall oooohhhhh yessss, faster, harder, more !!!!  🤪  to make them shut up

Gears: RE:  "I would scream from..." I stand no chance Prowl's louder than me  😏

whirlybird:   🏗️🚧🍆🚓🚔😝

gottagofast : A shocking article. Why people do these things? There are certainly ways to treat this deviation. 😷

cloud:  The Constructicons were definitely watching pornographic movies and the whole building was thinking they're fragging Prowl. No one wants to bone Prowl.  🤢🤮

whh_ejak: RE: " The Constructicons were..." how ingenuous  🤬

perperc: RE: " The Constructicons were..."  😢

iluvmylab: RE: " The Constructicons were..." no one wants to bone you sprocket  😆

mixMASTER: RE: " The Constructicons were..." (comment deleted due to breaking community guidelines)

love_springers_bumperr:  The building will collapse from their humping. 😂

ultrashagus: RE:  "The building will collapse..."And let it collapse! So many people will be happy that they got rid of both Prowl and the Constructicons.  🤣

slapdash:  Whose friend got killed because Prowl sent them to sure death post a comment with a ☠️

slapdash:   bump

rollout: RE:  "Whose friend got killed..."  ☠️

5iR3N: RE:  "Whose friend got killed..."  ☠️

5iR3N:  bump

dogfight: RE:  "Whose friend got killed..."  ☠️ 

(tap to see +25 more comments)

talksalot:  I think Prowl interfaces with Constructicons in exchange for protection against other Decepticons. Or is he their slave. 🤔

hotwheels: RE:  " I think Prowl interfaces with"  shuddup swerve thats old news

whirlybird:  (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻

forcefields:  It bothers only those who can no longer shag or have no one to frag with.  😠

sunstrk:  Is this a true story? 

best regards

Sunstreaker

Ps. please visit http://www.bestpaintpolish.cyb/lubes

deadput400k:  FUCK PROWL 😡

first_aid_supreme:  Should this be a public matter?  😥

tank0r RE:  "Should it be a public matter?" If the perpetrator himself made his actions public, why not debate it publicly?

Nightbeat:  Cool story! I haven't had so much fun for a long time.  😂

hotwheels:  woop woop, that's the sound of da police

(tap to read more comments)

"I don't think it's true. I had a sleepover with Chromia, who lives on the same floor as Prowl and Constructicons." Nautica knitted her eyebrows with a clear look of objection on her face. "In the middle of the night, we heard a piercing scream which didn't sound good at all. It reminded me of someone having their limbs broken. So Chromia opened her door and saw the Constructicons entering Prowl's hab suite and leaving shortly after."

"I understand the hab-suite wrecking stuff is hot news, but I'm like...is the gossip about their relationship really necessary?" Questioned Chromia.

"Yeah..." Murmured Skids.

"I hear them quarrelling in their room, and the noise at night is something we all have to deal with. What annoys me is their drunken yells, but it doesn't happen very often." She saw other Autobots glancing at one another. "I meet Prowl in the corridor. We talk sometimes. Not in the slightest abrasive, but...There is something in his optics that makes me feel sad."

"Does he have any friends at all? It looks like he needs help."

"He has no friends." Blurr butted in from behind a bar. "It looks like he hates all his associates now."

"How come?" Nautica witnessed other mechs trying to avoid him with precaution, but surely Prowl has a friend or two, right?

"Rather not; he's very 'special'." Mocked Blurr. "Besides, he has no time for stupid things like 'relationships'. Prowl's too busy running his battles, evil plotting, buying artillery, job conferencing, and some other serious business. He has no time for you or anyone for that matter."

"But he needs help. Apparently, he's been very sick and unable to walk."

"Help him with what? He looks down on any help he's being offered."

"Wasn't he mind-controlled, was he?"

"War is brutal. Some folks have it worse than him, so quit feeling sorry for him. He'd most likely kick you in the ass for trying to help him."

"I don't know." Nautica began to lose her self-control. "Has it ever crossed your mind that he's a person? That feels and has needs...to be hugged, for example."

"Well, he's not a particularly huggable fellow." Jazz muttered from a distance."

"He hates touch. Give him a friendly pat on his shoulder, and he will hiss and snarl at you. Overly-sensitive idiot."

"Shh! He's coming..."

*****

Prowl glanced around the crowded military canteen, noting that the other Autobots were getting rather silent but excitable nevertheless. 

Swerve and Blurr were trying to appear impassive by discussing types of new drinks under their breaths. Trailbreaker was hopelessly trying to disregard Siren's attempts at conversation, though that made Siren try even harder. Prowl couldn’t help thinking about the logic following this particular behaviour.

It was long past noon. For a brief moment, the Former Strategist allowed himself to once again wonder why he was being observed closely. He got used to Autobots turning away from him and even acknowledging his presence, but that day it made him wonder why they did suddenly notice him. The talking stopped as if they wanted to listen to him.

He concluded that something was off because they abruptly discerned him. He didn't want to intrude on other Autobots. At all. Thinking along those lines simply made him all the more depressed. He squinted his optics to see two figures approaching the door.

"You're a star of today's issue of Lost Light Insider." He turned around to see Rodimus and Huffer stepping further into the room.

You did make quite a scene yesterday. I wonder what's coming next.  Prowl thought to himself. Hmph.

"What exactly are you talking about?" He stared between the two of them as they shared a knowing grin. The Tactician frowned- something about the way Rodimus said it rubbed him the wrong way. He let out a threatening growl.

"Woah, Prowl! Relax!" Grinned Rodimus. "It's just gossip."

But the leer on their faces was a little much for Prowl to comprehend, and he wasn’t sure what was really going on here. So Prowl waited for Rodimus to talk first, knowing it won't be long to hear him reply.

"We know you’re a sub." Rodimus spit the word like poison.

"Hm?" Prowl challenged coldly.

"You were having fun with that angry green mech, weren't you? The one that pushed you on the couch. Your moans woke the whole floor."

"Are you sure it was me, soldier? And what gives you permission to talk to me like that, hm?" Prowl knew precisely where to hit, and oh, it struck Rodimus hard.

"You’re no longer Second in Command!" Rodimus shouted, making sure everyone heard that. "Quit acting like you are! Quit looking down at us! You're no one! You are no longer a true Autobot! You let Constructicons into your berth!"

Oh. Heh. Prowl remained still. He knew it was best to keep quiet and let Rodimus wear himself out. 

"My my...you've been making quite a scene, Rodimus." Prowl began when the shouts died down. "Did you have fun? Did you get everything out of your system? Good."

"You let them corrupt you on so many levels, Prowl." Rodimus managed, not knowing what was coming.

"I am simply exploring more means of getting what I need." Prowl made a sultry smile and licked his upper lip, and the Autobot cringed. "Does it trouble you, Rodimus?"

"You're a spikeslut, Prowl."

"The pot calling the kettle back." Someone in the crowd muttered, and the whole bar snickered.

"And you are:" Prowl began when the snickers almost died out.

"Unstable"

"Absurd"

"Obsessed"

Rodimus appeared angry but sort of hopeless. That was not what he envisioned, and he counted for more table-flipping action.

"I don't care that they pollute your body; I care more they deb user your mind." Said Rodimus trying to sound sophisticated and failing.

"Did you mean: debase my mind? How thoughtful of you. I don't sleep with my subordinates, unlike some..." Prowl let the silence drag, then continued. "I see you don't understand me; my intentions are pure. Constructicons and I work closely because they joined my fight for a better future. I fight for Cybertron, tackling burden after burden; the most current one is Devastator. It is a weight none of you commoners won't ever be able to bear." 

"Nothing can break my fortitude or stop me, for I see only this. Sharing their power with me will be the ultimate communion of destruction and construction, madness and harmony, filth and purity. All you can do is to prop and salvage what's falling apart or leave it all behind by going on a fool's errand. Devastator's hands destroy what it means to be destroyed. On the cinders of the old world, Constructicons and I will build a new one using our hands and minds. This is my resolution. What is your, Rodimus?"

Rodimus didn't speak; he just spun on his heel and left. Other mechs didn't bother to say anything, either from fear or indifference. After a long moment, the rest of the Autobots returned to entertaining themselves with drinks and datapads. 

Suddenly the lights went down.

"Aww, scrap!"

You thought there was a place waiting for you, Prowl of Petrex. Now you know you had no such place. 

"Another brownout! The fifth one this week!"

You thought there was an empty space without you, but time, like liquid, filled it to the brim. 

Mechs ate hurriedly and began leaving one by one.

You're like a scrap of metal tossed into a deep void. You're buried in the darkness as if you've never been there.

*****

Prowl wasn't feeling his best after lunch. He felt like he had been hit by a truck. Head pounding, insides aching, and joints sore. He couldn't bear the thought of running into Hook or any Constructicons. It was the last thing he wanted. Prowl scheduled an appointment with Ratchet to address his pain, seeking his expertise. But it seemed like the old Medic was having a bad day; he didn't say much and was grumpier than usual. Prowl couldn't help but feel like he was in trouble, especially when Ratchet started running tests without explaining anything. It wasn't the first time Prowl had gotten on Ratchet's bad side, but it still made him uneasy.

Then all of a sudden, Prowl realized he was wearing a glowing, red and blue band on his arm!

"Hey! What's the meaning of this Ratchet?!" Prowl spat the sentence angrily at Ratchet, words in a fire.

"I installed a stasis-lock band on your arm so that you won't transform till I decide you're fully functional."

"Ratchet, you have got to be kidding me! What gives you the right to..."

"We have to do everything we can to nip this disease in the bud." Ratchet was dead serious. "Without the proper aftercare, it will flare up anew and kill you." Enough was enough. "No more temper tantrums!"

"Tch-why bother..."

"Just shut up, sit still, and let me finish the job. You can read the news article on today's Lost Light Insider's front page." He stated it with strong disapproval. "The mess you've made...it's a miracle you don't have a fever from overexerting your limbs and spine."

"I knew something was going on because of the stares the Autobots give me today." Murmured Prowl. He read the article and grimaced. While Prowl was oddly indifferent to it, there was also a part of him that resented the way they talked about him. As if he wasn’t there, as if he was an object.

"It's overdramatized, Ratchet. I don't sleep with Constructicons."

"That's what I know for sure." Snorted Ratchet. "You don't sleep with anyone." 

"What does that supposed to mean?"

"I mean, you can't live this life forever like that. You need a friend."

"I know exactly what I need."

"Then why don't you pursue it? I know you must have been half-mad with desire."

"I'm not going to answer that question."

"You don't have to. I know what you are going to say." Ratchet and Prowl both knew what the problem was, and yet only one of them believed the solution existed. 

"..."

"Look. You don't have to live your life like this, Prowl." Ratchet sighed and looked Prowl in the optic. "There is so much more in life than fighting and self-sacrifice. You can have that specific procedure done...We can help you out."

Prowl's lip quivered so that he had to clench his teeth. His jaw didn't move as he spoke:

"The problem with the help I receive is that neither Perceptor nor you respect my boundaries, my privacy, my body. I had cameras in my hab suite installed, in my wash-racks and my alcove..." Prowl gritted his teeth as he tried to act that he could save his dignity. "You brought the psychiatrist to me without asking. You've just slapped a stasis lock on my arm...I was mind-controlled I lost power over my psyche and my body. I feel like a common property now...That's why I despise it when other people seem to know exactly what I need without asking me first!" 

"So what kind of help do you need, Prowl?"

"..."

"Hmm?"

"..."

"Prowl?"

"Tch-...I...I wish that my struggle...just ended."

He felt crushed and abandoned, desperately so.  

*****

So headstrong and so bratty. Why are you so intelligent and so stubborn at the same time? Don't you understand? Your calculating abilities and tactical skills you chose to develop...you became an  excellent professional , but sadly, you are emotionally stunted, is it by mistake, or just your design...You are terribly in touch with your emotions. You walk  all mighty  with an air of  supremacy, arrogance, and self-importance . At work, you are  invincible, cold, and scheming , you admit to failures, and you have a dozen ready possible solutions. You don't have to pretend anything.

But oh, when something in your  personal life  goes wrong - you burst into wrath, and you climb walls in a frenzy. Figuratively and literally. Your personal failures make you  throw tantrums  like a  spoiled , fucking  immature brat . Why won't you listen to me? Why don't you go back to psychotherapy? At some point in your life, you were truly cold and calculating but then...

Oh, Prowl. I wish I could go back to the past and destroy the Parasite that drained you physically, mentally, and spiritually. You didn't deserve that ordeal. You chose to use it, but I, as a medic and... as your friend, I shouldn't have allowed it. You are constructed cold, and sadly for mechs like you, things can go wrong on so many levels: weakened joints, freezing, unflexible limbs, neuralgia, headaches, spark rejecting your body - all kinds of issues threatening you during every single body upgrade. And the Parasite wounded you terribly...

You are truly exceptional, Prowl of Petrex; you have mad fortitude and fight for a better future for everyone. Your day-to-day work was extremely emotionally-taxing, and it hardened your spark: you learned to drown out your cries and how to throttle your grief. You were never malicious, you've always tried to save as many lives as it was possible, but life is not a board game, dear Prowl. Maybe it would have been better for you to escape the Cybertron and just live your life because you are not truly living right now. I can see how the pain and the loneliness are tormenting you madly, and you still keep your head high, but do you have to? Or maybe: should you? Or maybe you should pretend to be fine all the time?

"Boss. We've been looking for you." The Constructicons stepped closer, moving as discreetly as they could until they were closer. Far too close, in Prowl's opinion.

Ah, they came...I wonder if they have any tracking devices because they always manage to find you. Or maybe it's an intuition feature of combining. I'm unsure. But I'm sure getting so close to them was one of the worst and the best experiences of your life. Maybe you can't see it very well because you didn't develop social skills naturally during the process of creation and growth. You had to learn them cognitively. So, you can't see it, but I can see how they cheer you, or how their abrasive behaviour changes when you're upset, how their pupils dilate when they see you, and how they croon to soothe you.

"YOU AGAIN! Tch- Can't you just...just...Tch-" The ex-SIC shook his head as if angered by what he heard, but the rascals sensed his temper was just to conceal irritation and sorrow. "...Leave me alone!" Prowl snapped and had to turn his face away, a tear finally coming, but he forced the rest from escaping. 

"Is that a tear?" The Constructicons, of course, being the ever-alert rascals that they were, noted Prowl's anxiety and asked him who hurt him. "Tell us whom we should kill for making our dear Prowl cry? The ex-SIC wanted to turn around quickly and scurry back into the canteen and start posing like everything was fine.

"Who is the author of that slandering article? Whom should we remove?" Scavenger hummed, leaning slightly over the back of Prowl's chair. 

"Don't you dare to kill anyone!" Shouted Ratchet and Prowl simultaneously.

"Ok, we won't...We'll just pop their legs from the sockets, ok?" Mixmaster leaned the other side of the Praxian, putting a hand on his shoulder and whispered into his audio. "Just to make them learn a lesson or two."

"NO!"

"We will find a blind spot. The cameras won't record us..." Hook warbled in an attempt to reassure him.

No verbal answer.

"Nah...just joking. But tell us what happened, Boss?" The ex-SIC welcomed Long Haul's calming proximity, but the idea of needing someone to talk about his emotions felt horribly uncomfortable.

"Why is it so hard for you to communicate with us?"

They saw you crying, so now you can't tell them a thing. No, it's never a good idea to confide in people. Calm down, Prowl of Petrex. Your head is beginning to hurt from all those nerves, pent-up arousal, insomnia, aggression, and crying. And you don't want another headache, do you? Remember what happens when your head hurts? It turns into a migraine that will make you lose consciousness and vomit everything you've managed to put into your system. Including a painkiller.

Nothing came out. He was now very firmly determined to keep his lips sealed, and the last thing he wanted to do was attempt to explain himself to Constructicons.

Calm down, Prowl of Petrex. Otherwise, no amount of masturbation will help you sleep at night. You hate this constructed-cold body, do you? 

When the smaller mech still refused to speak, the Bulldozer kneeled before his Boss so his face was on the level of Prowl. The Autobot was nearly frightened when he felt one of Bonecrusher's fingers under his chin guiding him to look towards him. 

"Look at me, Boss." Commanded Bonecrusher, his authoritative timbre carrying an undertone of softness and affection, pressing Prowl for an answer because he knew he had to. 

How are you supposed to focus past the memory of his mech snarling at you and manhandling you the day before?

"Did someone hurt you?" The Con said barely above a whisper.

The Autobot couldn't stop himself from staring at Bonecrusher's smile, trying to focus on anything but this mouth, usually sporting a grin fitted with sharp teeth but now so warm and welcoming.

Don't think about the things these lips can do to you.

"No..." Prowl retorted sharply. "I'm okay." He murmured unconvincingly.

"Was it something else?" Bonecrusher hummed, his voice melodious and welcoming, though Prowl continued to be just as stubborn as he'd been before. "I know you hate it, but you gotta tell me." Bonecrusher was so impossibly sweet.

"..."

"Hmm...?" Muttered the Constructicon, leaning close so that no one else would accidentally hear him. He gently took Prowl's hand in his own, and Prowl turned his face away from other mechs, hoping no one would see his puzzled facial expression.

Don't touch me.

There was something incredibly gratifying to Prowl in the way Bonecrusher rubbed his hand and looked at him in what could be almost called....affection. His doorwings dropped and hung low, as did his spirit.

It's your own fault, you carried almost all the weight of being SIC on your shoulders, and now it's crushing you. You are a void that sucks everything without giving anything back because your soul is demolished just like your room.

"It must have been something serious because our precious Prowl hardly ever cries." The Bulldozer smirked. His suave purr was almost reverent, inferno behind his optics. It had been a long time since anybody talked to Prowl, as if he was the most cherished thing in the universe. His doorwings dropped a little more.

"..."

"Will you tell me,  Foreman? " He asked in a low, crooning voice, rubbing Prowl's hand. "Say it to my audio, so other Autobots can't hear." Bonecrusher could clearly tell that his Boss was nervous but was at least struggling to say something. "Hmm?" 

"..." Prowl answered eventually. "It's just stress..." He could already picture the gears turning behind Bonecrusher's visor.

"Mmm-hmm." 

"Pain..." He blurted his answer out in a confused struggle to shield himself from embarrassment.

"I can tell." The Constructicon meticulously noted every sound. "Go on..." He questioned, clearly having understood Prowl well enough.

"...bad night, bad day, nightmares." Prowl caved, spitting the words and looked away so that nobody was as likely to see the soft empurple of his neck energon lines and flustered look on his face. One could see Prowl dropping his head in what seemed like a shame. He scolded himself for being so agitated over something so natural. Constructicons gave a nod of support.

"We get it. We have nightmares about the war too." 

"Many, many nightmares."

"Nightmares that make us wake up screaming and bawling our eyes out." 

"Yeah..."

"Just don't tell anyone, Boss."

"What about the bad day part?" Bonecrusher insisted, concern still audible in his voice. 

"Umm..." The Tactician seemed conflicted and was clearly deep in thought.

You're such a fragging fool.

"Foreman?" For Bonecrusher, it was kind of worrying seeing his mighty, bold Boss acting timid like that.

"..." 

Bonecrusher saw something heated and hungry, darkening Prowl's icy blue gaze.

" My Prowl ...tell me..." He said, soft but expectant. Prowl stared at the Constructicon with a strange emotion on his face. He did have to admit Bonecrusher's fingers squeezing Prowl's palm felt good, almost too good to make him want both to squirm away from humiliation and encourage Bonecrusher to rub his fingers more firmly. His frame tried dragging him back to Constructicon's warm frame, but he resisted.

My Prowl. This is going nowhere.

"I just want to make sure everything is okay." He queried in a gentle, concerned speech that served to make Prowl feel even more guilty but also more likely to speak out. The most pathetic little whimpers left Prowl's throat. Bonecrusher wrapped his hand around Prowl's hand with a gentle squeeze.

Finally, Prowl leaned over Bonecrusher's audio and confessed in more than a faint, timid whisper.

"You did very well." The ex Con gave Prowl a bit of applause. Bonecrusher nodded deliberately, tenderly, just to tell his Boss he noted Prowl's statement. 

"Your spark beat is fast and erratic." The thick fingers caressed Prowl's chest. "I'm not letting you go back to your room. It needs to be renovated first." Prowl had stiffened in his grip, then went limp, and his optics flickered and let out a distressed gasp. 

"A migraine?"

"Hang on, Prowl." He shushed him. Ratchet preparing a syringe. "In just a few kliks, it won't hurt you anymore."

Chapter Text

Every now and then, his interfacing array would send a signal throughout his frame, hinting that he would need to walk a bit more urgently to the berth. Prowl knew it had been a bad idea to let Constructicons talk him into going to their hab-suite with him again, and it never went unnoticed when he did. The Tactician yet again told himself that it didn't matter that mechs would gossip about them, but he didn't want to admit he wasn't feeling okay with it anymore. Something mauled and fragile wanted him to be looked after...This time the Constructicons convinced Prowl to stay with them for several days until he felt better. 

With the drug coursing in his systems, he knew damn well he should either stay in the darkness, stark sterile medbay till morning (electricity shutdown) or walk with assistance to his room and get a nurse to assist him (not a chance, he was on Luna 2 apartment complex, hello?). There was no other option. Prowl didn't want to at first. He felt nothing but embarrassment and shame. He tried to convince them to guide him to his office instead, but in the pit of his spark, he didn't want to be left alone at night. Not only were the Constructicons becoming an immense nuisance to him, but his interfacing array was growing rather bothersome to deal with. So that's how he ended up in his difficult situation, dragging his feet on the ground and trying not to trip on anything. He was getting dizzier with each step, cursing his own existence. Fortunately, they didn't meet anyone on their way to their hab suite.

In the darkened room, the Constructicons laid him in Long Haul's wide berth, and he hardly believed what was going on but was wholly paralyzed to change it. They were extremally gentle, their complete devotion showing behind the closed door as if they were waiting to have him near again after such a long time. Prowl's limbs soon grew feeble after such long, harrowing days. But the unresolved tension forgotten during his waking hours was growing more rapidly from there. Even though the distress and guilt, it became harder and harder not to moan sweetly or resist their soft touches on his arms and neck rather than grunting in displeasure. 

"No...enough..." A soft puff forced its way out of his vents.

By the time Prowl was lying covered with blankets, he had found it impossible not to seek their touch. He had to remind himself that he was in a different hab suite, and the touches were coming from the green and purple mechs, and by now, they could see him fidget. 

"Here are more blankets." They put him briefly into a sitting position, making contact with his sensitive wings. "It'll make you more comfortable. Slagging stasis-lock."

Right. Comfortable. A tap on his cheek plate brought him back to awareness, and he could feel the pulsing every few kliks, but he was determined to remain still in place. Processor over matter, right?

"Want to eat something?" A square bottom glass rose into his view. Having not fuelled himself properly for a few days, he made the wrong decision to pull himself up. The Tactician could feel all the pressure from bending and shifting metal parts inside him affect his hot twitching internals. He hoped that they would leave him once he got fed Energon, so he just had to hold on till the pain blocker fully kicked in, pulling him into stasis. Subtly, he began to rub his thighs, but he already could feel his need grow just a little bit more urgent.

"Where do you think you are going?" The police car was ready to give up and excuse himself to the wash racks, but a hard grip on his chest dragged his frame and now aching array back to the berth. "Doctor's orders." Hook shook his finger. 

For a moment, Prowl ended up passing out, his need to hump the berth taking over his processor. It brought back an old memory of getting the back of his valve blasted with the white, glowing blue, sticky stuff. The Autobot hummed, right optic half-shutting as he felt his valve spasm in remembrance of a big mech pinning him against the table.

I want to be penetrated. 

The agony of denying his physical demands without the Constructicons knowing punched him into the interface module.

I want to feel it inside.

Regrettably, the psychoactive substance in his pain blocker made his consciousness waver for good. His frame commanded him to pleasure himself and let go after several long, difficult days. 

Stop squeezing. Just open your legs for them, and one of them will give you an overload. 

What mattered more: self-servicing in a faint hope for a release or defending his dignity? By now, his interfacing array was constantly shivering. Finally, Prowl gave one honest to fuck moan.

Constructicons withdrew their hands as if Prowl's frame was burning them, knowing things were going to escalate, but they were unable to do anything. There was desperation in his moves that made Prowl thrilling to watch, and Constructicons couldn't tear themself away from the picture unfolding before them. They were so silent Prowl presumably had no clue that anyone  had observed his unfortunate actions, and here he was about to self-service in their berth like a freak.

That was an unusual display their Boss was in, rare and perplexing. At first, they attempted to ignore seeing him breathe in ragged vents and his intensifying squirming. Still, they took quite an interest in his predicament, sealing their mouths shut to keep themselves from commenting. It became almost impossible for Prowl to keep his mind focused, his velvet channel empty and aching, demanding his full attention but not to cave into the feeling. He gripped the sheets for better contact with the berth, fans kicking in. Just like that, he started to vent loudly, and Constructicons cleared their throats under their breath, unsure what they were supposed to say about it. He looked as if he was feeling sick, and many mechs might have believed he required medical assistance. They were unsure what to do, afraid to startle him or excite him more.

This went on for long kliks, his ragged whines growing frustrated with each air intake. Perhaps it would be best to remain discreet and leave him to wear himself out. They didn't mind him tossing in arousal in Long Haul's berth, it was, after all, a normal thing to experience, and he was their awesome Prowl. So what if he ruins their berth with his fluids? The sheets are supposed to be changed, no problem. Their Prowl had urges just like any living mech, contrary to the opinion of other Autobots who considered him...they weren't sure what, but indeed not an average, feeling person. It was a running gag Prowl was either an asexual, drone-like entity whose rare instances of displaying his emotions and needs were a topic to gossip about or to laugh at. 

The dark quarters filled with soft whirling fan moans because the Constructicons sat motionless around him, not daring to make noise. Once Prowl thought he was alone on the berth, it was like their calm. The composed leader became an entirely different person, his frame rocked by feelings Constructicons were too shy to name. Prowl's tossing became insistent, regular, and outwardly sexual. Finally, unable to take it anymore, Prowl squeezed his thighs and rocked on the berth, moaning shakily out loud. Prowl yearned for more as his right servo darted down his codpiece and buried two fingers in search of manual lock release. It was their first time seeing him that horny, and it was hard not to look at him now. 

"Boss, if you want us to leave or...umm...to help you...Just say it."

Prowl stilled. He was in the room with them..! 

"N-No, no, no!" The current in Prowl’s circuits seemed to melt into hot shame and anguish when the first wash of lubricant slid down his valve channel and stopped at his closed codpiece.

"It's okay, Boss." 

"Just let it happen." 

This was his personal hell.

Torturously ashamed, Prowl sobbed, curling into a ball as far as his stasis-lock band allowed him to. He mumbled, neck tubes blushing and unable to look at Constructicons in the optic. But he did not stop Bonecrusher from putting the finger on Prowl's cheek plate to get his attention. Now Prowl was in a state still in hope to stop the sensation, he assessed. His diodes weren't glowing yet.

"I'll rub a focal point with an electromagnetic field in your frame. " He hummed. "You won't overload; it'll just take the edge off your tension and calm you down." 

The fact that Prowl was both afraid and horny, practically begging for a release and to leave him alone, left their thoughts running in confusion. The Constructicons wondered what was to come. But to Bonecrusher, the naked panic in Prowl's optics was enough.

"N-no!"

"Nothing shady, just opening your focal energy points." The low timbre of his voice went straight to Prowl's valve.

"Go...away!" Prowl just couldn't stop grinding over the berth and this frame begging. He was soon able to jack off.

"No touching your spark." 

"..." The Tactician couldn't really worry about what they thought of him, but one thing was clear. 

Prowl needed to overload right the frag now. 

Despite his flustered state, despite his reservations, Prowl surrendered to the needs of his frame. The medication could be blamed for it too. 

"...I...mmh...I-I can't take it anymore..." He confessed in a strained whisper, servos now forced away from his codpiece and wrapped around his waist, bending in half, face in the pillow.

"I'll give you three, yes, you heard that right, three strokes just to remove the tension, and I won't open your covers." Said Bonecrusher, straight to his audio in a gentle attempt to reassure him. "Did you hear me, Prowl?"

The Autobot nodded his helm into the pillow. This wasn't just to cover his face but to stifle his needy sounds threatening to burst from the interfacing array preparing for the first transformation sequence at the mere notion of disposing of his uncomfortable, almost painful buzz between his legs.

"Others will leave his room. Do you want me to..?"

"I-I want it ss-o bad..." Prowl voiced his urge but otherwise swallowed his following reactions, resisting to give in.

They won't be able to take your commands seriously after this.

"Alright, I need you on your back. Come on, Prowl. Good, very good. I'll press my thumbs in the protoform next to your T-cog. Are you with me?"

"Y-yes..." He tipped his helm up and then back to the side. Bonecrusher noticed the flush in Prowl's cheeks and the change in his ventilators.

"Servos up, behind your helm." Bonecrusher had to place Prowl's hands on the pillow above his head, and the Autobot gave a stranged weep. The Constructicon positioned his thumbs just as he told Prowl till they disappeared under the metal petals and began pressing them into the sentio metallico of protoform. Prowl's lower lip vanished behind his dentae as the digits went deeper, bruising the soft metal flesh underneath.

"You are doing very well." Bonecrusher praised him, his lips near his audio as he murmured his acknowledgments, his optics never leaving Prowl's face. His servos started moving when he thought the Autobot was ready, bracing himself for what was coming.

"...one..."The fingers suddenly pressed hard and then went up in the direction of Prowl's T-cog with a firm rub.

A strained groan escaped past Prowl's lips, and he wanted to turn his head back on the cushion.

"...Two..."

"M-more more..." Prowl spilled through his clenched teeth before he could help it, his whole frame shaking.

"...and three!" Energy coils on Prowl's cable focal points blossomed with electricity underneath his armor, and his frame slacked like a jumping jack submerged in a warm, balmy wave. 

"Gooooood..." Prowl gave an almost inaudible, pleasant sound. A miniature, almost hidden smile pulled his thin lips upwards.

"There you go." Bonecrusher chuckled and laid his strong large palm on Prowl's lower belly, watching his beloved Boss drift into a pool of warmth fuzz, one leg still twitching in aftershocks.

"What did you do to him? It looked like you..." 

Distracted by the scene, they forgot to move to the adjoining room. Oh well. It happens. Just gestalt things, you know. Is your spike hard, you creep?

Bonecrusher grinned and winked.

"You sly bastard!"

"Well, it wasn't  the thing ," the Bulldozer narrowed his optics. "...but close."

"He overcharged Prowl's energy coils." Explained Hook and continued in substantive voice timbre. "Overcharging is experienced during an overload, but you can overcharge mech's frame without eventuating in an overload."

"In a nutshell, he got a gentle, pleasant wave flowing through his whole frame from his cortical unit to the extremities." Added Bulldozer and smirked. Though Prowl's frame didn't transform and his bio lights didn't glow, his frame didn't shoot fluids, but it felt good. "You know what overloading looks like, and that wasn't it."

"So he kinda sort of somewhat blazed without completing the transformation sequence."

"You lied to him!" Mixmaster shouted in anger.

"No, the literature differentiates between the overload and the overcharge. Read some textbooks, you dumb fool."

"That was very inappropriate!" Squeaked Scavenger.

"I got his consent, pipsqueak." Growled the Bulldozer. "Your point?"

"H-he's not completely aware," Scavenger announced smugly because he had the attention of other Constructicons. "And he might be an intactus."

"What?" Long Haul knitted his brows and shook his helm. "4 million-years-old intactus. Come on." 

"Guys, just think about it for a sec." Mixmaster started thinking. "He's not a run-off-the-mill mech."

"And a Second in Command with no peers!" Scavenger persisted. Autobots had fraternization guidelines, Prowl outranked them all, and he was the SIC of the entire fraction.

"I've seen a few snapshots of him doing the deed, I guess?"

"Whom with?"

"Well... It's been a long time without combining. I don't remember much."

"He might have started it but never completed the thing. And you guys?"

"Just snapshots." Other Constructicons shook their heads.

"He spent his formative years in the town of Petrex. That's one of the most fucked-up Functionist towns." Gesticulated Mixmaster, his free servo flying in accompanying emphasis to his words. "Their stupid ass Grand Cybertronian Taxonomy, religion, yadda yadda."

"Prowl was Sentinel Prime's lieutenant. And we all know what Prime's opinion about 'facing and relationships in general was."

"Prowl's way of thinking and actions were completely opposite that nutso. But some things...You can break outta it, but you can never take it outta you..."

They sat in mournful silence.

"What about how he looks down there. Hook, Mixmaster?"

"I don't remember. I honestly didn't care about it when I operated on him in the Black Room."

"Mix?"

"Umm...Yeah." He showed them two joined fingers. They flustered in second-hand embarrassment and looked away. "Yeah, he might still have seals..." Mixmaster trailed off.

"Crusher?"

"His abdomen feels...ugh...malnourished, for lack of a better word."

"Kinda explains his frustration and fear." All Prowl wanted to pretend that he did not feel the recurring waves of unspent arousal or the persistent buzzing in his interfacing array not happening, proving how little the Constructicons could do in this situation. 

"I'm in a muddle."

"Me too."

"Agreed."

When Bonecrusher performed on Prowl to keep him calm was mortifying to his Boss. Constructicons were amazed at just how much tension Prowl was holding back. The Autobot definitely needed Bonecrusher's help, and he was happy to give it, yet, he was aware its effects won't last long. There was so much pent-up tension left that would let itself known very soon. It does not help that Prowl had issues. An uncomfortable silence stretched in the dark.

"Whatever, guys. Doesn't matter." Concluded Long Haul. "Because I'm not letting no filthy Autobot-scum near him!" He announced fiercely, then whacked his chest with his balled fist. Other Constructicons' optics sparkled in approval, and they began cheering and high-fiving.

"My buddy, you speak well!"

"You're right, pal!"

"He knows what he's talking about, for once."

"Acknowledged!"

"You're reading my mind, aren't you?"

At the beginning of their relationship, they wanted him to choose a partner, but now, there was no way someone was allowed to touch him in  any  way. Prowl was in no shape for interfacing with anyone yet, and the last thing they wanted him to do was to go to berth with a dirty Autobot. There's no chance they're letting these two-faced morons anywhere near their clever, precious Prowl. 

"We must protect this cinnamon bun."

"Yup. Too good for this world."

"Too pure."

But the most important question remained: what next? Keep him away from the Autobots and let him simmer in lust, miserable, and rejected? Interfacing was supposed to strengthen bonds in society, and Prowl was isolated now, even more, when the war was going on, never experiencing anything so basic and good. Never get the comforting warmth of another frame, cuddling with him at night. Never alone and yet always isolated. Their dear Prowl can't live like this forever, right? What should they do? Luckily, it appears they turn him on. There's no disputing that they do...So...Why not? 

When the idea of Prowl being an intactus sank properly into their processors, they stared at their Boss that way in unison for the first time. Yes, Prowl was not precisely the typical beauty of society's standards because robust warframes were preferred during the war, but he definitely had an exotic alt with  door wings, a nd his erotic pageant in their berth was quite hot, actually. 

"We should frag him." 

"Yeah, all he needs now is a good frag."

Cybertronians could do and fool around with all other methods of inciting overload, but spikes and valves were packed with sensors that activated only when these two parts stimulated each other. 

"Boss should get some salubrious jamming."

"Agreed. Prowl needs to get his circuit breakers tripped with a spike." 

 "It'll blow his circuits the right way and do him some good." 

No toy or other body part did the job right, and although Brainstorm spoke about such a contraption during pub crawling, the idea has yet to see much development in practice. 

"Gotta give him a shot of our spunk, too, right?"

"Yup. Boss needs our hot steamy load to fill him up."

It was ejaculated through the channel and into the chamber, a remnant of gestation container present in some mechanoid species. Transfuid carried CNA, but the gestation chamber was neutered. 

"Some special serving of our thick splooge every night."

"Heh, heh."

But the chamber was only partially useless in Cybertronians because it absorbed the energy and nutrients and routed them straight to the T-cog. Therefore, it was essential for Cybertronian well-being. Brainstorm mentioned working on a substitute, but he alleged somebody had stolen his invention from the lab.

"I can ask him." Squeaked Scavenger, and he covered at their reactions.

"Do you want me to punch you, tool?" Snarled Bonecrusher, his body language menacingly aggressive. "No touching him, period!" 

"No asking him either!" Growled Mixmaster baring his shark-like teeth. Scavenger quivered under their unexpected wrath.

"How many times have you heard he cannot interface yet? Think before you talk." For whatever reason, the Tactician got hungry for their steel, and his hunger was transparent, but the Constructicons would not jeopardize his well-being.

As their quarreling went on, the cogs were turning behind their helmets because, yeah...One of them could be Prowl's first...

Yes, one of them could give him everything he so desperately craves. 

...And make him...  Happy .

Oh.

They looked at one another in the sparkling air of competition. 

One could calm his fluttering heat and quench his mighty thirst in a once-a-lifetime experience. 

In a once in a lifetime experience.

Hmmm...

One of them could be the one buried in his frame to make him toss with pleasure under him, to give him a fill, to nourish and rejuvenate his core.

To make Prowl cry out  his name...

...in bliss.

"Gotta play with him a bit."

"Right, we should go down on him."

"Some fingering won't hurt."

"But first, we gotta encourage him to self-service."

"When will he ask us?" Asked Scavenger with hesitation.

"When he   can't take it   anymore." Hummed Hook cunningly.

"What if he won't go to us?"

"He will.   Oh , he  will . His optics beg us to slip him a length." Crooned the Chemist and added dreamily. "We gotta play with him with servos and mouth until he's ready, and then...I will give him  the best steel   when he wants it, where he wants it, and how he wants it..." 

"...I'll rock his world."

"I'll drive him wild."

"He won't want to leave   my berth  ..."

"He'll get   addicted   to my spike..."

Whatever it took, they were going to consummate this mech.

"...Because our Prowl deserves   the best   thing..."

"...And we happen   to have     it  ..." 

Their grins grew vast and predatory for the first time when they studied their favorite Prowl, who was sleeping soundly concealed by a veil of calm night.

"Let's just make sure   no Autobot scum   gets near him."

*****

"Hi."

"Good morning, sir. What can I help you with today?"

"You work, okay?" Prowl mumbled to the microphone.

"Of course, sir." The voice of the communicator was flavored with understanding and worry. "You must be severely indisposed, right, sir?"

"Yeah..."

"Headache?"

Prowl hummed in agreement.

"I see." The mysterious mech on the other side enunciated as he knew precisely the Second-in-Command's of entire Autobot fraction medical status like this scenario played itself repeatedly over millennia. "I need the keyword to continue the procedure, sir. Give me the keyword."

"???"

"It starts with an 'O'." The voice cajoled smoothly with a matter of routine.

"Ahn...Oh...stah...ros. Ostaros." Prowl managed, then wiped the drool on his chin with his arm.

"Thank you, sir. I shall contact you in three days. I'll take your responsibilities until then. Please, take good care of yourself, sir. I wish you a fast recovery."

"Bye..."

Bonecrusher witnessing this conversation, was certain Prowl was stupefied, or else he'd speak formally when a white helm popped into the view. During the conversation, Prowl sat curled up under the pillow and blanket pile, which he now decided to leave in a caterpillar-like fashion. Even though he was on medical leave and had just delegated most of the tasks to his employee, he was thinking intensely because a new keikaku wouldn't invent itself. The Constructicon could practically sense Prowl's dissatisfied mood as he struggled to develop something. 

His doorwings bobbed slightly, strained, unable to transform to let his Boss lay comfortably on his bed. Not even pillows helped when he could not adjust his wings more because the usually moving parts wouldn't budge at his command to help him lay flat on his back. Of course, his Boss would never admit it, but Bonecrusher knew him too well by now to read Prowl's moods. It's been growing harder for his Boss to keep things from Constructicons the longer they spent time together: they attempted to break the doorwing movement code.

"Good morning, Foreman."

The police car didn't respond, although his optics acknowledged Bonecrusher's presence. Did he remember what happened in this room yesterday? He looked oblivious. By the look of Prowl's optics and feeling of his field, he realized his Boss didn't remember anything. Maybe that's for the better. The painkiller hadn't worn itself off yet, the Constructicon noticed, and the psychoactive effect was still present in Prowl's systems: his motions, gestures, and facial expressions were less balanced and more expressive.

"Neh." A cake board on Prowl's bed won his focus over conversation with the Bulldozer. He was looking definitively less put together by how he inelegantly stuffed his mouth full with a whole cupcake using both hands. Head falling back, he almost collapsed on the pillow nest behind him. As the stasis-lock band was still glowing offensively on his arm, the Tactician rolled his shoulders in a struggle to relieve the stiffness and snarled.

"Is it very uncomfortable?"

Dulled by the medication but not exactly painful, Prowl's door wings were troubling the mech as he attempted flaring them to relieve stress with no avail hissing and muttering angrily, numbed by pain blockers. Losing his ability to change modes was stressful enough for him. All incoherent, he'd need more pillows for his doorwings since it's nearly impossible for him to transform his upper body parts.

"I can help with that, Foreman. Can I touch you?"

Prowl huffed his discontent and narrowed his optics. There was a level of trust they shared now, yet it was still too much for Prowl to get that close to him. He let Bonecrusher's servos near his neck, knowing the awful experience was just a nightmare and nothing more. 

"I promised to put you together whenever you're hurting, right?" He asked, sounding warm and rich, reaching forward to tap his finger on Prowl's chest. When Prowl didn't turn away, Bonecrusher helped him sit near the berth's edge. "Your maintenance is overdue."

Icy blue optics went sharp and focused, calculating, and then became warm and clouded. The police car purred his approval, and the Constructicon understood that Prowl would not be talkative today just like the last time Mixmaster sedated him. He must have had something else coursing through his systems because, by how Prowl behaved, the substance was likely to release itself and linger longer than the last time gradually. 

It probably helped his weak joints too. Only Mixmaster and Hook knew what exactly that was, but it rendered Prowl practically nonverbal, and when he did attempt to speak, he drooled dopily. When Bonecrusher scooted behind him and sat Prowl in front of him, back to Bonecrusher's chassis, Prowl's mouth was stuffed with another cupcake.

"Hey there, Boss."

Bulldozer's motions were slow as he rolled his hands on Prowl's shoulders again, taking his time to massage every cable muscle. Prowl was so tight, and the stasis-lock band didn't help matters. Even though Prowl's face screwed occasionally, he never asked Bonecrusher to stop.

While Bonecrusher was massaging his shoulders with a low hum, digging his fingers deeper and deeper, Prowl hung his helm lower, not wanting him to stop. The Tactician started to get into this, relaxing more and more, sinking into the pleasure the Constructicon was giving him. Dazed, he stopped holding back, and a moan formed in his throat. Maybe it was just an impression, but Prowl's noise sounded slightly lewd.

"There's a good mech. That's my Foreman."

Prowl giggled at the praise and leaned closer into Constructicon's space. His optics dimmed as if all centuries of tension had left him, and he felt a pleasant warmth coursing through his fuel lines.

Why can't you laugh like this a little more? You never laugh, and when you do, you are high on your drugs, not afraid to touch us, and it shouldn't be like this. You should be comfortable around us. We're your team. What should we do to make you happy?   Bonecrusher thought, sitting on the edge of the berth.   Mixmaster told me the same amount of this drug would knock me down. Was he joking, or was your head...Why does your head hurt so much? What was done to you?   Prowl's behavior triggered gestalt nursing protocols in the bigger mech, and he encouraged the Autobot to follow him and spoil him more. Prowl complied, surprised by the absence of shoulder rubs.

"Now your chassis. Please stand up, hold on, not too fast, lay your hands on my shoulders." 

"Okay." The police car said as if it was the most simple request in the universe. He was groping Bonecrusher's chest, and the Con understood how little the Praxian was seeing when he met blue optics with pupils dilated to the max. This explained to him Prowl's tendency to touch the Bulldozer without hesitation. Standing up straight on the berth Prowl's head was higher than the sitting Constructicon's. Prowl's face was now very close to Bonecrusher's helm that he could inhale Prowl's scent. His breath smelled of cupcakes.

"Hold on tight." He began squeezing Prowl's sides expertly, then took hold of his hips and turned to the sides, then rolled them while Prowl watched down, observing the motions with curiosity. With their bodies close together it took the Bulldozer a longer time to align Prowl's hips until metal parts slotted into their respective places without brushing Prowl more than necessary but he was actually seeking touch freely. The Autobot looked at him with his mouth corners raised and poked the Constructicon cheek plate with his cake-sticky finger. Bonecrusher smiled, and Prowl's door wings perked up at that.

The extremely open behavior of his Boss was a perfect opportunity to talk to him about the delicate subject involving Prowl's intimate issues as he appeared more open to the topic. He wanted to finally say what Prowl didn't like to discuss, especially with any of the Constructicons. During their more serious conversation, the Constructicons decided the first step involved stopping Prowl from being shy about self-servicing. That's good for a start. The subject should be brought up in a gentle, encouraging manner Bonecrusher used the day before. The Explosives Expert knew things not always turned the way he expected, but it was still worth trying. As much as he wanted to say that Prowl needed self-servicing to become more confident with his frame and later enjoy interfacing with other mechs, this was not a good setting for such a bit of straightforward advice.

"By the way, did you know...that's not new damage, just pent-up tension."

But Prowl wasn't listening as he was busy licking his fingers clean because he realized his digits were caked with frosting, some of which was now painted over Bonecrusher's shoulders. His attention shifted with ease, prone to be quickly diverted in this state of sedation, and he was already scanning the berth for more scrumptious sweets. The Explosives Expert guided Prowl's chin to look him in the optics, and Prowl looked back. There was a clump of frosting on the red visor. Prowl saw it and wanted to remove it, but he clumsily smeared it all over Bonecrusher's visor instead.

"I can make adjustments for you to relieve tightness as often as needed. However, each of them won't last long..." Bonecrusher's finger tapped with patience Prowl's lower abdomen. "Mhm...Yes, Foreman. I   know  ." 

The Autobot made a noncommital static, but the Bulldozer had his attention.

Still, Bonecrusher attempted to have a serious conversation with his Boss about Prowl being out of touch with his body's needs and his frame in general. It would have been better for Prowl to understand what was happening because Bonecrusher wanted the feedback. The only responses Prowl delivered were almost entirely nonverbal. Short, repeating commands work best.

"I want to talk about..." Bonecrusher's optics went to the right, then up before he decided to add. "About your body. And give you a simple task." 

There was an abrupt change in Prowl's features. So the Tactician understood most of the things that were said to him.

"I want you to take care of your frame." 

"Huh?" The Tactician cocked his head, intrigued.

"Yes, you heard that right. My precious Prowl will care about himself more."

"He-"

"You will try to relax in your wash racks. You can go to bed or stay in the shower, whatever you prefer or feel like using." 

"Whah..?"

"And what are you going to do there, hmm?" 

"..?"

"You will focus on your needs. Because we both know your needs are unaddressed."

"..."

"So what are you going to do in your bed or in your wash racks?" The Con repeated tapping Prowl's cheek plate.

"..."

"You are going to unload your frustration there..." Bonecrusher realized that innocent sentence alone sent Prowl's head spinning. "Do you know what I'm talking about, Foreman?" 

A needy, shaky vent left Prowl's lips.

"I bet you do. You sit there touching your neck, limbs, pedes, hips, and... your special place." Prowl felt light-headed, bit his lip, neck tubes glowing flushed.

"Can't." He whispered, his unseeing optics looking away.

"Yes, you can. It's your frame, and you have the right to touch it."

"N-no...C-can't...no..."

"What are you going to do in your washracks or in your berth? Do you remember? Foreman?"

"No..." Prowl looked disconnected and confused, vocalizer hissing static. Sure, everyone was embarrassed by such a sentence at some point in their youth, but to fight back so much just at the suggestion of such a common act?

"You're releasing all pent-up tension as many times as your frame wants you to...."

Prowl's world was a blur.

"That's not a one-time thing, though. I want you to relieve your frustration every evening. Yes, you heard that right. Every evening..."

Prowl's spark gave a severe pulse, and Energon raced up in his lines, scalding hot. 

"Hey! HEY!   HEY  !" 

For a moment Prowl stood as if someone had just dropped a rock on his head until he almost seemed to faint against Bonecrusher. 

"Boss, look at me. Tell me what's going on. Come on, Boss, look at me!" With the second, Prowl went limp and bent forward like a jumping jack without strings attached; Bonecrusher caught him and then laid him on the berth as fast and delicately as possible, arms trembling. "LOOK AT ME!!! Frag, frag, FRAAAAG!" If Prowl fainted due to frame massage, Bonecrusher would have a real problem with his hands. His Boss was deadly silent.

"DID I SQUEEZE YOU TOO TIGHTLY OH MY PRIMUS TALK TO ME, BOSS!" Bonecrusher roared in panic. But he got no answer, for the Autobot had deactivated his optics. Bonecrusher was almost choking in his effort not to sob. "  LOOK AT ME, OPTICS ON ME!!!  "

"Shuddup..." Bonecrusher's mouth gaped as a faint sound lisped through the thin lips below him. "...drug..." The dazzled Tactician looked like he might just faint away again, lying on the berth, drool oozing from his open mouth. "...effect..."

It took a klik for Bonecrusher to recover from the shock.

"A-a-a side-effect?" Once he felt more or less balanced, he hid half of his face with his hand. 

"Ya..."

"When your Energon pressure changed?"

"Yeh..."

The Bulldozer sobbed out loud into his fist.

"He-"

"Oh, Prowl, you scared me so much." Bonecrusher looked like a quivering, disheveled mess. He was so glad Prowl couldn't see too well. 

"He-"

The Bulldozer sighed, the knot in his chest unwinding slightly. Finally, he adopted his typical grin, covering something frightened and fragile behind it. 

"Healer." That word uttered woke the Constructicon from the nightmare, and he managed to shake off the sickly feeling in his core.

The Explosives Expert got poked in the cheek and realized his head hung just above Prowl. The finger repeatedly tapped till Bonecrusher cradled the smaller hand in his big one.

"Want..." Prowl whispered softly. Only Bonecrusher could hear it. "...w-want..." his features changed, broadcasting helplessness. "...Can't."

*****

You've never, ever  felt  that before.

You never wanted the closeness and never enjoyed  the touch .

And now it's bothering you that you  did enjoy it  because your brilliant processor  doesn't understand it .

You thought you  knew yourself , Prowl of Petrex.

Chapter Text

Mixmaster's turn was to spend time by Prowl's side, watching, whispering. Under the influence of a psychoactive substance, it wasn't challenging to get Prowl to sleep. He fell forward straight into Mixmaster's arms, murmuring groggily. Prowl was so cute like this. Fighting for wakefulness, asleep, relaxed, an unresponsive jumping jack in his arms. He analyzed Prowl's face very closely, cradled in his arms; Prowl himself was such a little thing. His Boss was delightful to look at while warm, languid euphoria coursed through his frame and soul. It was just a drug side effect, but Mixmaster couldn't tear his optics away from Prowl. The Chemist knew it better than anyone else; it was a semblance of wellness, but he would like to imagine, just for a moment, that Prowl was healthy, having fun. Just for a moment...

A gasp came from the sleeping Autobot, but he did not stir. The Constructicon sat beside him, watching Prowl's brows arch ever so slightly in his sleep and his quickening vents. In fact, Prowl looked like he was in another universe with how deeply out of touch with reality he was. Mixmaster looked back down at Autobot's peaceful face, lit in the faint light of emergency lights during a brownout. The rustling of covers and groaning startled him. Mixmaster froze, blinking in confusion.

As long as he was awake, Prowl managed somehow to rein his urges in, even if he was medicated, but they would win over his processor one way or another. Through the daytime, Prowl sought their touch, wanted to be petted and hugged, and they were unsure if they should reciprocate because at night... Prowl was tossing and squirming before recharging, although nothing more happened. Scavenger, and the Chemist swore he was humping too. The Cement Mixer couldn't help to feel a tiny spark of heat every time Prowl's bouts of sleep humping happened, although all of Prowl's squirming was inconclusive.

Mixmaster's spark leapt to his fuel intake with a stuttered breath that left Prowl's lips. The first thing the Constructicon noticed when he touched Prowl again was that the Autobot was hot. The second thing he noticed was that the fans were starting to cycle. The third most alarming thing was a faint orange glow between Prowl's lips. This predicament was beginning to feel terrible. Prowl's hot breath ghosted across his chin before the Constructicon turned and leaned on his side. Mixmaster swallowed thickly, unsure if he should move away or towards the sensation. He started to panic a bit.

The Autobot spread his legs and tried to restrain his movements and do it slowly, clenching his jaw to keep himself quiet and hoping he could get himself off and be done with it before anyone noticed. It resulted from being that pent-up without an opportunity to self-service alone appeared unintentional, like Prowl was utterly unaware of what he was even doing in their berth, and yet Mixmaster thought it felt slightly deliberate. That's not what a recharging mech looked like. Nope.

The Tactician couldn't speak his thoughts during wakefulness, so his entire frame could finally do the talking at night. He made a needy noise, bucking his hips and signalling to the Cement Mixed his increasing appetite. The Chemist stood up but didn't leave the room. He was supposed to watch for Prowl not to fall. In his opinion, he sat down at the appropriate range.

Even though the berth was just dim shining armour and shadows from that distance, Mixmaster heard the Autobot reach between his legs without thinking, unbuckling his outer covers, and he sank deeper into the pillows. Oh, Primus, was the scenario repeating itself for the second time? His Boss was awake. Should Mixmaster try to get his Boss to snap out of whatever daze he was in?

From this range, he saw Prowl's hand roam over the dark apex of his thighs, dipping between the soft rubbery slit before brushing the merest tip of his small, glowing hard bump. Not directly something that had intrigued the Constructicon before in the slightest. And yet, Mixmaster still caught himself staring. He told himself it was creepy sitting in the same room with his Boss without looking away, but for some strange reason, he couldn't tear his gaze off Prowl. 

The lights on the dark, swollen intimate area were undulating, and Mixmaster knew Prowl's channel was rippling. A short pneumatic hiss later, a viscous lubricant spurt decorated Prowl's trembling thigh with distantly glowing droplets. Watching the Autobot's frame twitch and glow in this state between sleep and wakefulness was hypnotizing in a way Mixmaster had not foreseen. The ex-SIC was eager and hot, probably fantasizing about being taken by one of them. Mixmaster had no idea what and for how long Prowl was thinking about before the medicine kicked in, but whatever the Autobot had done, he was losing his typical restraint fast.

"Ohhhhh!" A sultry sound resonated in the air. "Frag, ngh!" He sat up and let his pelvis violently bounce on the mattress shortly before collapsing on the berth with a string of curses. Yep, definitely awake or just half awake. Then, a dark silhouette with doorwings up, face down on the mattress, and the aft in the air bobbing so frantically to be filled that the ex-SIC would probably overload the second a mech slotted into him. By Primus, Prowl wanted a spike right now.

He started a steady rocking rhythm, grinding down on the pillow. His mouth fell open slightly as a short spurt of lubricant sluiced down his thigh. Then the ex-SIC began to roll himself harder back and forth on the berth, humping tirelessly for some friction, and his spark was beating so fast. The Autobot was unaware but still reactive to the familiar, caring presence in the room. The charge was swelling the harder Prowl clung to the berth, letting out a few more lubricant spurts in his unconscious want.

The Praxian's thighs jerked. Another small cry exited his lips, each sensual noise implying to Mixmaster how tormented Prowl unquestionably was. Hips jumped again, another small jet soaked into the fabric of the bedsheets. So beautiful and innocent, so desperate for any touch, so pure and so sex-starved at the same time. It didn't take long before his hips transformed and sped up on their own, his air fans deepening in suggestive-sounding puffs, the occasional hot moan, and a spill in the sheets. Mixmaster found out that the sheets were drenched already.

It quickly escalated to the point that Mixmaster had to cover his mouth and look away. Prowl was working his frustration off, forgetting himself wildly and spectacularly in their berth for the second time. The Constructicon could feel it in his field with Prowl's greedy, desperate groan of his transforming interfacing array. The Chemist froze as the Autobot arched up and shuddered. For a moment, he believed that Prowl would come without further stimulation; he was now rutting hard and fast, obviously close. The Chemist could feel it in his field as Prowl's hips slowed down, but he had no intention of letting the Autobot stop when Prowl was so close to erupting in his overload.

It only took mere moments after Prowl increased his speed to have a faint, unsatisfying cramp and merely teasing-like experience that only riled him up more, his back arching as he gasped then screamed his vents out, curling into a ball and gave a sob, and Mixmaster's spark clenched. Was it a memory flux?

"Bonecrusher!" Prowl whined for the Bulldozer, desperate for only him and not a stupid berth to be pleasuring him like this. Not for Mixmaster. Finally, he stilled completely after panting hard and shaking from exertion.

"There there, Boss, it's okay. It was just a nightmare." The Chemist cradled Prowl's helm into his hands. "Shush, dear Prowl."

Oh, how he envied Bonecrusher right now. There was no answer to why Mixmaster felt this bitter jealousy. Something about that picture stirred his fantasy, made him wonder what it would be like to...

*****

The sunlight shone through the open windowpanes, revealing a pile of datapads stacked neatly on a smaller table's surface. One was standing out, glowing green in its owner's hands. The white and black mech sat at the desk, lying on the couch's back, clutching a cup of steaming liquid and raising it to his mouth.

It turned out Prowl had spent twelve nights at Constructicons'. He had been there for many days, but they had seemed like kliks because the medicine made them feel like this.

Prowl was dimly aware of the Constructicon approaching him slowly next to his side, but he disregarded him and just continued swiping apps on his datapad.

"What, exactly, are you doing?"

He turned from his datapad to look around for the familiar voice. Notwithstanding, the police car had gotten accustomed to their presence and even liked it at times. The Tactician looked up, then gave Mixmaster a slightly impatient look.

"Working."

"Last time I checked, you're off duty during this time."

"Sometimes there's more paperwork than can be finished during work hours," Prowl replied, already focused back on his typing. The Constructicon leaned against the armrest and put his hands on his hips.

Prowl didn't appear to notice him. Mixmaster waited for him to say something. Eventually, after some kliks, Prowl glanced up and vented.

"Did you need something?" He turned his head to the side.

"I have several reports to finish."

Mixmaster huffed, shook his head again, and settled back in his seat.

"At least take a break. We've been watching you the entire day."

Mixmaster just continued to look annoyed.

"You're just doing more work for me now," Prowl replied, trying to talk sense to them.

It is nice that they care.

"What exactly is making you angry?" Hook stared at Prowl with sincere optics while Mixmaster looked at him up and down, assessing his doorwing language.

"If I were angry, I'd flip a table." He answered, his nasal ridge slightly scrunched up, but a flavour of amusement in his voice appeared for a second.

"So why are you irritated?"

"What makes you think I'm irritated?" Prowl's hand reached for a small bowl. He took a tiny cube and plopped it into his mug.

"Because of your doorwings' movement."

Prowl's eyes lit up, and he gingerly changed apps on the datapad. He stayed silent for a long moment, his hand with a stylus in the air, optics idly looking into the floor.

"Well?"

"It is the entire situation in general." The Tactician's sharp blue optics glared at them.

Perhaps not getting spiked again, Prowl of Petrex.

"But I am fine." The police car responded automatically. He went for another sip. Constructicons and Prowl were closer than before, he felt more at ease around them, but he was always so unhappy. The night he had almost self-serviced in their berth drove home that, in theory, all Prowl needed to change his attitude was a fat spike in his valve and a few healthy overloads. It was amazingly humiliating that he knew it.

"Do you remember the last eleven days?" Mixmaster risked.

"No, not really." He answered truthfully. He had just become more like himself a day and a half before.

They stilled at his response. Oh. Wow.

"Did you like my newest shortcake?" Risked Mixmaster.

"I don't remember..." Prowl squinted his optics.

"Ummm..."

"Boss?"

"Do you remember the day we brought you to our quarters?"

The Autobot contemplated how to answer that question. Maybe they would drop the subject about the unfortunate night if he acted normally. He ended up boring stare into his datapad.

They could see that he was having trouble focusing on his datapad, and they admitted that his attempt at masking his unease looked quite decent from the outside, but they knew better.

"Yes, I do remember." Sullen, Prowl murmured, vocalizer producing tense words. His optics remained online, and faceplates settled in slight annoyance. "Thank you for taking care of me." Prowl took a few more sips and poured himself more tasty liquid.

"No problem." But they weren't done over the subject. Oh, Prowl was trying to act normal, but Constructicons had learned to read him during all this time.

"Did we overstep?"

His hand shook, and some droplets landed on his thighs. Prowl quickly swiped it with his hand, although apparently not quick enough for them not to notice. Maybe he should pretend as if it had never happened. Not that it had any chance of working; they saw straight through him. Primus, Prowl couldn't remember the last time he'd lost control like that. He squeezed his optics shut, leaning his head against the sofa.

"You were there with me, and I'm sure you know what exactly happened." He snapped back icily, not meeting their optics as he looked around the living area like everything else was suddenly extremely interesting and stopped at the berth. The Autobot wondered what part of his brain had decided that that was a good idea to stay. Constructions wounded up in this berth every night. They got up every morning sated after hours of recharging and interfacing. Prowl couldn't just argue over something he wanted so fragging much.

You couldn't stop.

"Yes, we know what happened."

"We should talk."

"I do not want to talk about it. Ever." Prowl bore his stare into them for a long stiff moment before his weakness and anxiety forced him to look away.

"But you have to." Such an intelligent mech like Prowl could figure out what he wanted and needed, right?

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Oh really?"

"Did you hear him?

"..."

"Really, Boss?"

"..."

"Guys? Should we tell him?"

"Yeah, I bet we should."

"Alright then. For quite some time, we've noticed a thing you still want to hide from us. Come on, Boss. We are not that stupid." Once they all assembled in the living area, he was thankful that he wasn't facing all of them at once.

"..."

"You're frustrated with something. Still pretending there's nothing to talk about with us, Prowl?"

"I'm going out of there to my office."

"Boss, no!"

"I want out."

"No, we just wanted to say that...Um."

They stopped and glanced at one another, then tried a different tactic, their voices quieter, softer.

"Eleven days ago you..."

"...You wanted to, you know..."

"...With us."

"And we think you still want to..."

Prowl forced his doorwings not to twitch when his interfacing array harshly reminded him of its existence.

He tried to look at the situation from another perspective, the logical side; he had not come completely undone. He hadn't even opened his covers. Not that it would be the end of the Universe if he did lose control in their room. Not that anyone besides him and them would know. It shouldn't be that big of a problem.

But their awkward questions, tone of voice, and pressing the subject. And then Prowl realized he had a huge memory gap. Sadly, Prowl didn't know if his unbridled lust had made him self-service in their berth again. Whether he had done it or not, it was so painfully clear he needed to interface with THEM. Worse, he started feeling the need right now, and he was so humiliated... He felt so awful about it.

Guilt, loathing, dread, and mortification ran through his body like never before.

"I-I will buy you another berth." The words fell like sharp shale from his clenched jaw. "I can buy you the entire new building so you don't have to suffer my company."

"No!"

"Boss, we aren't angry!"

"You obviously needed it."

"That's completely normal."

"It ain't that weird."

"You think it's funny." Prowl's expression was complete disdain, misery, despair, and so many different things that bewildered Constructicons completely.

"No, we don't."

"It's not funny that you're miserable."

"Boss, we understand you were high on drugs."

"Yeah."

"We get it."

Although honestly, would Constructicons care for real? They knew what had happened, and they told him it was normal.

"Just, you see. You're going around so amped up it's a matter of time before you pounce on some bot."

"I am known for pouncing at mechs, preferably  Decepticons, and slicing their throats shortly after," Prowl said, trying to be smooth.

"Ya know fair well, Boss; it's not that kind of pouncing we're talking about."

"You have to interface, in fact, are desperate for one."

Doorwings' nervous twitch turned into a full-body shudder.

"Really? Suddenly changing my medical status?" Prowl looked around in dire need of a distraction.

"No, just wondering why you are reluctant to self-service."

"Yeah."

After a minute or two, Hook broke the silence.

"What's the point of trying so hard to deny yourself relief?"

Optics focused on the datapad but not reading. Prowl took a moment to glance at the door before responding.

"Maybe I just don't want to." He trailed off and knew they hadn't believed him, maybe because he hadn't believed in his own weak excuse. Biting back a sigh, Prowl raised a shaky hand and took a sip of the forgotten drink, already knowing that he would regret his response.

"Why? Clanging with mechs feels awesome."

"Yup."

Hearing this, a small gasp tumbled from his mouth. Prowl tried his best to ignore his want. He did.

"Why do you want to know?" A small gasp of annoyance had almost left Prowl's lips, but he quickly silenced himself.

"Because that's the most illogical thing about you."

"It's none of your business." He rumbled, but even so, it came out a bit laboured.

"Boss, you want to interface with us. That's normal." 

Scavenger got a hit in the helm from Long Haul for speaking too fast. He was supposed just to sit and watch.

"I don't believe I should." The pressure kept building up in his interfacing array. They noticed his discomfort, which only made Prowl more flushed with heat.

"Maybe it's a good time to change your beliefs?"

"And finally, have a frag the way you want it."

"No one else will know."

"Seriously, your secrets are safe with us."

Constructicons had no doubt the police car was in a great deal of distress. Prowl had said he was fine, but the slight door wings twitches were proof otherwise. Whilst Prowl had wanted to just bolt off this room at the nearest place without them inside, he had to tell them something.

"Maybe I'll tell you..." He glanced at the window. "...About that in the future." He curtly replied and cut the conversation just to make them shut up. Prowl was only saying this to keep up the pretence that he was fine. Constructicons knew there wasn't much they could do to help with that, so they stayed low. To his credit, they simply apologized, keeping any comments to themselves.

"Just letting you know we are available." Said Mixmaster, voice low, optics deep vermillion embers.

"Stop talking," Prowl said quietly, tired. Where Prowl normally would launch into a rant. He now… Well, Prowl still told them to stop talking. It was supposed to be an order, but all the power was gone. Prowl was unusually subdued, something Constructicons weren't used to observing, and it was more than unsettling.

"We're sorry. It's okay, Prowl."

"Shutting up."

They shut up, but Prowl wondered why Bonecrusher had never spoken out of all of them.

*****

"I got complaints that you are stealing again." He changed the subject, a datapad like a shield in his hand protecting him from further questioning.

They were readying themselves for a tongue-lashing.

"I noticed you're stealing power tools...mostly... That's my fault. I should have given you more credits." Prowl swiped on his datapad, and Constructicons heard their devices ping. "Here you are."

"W-whwaaa?"

"Your pocket money."

Hook's jaw fell wide open.

"Boss, you can buy a private spacecraft with this amount of cash!"

"We're not buying a spacecraft, Hook." Prowl sounded a lot more assured.

"We don't deserve it!"

"You do. Just don't squander it for gambling or drinking."

"So, no stealing?" Scavenger queried, disappointment in his voice.

"I didn't say that," Prowl said calmly and matter-of-factly. 

"I know some objects can't be bought in such hard times, but you must report to me first. I won't tolerate lying to me, and if any of you gets himself arrested, I won't be so hasty to buy your way out of the brig like the last time."

"Understood." They replied before he formed the question in his head.

"But ummm, Prowl..?

"It got us thinking about why you just don't..."

A thrill ran through his spark. Prowl's reaction didn't escape their notice.

"...Buy yourself some nice things, armour polish, face buffers, fashionable rims. Your finish is dull and scratched."

"I don't need such objects. Being clean is enough." He hugged the tablet to his chest. "I don't care if I'm shiny or not."

"But maybe it will make you feel slightly better to be glammed up."

Prowl looked at the numbers on his datapad. The number was long, longer than most mechs had ever seen in their long lives. And yet, all these credits in different currencies, warfare, and ships, intergalactic estate, which were a temptation many would kill to get, seemed almost worthless to him. He knew many mechs to whom such objects would have meant the Universe. They symbolised to him that nothing, even all these gadgets and money, would buy him comforting peace of mind.

"Luxurious wax? Bathing scents, maybe?"

"They cause me headaches. My olfactory sensors are too sensitive."

Prowl had thought he would get used to his acute sense the longer he lived. He was wrong. The migraines he suffered from never got any better.

The Autobot liked to think that he was knowledgeable and knew quite a bit about deep space and many races with different science technology he could buy. But many centuries later, he realized just how badly his neocortical wires behind his helm were and even after new treatments, hadn't noticeably improved.

"Yeah, we get it."

"You have to deal with those migraines, Boss. That's awful."

"Do you always have to take your drugs that strong?"

"No, a shot in the neck is rarely necessary. This time Ratchet gave me a higher dose than usual, and I got a far stronger rush."

To them, you're just Prowl. You feel protected with them, but it's not the protection of a war asset, a number-crunching processor, a super-computer, or a high-ranking officer with all his classified data.

They gazed at him in silence.

"This time, my aching processors and the drugs I took were too much. It was hard for me to..." Prowl paused, slow to respond. "Keep my thoughts and actions in any order."

"Yeah..."

"..."

"Boss?"

"There are other things that'd make your life easier, like a good, comfortable chair."

"Right! For your door wings, for example."

"My chair is fine." Distantly, Prowl thought that the Constructicons would have been disappointed in him for saying such words, but he shook it away.

"Yeah, yeah, totally true." Mocked Hook. "You still use that hard old seat in your office. It hurts your back and door wings."

"You know, Boss, you're abusing the F word, and frag is not what I'm talking about."

The Autobot bit back his automatic response. He almost wanted to tell them he had more important issues to spend money on, but he couldn't. He had no energy to argue with them. Alone and angry, Prowl shut out all who tried to support him, even his friend Perceptor.

It is nice to be wanted and taken care of. You enjoy how they hover around you, how they do and say everything to convince you still have worth to anyone. You feel secure and a desirable person whose feelings and body are important and deserve protection. At least tell them something. Don't make yourself look like an uncaring fool. Soon he would be too independent, and what next?

"I know all you want to help me, but I can't think of anything I'd like to have now." That was clearly still the wrong thing to say. The Autobot wished he knew how to form the words to tell the Constructicons what he needed and wanted. He had a fleeting thought that instead of agreeing with them and uttering his consent - let one of them would decide for them both and just spike him. Prowl wished, at that time, he could be more forward.

They're too nice to you. Nobody has truly cared for you. You can't handle their kindness, right? It's a matter of time until they abandon you because you have nothing to give them.

"You're cynical, Boss. Whether you like it or not, you are our friend, and we don't want anything from you except your good health and your needs met."

No matter where you go and no matter whom you stumble upon your path, you'll always be alone, and you're fine with it. It doesn't matter if they leave you. You'll find a new, stronger ally. His illogical logic scorned him.

"For a start, buy yourself a decent berth."

"Then go to take a bath in the public oil pools."

"Oil pools? Where?" Prowl's doorwings jumped as if they were springloaded, and his pupils dilated before he could help it.

"We noticed it nearby the construction site."

"You liked these. We saw it in your head."

"You're tired. Scratch that. You're dead exhausted."

"From 11 days of mostly recharging and eating sweets?" Prowl's doorwings canted to a side displaying his amusement. The Autobot had banned him from transforming until he was healed, and the stiffness of his upper back started disturbing his sleep.

It is nice that they want to help you relax.

"Well...I guess I can visit the pools."

*****

Prowl whined in a pool placed the farthest from the ones occupied by other Autobots, enjoying the hot oil as it sluiced silkily down his frame.

His optic shutters closed as he relaxed against the pool's edge when his interfacing array gave a hangdog ping. He hissed at that, his frame trembling as he leaned against the tiles for support. Prowl was lucky that none of the mechs were paying much attention to him.

A heated mineral-rich bath soothed Prowl's rigid cable muscles, evoking sinfully decadent whispers from his frame. Taking an oil bath had been a few opportunities to unwind Prowl, though sadly, there were not many occasions to submerge himself in thick, buoyant fluid and to distract himself from reports, conferences, and battles to take care of. Yet after numerous long, difficult days and tumultuous emotions, he wanted to go there to indulge himself. With every breathy exvent, he knew a lustful beast inside him would be nearing the surface sooner or later, and he would be vigilant to the changes in his body, just to go to his quarters at the right time.

It'd be nice if one of the Constructicons would join him and give him a massage there and there. Sadly, it was out of option. Unfortunately, Cybertronian's physiology wasn't built for a sneaky bang and even a quickie would be seen and heard. Even relatively small arousal produced the sounds - the tale-telling soft movements of the interfacing array. Cybertronians could hold back for some time, the more experienced for quite a long. It had to do with self-control and a strong sense of will, but an aft would always win over the processor. Then heat, the fans, and the glowing led lights made it obvious. In the end, the interfacing sequence became even louder and more messy. There is no chance to cover it up or stop after the first one.

The up-side was the ability to interface with partners, bigger or smaller, without much trouble or hurting one another. Of course, it had its limits.

The next few kliks passed as Prowl continued fighting indecent thoughts. The other mechs began talking loudly, and he tried to tune in but had any kind of idea of what they were talking about. All he could think about was how badly he had to interface and how amazing it would feel to bolt to his hab suite and self-service on impulse.

Yes, yes, the Constructicons are right. You should swallow your pride—nothing to be so self-conscious of.

He melted into the oil, his frame in absolute bliss. While the oil wasn't as efficient in washing the grime off his body as in his private wash-racks, there was something special about the gentle oil that rippled under a slight touch. The plating on his back moved automatically, allowing oil to flow deeper inside him. And yet, after a long moment, the grim thoughts caught with him.

A long time ago, even before the Civil War, Rung had told him he had a psychological issue. The one that wasn't treated with medication or that couldn't really be healed because, frankly, it wasn't a disease - it was just his specific cerebral design, yet another wretched disadvantage originating from constructed-cold birth and difficult life experiences combined.

The Autobot was enjoying his quiet moment, shuttered his optics, and moved his door wings so that his entire frame was submersed in liquid warmth. Humming softly, the ex-SIC gave a sweet purr as the glowing oil seeped into every crevice in his armor. A wonderful, lovely feeling broken up by his longing sigh because, with every passing klik, Prowl was fidgeting more and more.

Living alone with scarce non-intimate relationships: Prowl was fine with it until later in his life, it started sucking life off him, leaving him with a gaping void. People are better kept at arm's length. He battled that thought, the thought his therapist wanted him to challenge, but he didn't out of his stubbornness and an inferior feeling that not many mechs are okay with a bond like this.

The TacHead sank lower into the pool, letting the oil completely conceal him, then slowly opened his optics shutters and froze, hearing a commotion and shouting dulled by the volume of liquid. He blinked a couple of times through the slightly transparent mass of oil that someone was running and hovering on the tiles just above him. Prowl became acutely aware of which pockets of his armour carried blasters. He had some weapons hidden in places others couldn't start to imagine.

Suddenly, a bullet flew past his helm, missing due to liquid distortion, and Prowl's engines roared to action, pushing him above the liquid surface. Without thinking, just acting reflexively, Prowl took hold of the pede on the tiled edge of the floor above him and hauled the aggressor into the pool. The mech's helm hit the pool's edge before disappearing into the depths. Barely seeing through the thick fluid, the ex-SIC sliced the assassin's throat with the laser blade produced from his cuff, almost severing the head from the body.

It was unsafe to stay inside without motion, and Prowl pulled himself up from now darkening, purple pool. The Autobot was tense inside, and he scrambled to his pedes fast like lightning. Barely exiting it, he slid on his back and shot two more opponents who glided on the tiled floor helplessly and disappeared in oil with a splash. Judging from the shouts in the distance, Prowl decided to rush up and, at full speed, ran into the nearest corridor with a crystal ceiling. The Tactician shot one mech, took his rifle, walked through the hall with a gun in one hand and a heavier rifle in the other, and discarded it after the last bullets hit two more mechs.

The assailant ran above him, dodging Prowl's bullets and hitting the glass panes which were breaking under his pedes, but he kept moving on until he jumped down and pounced at Prowl. They tumbled together until the mech trapped Prowl's hand and tossed the firing pistol, which slid on the floor. The Autobot grabbed his hands, and they struggled for a minute. The mech's pede kicked the gun away, so Prowl could only rely on his fists. The Decepticon hit The Autobot once, twice in his chest, and kicked his chassis till Prowl was swaying on his legs.

Unfortunately for him, the enemy got a little too close because Prowl hauled him down by the neck collar, and they were tumbling on the floor again. The Tactician found himself on his back with the assassin's on top of him, crushing Prowl's chassis while Prowl was tearing his neck tubes, ripping them one by one. Then the attacker escaped his grip; Prowl managed to get his gun back into his hand. He glided under a table, kicked his opponent's legs, shot him into his chassis, and flinched when a knife almost pierced his face through the table.

The assassin collapsed above him, lifeless.

Chapter Text

The first thing he noticed in the room was a new berth. A king-sized one tailored for a mech much bigger than him, more for a Constructicon. Something completely different from what he was used to for a very, very long time. Not a flat metal board with some old mattresses and pillows. The real berth, with all the hottest tech that you can plug into. And there was one more thing laying on it, a box with a decorated lid. Prowl scanned it for any enemy devices, then opened it, he saw many sex toys. He rolled his optics and put it under the berth. The next thing pissed him off - there was a new door mounted on the wall and it led to Constructicon's quarters. The mortar was still fresh. But the most annoying surprise was waiting in his wash racks - he stood optic in optic with his reflection in a mirror covering the entire wall. Brilliant, just brilliant, he thought and traced the reflection of his chevron with his finger on the glass. Tch.

The Autobot touched it, then threw the detachable parts of his armor on the floor. Finally, after these long months, he accepted his newest look, the look he was given by force. He liked the presence of all his previous frame modifications, he liked his first look and the way his outer frame changed over millennia. He wished he could keep his original appearance, but his constructed cold frame needed constant upgrades. None of his issues stemmed from his looks, he overcame the anger over the forced modification. But since one botched frame adjustment, the Autobot hated everything else. 

The persistent patter of the solvent was just continuous as Prowl's ambushed longing, trapped inside of him, in his spark, confined by a long time of loneliness and repressed by shame. Maybe the ex SIC would have a chance if only things were different, but sadly, they weren't.

The Tactician was washing the purple streaks of enemy blood off his frame. Reminiscing about the criminals, then about Constructicons of course, led to thinking about the new berth which they bought with their pocket money. Or maybe they had stolen it, who knows. Stubborn, annoying... sexy idiots. It got him thinking that he had never interfaced in a berth. He had done the deed in his office only - against the wall, against the table, on his chair, on his battle console table, and on the floor - but never in a berth and that was telling him something about himself. A thought formed itself behind his optics and Prowl didn't like it in the slightest.

The air didn't become cold, the temperature was all the same, but detaching parts of his armor made his sensors register the rawness of the surroundings. The hands and pedes always felt stiff and chilled. Nothing couldn't help him. Doctors repeated that it was a constructed cold frame defect and nothing could be done about it. There was only one thing to bring relief to his stiff, almost painful in the rawness body - a warm soak in the solvent, oil, and even water that made all these senses dissolve in the warmth.   He sat down under it and was thinking, thinking, thinking.

He was awake, analyzing, calculating, staring in the distance, the day repeated itself in a loop, his claws dug into his neck cables and he scraped the dirt. There was a black mark on a tile. Scrubbing the blood of him the Energon crusts swirling in the drain. A blade above his head, a scratch. There is a dark point on one of the tiles. Glass panes breaking above him, a scratch. There are new tiles on the floor. There wasn't much of the grime left but he kept scratching till his neck tubes and metal mesh got covered with scabs and he was counting and thinking, a loop after loop, shooting again, hauling the mech by their feet again, thinking calculating possibilities, different outcomes and a scratch on his neck, and two and three. The tiles got slightly different patterns. Mixmaster's hand near his, the purpled lake behind him purple droplets hitting the floor, purple droplets in the drain, his own blood streaking his hands or it wasn't his Energon no, knife above his head, there's a tile with a dark mark, determining the angle assessing the blade sharpness, he calculated the trajectory of the droplets flying down from his neck, the trajectory of the solvent droplets, these are no black marks on the tiles, these are purplish ones of his blood, of his enemy's blood. Calculating calculating calculating.

The morning greeted him.

Shaking, Prowl realized the temperature in the wash racks was lower than he thought, and dropping fast. His breath was somehow cold, the oral cavity was cold and despite the low temperature, his fans didn't blow warmer mist. An imminent shadow loomed in the doorway and he knew that shadow. The figure moved closer, menacingly tall in contrast to Prowl in sitting position. The more it shifted the larger it got.

"My privacy!" He hissed.

Unfazed, Long Haul took a final step.

"Your privacy will wait."

Reluctantly, the ex SIC glanced up quickly before avoiding Constructicon's gaze once again to put the discarded armor on.

"Hey." Long Haul whispered as he dropped to his knees, hand reaching out to gently brush Prowl's tired face. "Are..."

"Not good..." Muttered Prowl. And honestly, he didn’t look like he was feeling all that good either.

"Something tells me you haven't been recharging, Boss." 

The Autobot kept his optics downward, his HUD churning warning as he felt hoisted. An attempt to struggle out of Long Haul's arms would be entirely useless at this point. It would take ages and drain his energy. After rubbing his faceplates instead, the Autobot stared into the mirror for a good long moment, still in Long Haul's arms. His own indifferent blue optics stared back at him, and though he was looking at himself, he couldn't see the mech he used to be, anymore. He wasn't exactly enjoying life. And deep in his optics, he saw unnatural to himself longing, and desperation and hunger. 

A year ago the Autobot doubted the Constructicons would go near him, a pesky program was warning him, let alone hug him. The ex SIC was placed on the berth beside Long Haul who put Prowl's hands where his arms were attached to his chassis and held in place with his, warming Prowl's. Though his spark threatened to leap out of his chassis, yet here they were, doing the weird awkward thing, though not entirely unwelcoming. Long Haul was warm.

"I rescheduled my meetings." 

"That's good to hear."

"But I'm still going to work in my office."

"Hmm...fair enough, Boss. But first, how about a short nap?"

A sigh. The berth activated and was now emitting hot air. Long Haul released Prowl's arms, Prowl crossed them on his chest, hugging himself.

"What's the meaning of all of those...gifts?" Prowl winced but sank into the berth. His normally-sparkling cerulean optics looked a tad dull and disoriented, and they were a few shades more faded than usual. 

"For you to accept your new frame, Boss. You didn't choose these mods but ya still should be gentler with it." Long Haul reached and cupped Prowl's back with his hands, drawing him closer to what he hoped was a calming embrace .  "That's where your spark is."  

"I meant the door." Prowl seethed unamused. 

"We think this room has a bad impact on you." Long Haul saw the quiet ache at the bottom of Prowl's resentment. "Mixmaster said it would make you less alone." In response, the Constructicon only got a mistrustful squint.

"I'm never alone these days." He saw a wrinkle appeared between Prowl's brows.

"Just a knock and we'll be right by your side." Long Haul saw the undertow anguish and isolation that strummed a worrying chord within him. 

The Autobot shrugged delicately, still striving to work through how precisely the conversation had ended up here, in his new humming berth. Out of all the Constructicons, Long Haul was the only one that he was most comfortable during bathing many weeks ago and after moving back to his own room he felt an abundant lack of contact. So he let the Constructicon's proximity soothe the stress away. 

"Good to hear you rescheduled a meeting. That's great for a start."

"I will try." The Autobot muttered. Prowl looked...relieved that someone stated their support. It was a quiet and slow transforming of those feelings into words. Whether it was the fact that Long Haul's plating was so   warm Prowl liked it more than he should. His processor was lagging, he knew better than anyone that it’s possible to want something and not want it. Surprisingly, Prowl flung one arm over Long Haul's chest. In his new berth, he was recharging soundly, his face half pressed into his pillow, nose grazing Long Haul's chest, entangled in one another’s arms.

When he awakened later that day he looked more tired than before. And Long Haul's frame was near his. A pang of dread shot hot through him and the Constructicon felt it immediately. 

"It’s alright, Boss. No rush." He sighed. It was so, so sad that after all of this tender coaxing the Autobot was alarmed upon waking up. He got a back rub that made him hang his head and vented when their bodies parted.

*****

"You what?"

"I hugged him. He let me hold him in the berth."

"Explain this to me again."

"I put him on the berth, we talked for a moment, and then he curled in my arms."

Scavenger's nodded eagerly while Bonecrusher's optics widened in disbelief.

"No way! He touches mechs either when he's high on something or really doesn't have a choice!" Bonecrusher exasperatedly declared.

"You thought he only lets you touch him?" Long Haul let out a victorious  hah  and smirked. The Truck's optics challenged him and Bonecrusher furrowed his brows. 

"Well, he let me hold his hands." Announced Hook.

"Holding hands is different, passive." Long Haul rolled his optics. "Hugging is the next level of trust."

The three of them turned to Long Haul and Scavenger nodded again. Hook facepalmed.

"Prowl trusts you the most, aww."

Long Haul perked up and grinned proudly. They high-fived and whooped, while Bonecrusher mumbled something under his breath.

"Sooo...I guess we should talk." Interrupted them Hook.

"That's why we're here."

"About what?"

"About things."

"About how I want to finally frag with you." Butted in Scavenger.

"That's not important!"

"It's important to  me."

"He's right, we haven't had a frag for a week." The Bulldozer added in a snarky manner under his breath.

"See what I mean." The Excavator replied gesturing towards the Bulldozer. 

"You never know when to shut up, do you, Crusher?" Hook raised his optic ridges. 

"I'm trying not to remember how nice it'd feel to punch you Hook."

Hook shoved Bonecrusher away with an exaggerated scowl. "Frag off!"

"It's good to know Scavenger is your favorite mech, Crusher?" 

"Are you talking scrap again?"

"That's because I love you." Retorted Long Haul.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm still gonna smash you when I have a chance."

"Slow down, Bonecrusher, Long Haul has only one brain circuit."

"Coming back to fragging, Boss is so cute."

"Nice thought-train, Scavenger. You jumped from one topic to another -fragging and Prowl."

"Because Prowl needs to be fragged."

"Our bae- I meant Boss wants to be spiked for the first time by US!

"Oh, our sweet, frustrated Prowl." 

"I bet he's not that prudish as we think he is." Leered Hook. "Thinking of us when he comes with his fingers in his valve."

"Ever wondered why he's always so tired?" Chuckled Long Haul. "Maybe hours of self-servicing wear him out."

"I don't know about you but I wanna see him fuck himself again." Chuckled Scavenger. "Boss' an intactus but I don't mind seeing a free show." 

"He doesn't turn me on as much as he does you guys." Said Hook, pouting at them prettily.

"That's only because you're still in denial Hook."

"Okay, I'm gonna seduce Prowl, just to make your life harder." Hook teased them again.

"You have a point. Makes me wanna bang Prowl, claim the dominance over him."

"Scavenger all you can do to him is to give him head, and that's not even his preference."

"I'll make it work."

"Yeah, how exactly do you wanna do that, Scav?"

"I have my ways." Retorted Scavenger, showing them his tongue obscenely.

"Aha...I don’t care how secret you think it is, everyone knows who wants to spike Boss the most."

"Well...Not gonna lie." The Bulldozer rumbled and gave them one of the sharpest, most sinister grins. "The thing Prowl does, how he fidgets, gives me the weirdest hard-on."  

"I think you are in love with him."

"I don't care what you think," Bonecrusher's visor gleamed. "He's a challenge, but so worth it. I'll plow Prowl the first just to imprint him, teach him everything, so I'll be his favorite. He won't respond to any of your courting attempts after I do him."

"Why haven’t you made a move, then?"

"I bet you don't have a plan!"

"I won't tell you my plan, you idiots."

"Maybe we should, you know,  make a move ."

"Do whatever you want to, Prowl will be mine. Lubricant runs down his legs when I whisper to him."

"Don't be so sure, Prowl whisperer." 

"Hey, stop daydreaming! That's not what we're supposed to talk about, Hook you dumbass. We're supposed to talk about our Mix."

"Umm, Mix?"

"Why are you so quiet, Mix?" Bonecrusher seemed to sense why Mixmaster was so still. He let himself brush against Mixmaster's field in a supportive sweep of warmth.

He registered their voices, their words, but a spark in his chest was difficult to ignite.

"Mix, do you take your meds?"

"Yeah..."

"That's the thing we are supposed to talk about." Hook shot an accusatory look to Scavenger. "How you're feeling, Mix?"

"Kinda low. Not too bad." The Chemist answered and looked in the distance.

"I'm gonna ask again, do you take your meds?"

"I do."

"Are you sure?" he had to ask.

"Yes." Hissed the Chemist.

"Maybe you should change them?"

Mixmaster sighed, optics dull.

"I'm gonna put you on the same thing as the last time you were low." 

"I'm not low, just tired."

"That's what I'm talking about." The surgeon raised his brow. "We don't want you tired, we don't want you irritated, angry, or low, ok?"

"No. The meds from the last time made me eat and sleep too much."

"Mix you wanna frag..."

"Shut up Scavenger!"

"The thing is...That I don't wanna frag." Confessed the Chemist. "I'm just...tired."

"Wow, YOU don't wanna frag? That's a red flag in my opinion."

"Listen Mix. There is a psychiatrist here."

"There's a queue and I won't go to an Autobot anyway."

"Sigh...I'll give you the meds, the same as the last time, and you have to take them. You are meeting me after you online and before you recharge. I'll be watching you."

Mixmaster sighed and nodded.

"I admit we weren't paying attention to you."

"Not your fault, guys." Another defeated kind of sound.

"Kinda sad we didn't see your irritation and baking frenzy and now you're low again."

"Don't gimmie that look, sweet sparks." He added, an unhappy chuckle bubbling in his chest. "That's how life's like."

*****

Backspacing, rewriting, typing, and revisiting, sitting in front of his desk, 

Prowl leaned forth and tried to calm himself as much as he could, the situations from the day before disturbing him. He groaned and his back cracked, getting stiff after hours of sitting behind his desk and annoyed a bit by his messenger that kept buzzing every few minutes, reminding him to answer text messages sent to him. 

The ex SIC tried to focus on giving tasks to his employees but he was hindered by the frequent pings - reminders to pick up the device. Looking down he turned away from his multiple computer screens. So he finally took the device in his hand, started reading over the texts. The messages were from the Constructicons trying to contact him, sending him unimportant questions like "Are you alright, what are you doing". Nothing urgent or important and they were just bugging Prowl, and yet he read them and took his time to respond, but solely because he was having concerned thoughts about Mixmaster. Prowl noticed something was off about the Chemist, he looked bad, just not there. Better keep a tab on him, in case he does something stupid. The last time he saw him looking okay-ish was when, when...

Laying on his back under the table, his processor ran rampant with the best instant actions, where to go, whom he should call, what kind of weapon should he pick. The decision was made for him, he felt the floor pounding with footsteps. Though not on his preference, Prowl couldn't be more exhilarated that he saw the Constructicons.

Several blows struck a mech at once. He screamed and fell.

"No Bonecrusher! Do not kill!"

The Constructicon hesitated, the mech still in his powerful grip.

"Do not kill."

Bonecrusher stood still, opened his hand, and dropped the unfortunate mech. The Decepticon's frame shattered when it hit the ground with parts clattering and rolling on the smooth floor, and the mech was bewildered, how much little parts his body had. Fortunately, he was alive and conscious.

Prowl gave them a sharp glance that yelled: You've been following me!

Everything was a blur, everything happened too fast. The Bulldozer's face changed, looking benignly at Prowl. The ex SIC felt shocked, and yet utterly at ease with these brutal mechs because he knew they wouldn’t hurt him. Bonecrusher dropped to his knee to hold Prowl's hand, his touch firm and gentle as always. Such dynamism in his arms, they are capable of both healing and gruesome acts. 

"Hook. Assess his damage."

The taller mechs grumbled faintly and traded glances with the police enforcers arresting Prowl. After hours of questioning, the ex SIC was shocked how quickly he was released from the police station, and that none of the offenders got killed, just critically wounded. They weren't professional assassins, otherwise, he wouldn't manage to dispatch them so easily. That was a spontaneous attack, but who was their leader? Was it serious or just a warning? His processor searched through the database of potential criminals. For the first time, he wondered what kind of slandering article he would get from the Lost Light Insider.

That day, the Constructicons' visors were gleaming with pure hatred, the look Prowl had almost forgotten because they were so gentle with him. The Autobot realized they were barely holding themselves back from slaughtering that mech. The ex SIC found it...hot. He'd love to see the same, angry but sexy look on their face before driving him wild in his berth, on the floor, against his table...He should have felt afraid of them, not so totally turned on. 

Prowl's naughty smirk faded as he fidgetted on the spot, biting his lip a little.   He probably shouldn't be having such thoughts in his office but...it was his only distraction from recalling the assassination attempt. As long as the lustful images stayed only in his head, maybe it was okay. They had told him it was normal. He hoped none of them would notice that he, in the privacy of his mind, imagined them during bathtime, naked, and the contrast between their blocky physique and his. 

The Tactician nibbled at the tip of his digit and thought, that if another text comes to his communicator, he could start texting back noncommital flirtatious messages. Ngh. So tempting, even though a rock had more grace in flirting than him. He grunted to himself and cursed thinking of it, continuing to twitch on his seat. Of all things,  this exact body part  decided to activate with the demand to do something about it. Why now? Everything seemed to go so well.

Prowl kept it on the low-side but the pressure kept building up. Stopping what he was doing he saw his own reflection and shook his head. His want was a little more than just niggling. Prowl didn't seek physical contact, so Bulldozer's grip resonated deep within him testing his libido. Heaving an exasperated sigh, Prowl sighed placing both hands on the table. The Autobot took more than he could chew that day, his mind was obviously elsewhere, hovering between the gunfight and afts of his loyal subordinates.

"Are you alright Sir?"

Prowl realized he had been leaning forward and didn't answer to anything the dealer has said for a few minutes or so. 

"I was distracted, I apologize."   He tried not to keep his voice strained, just as another wave of heat sprang in his nether regions. His body shot upright, straightening his back. Prowl squirmed and twitched around in the chair, his interfacing array felt hotter by the minute.   Why had he decided to daydream knowing his frame sent him clear-as-day red flags it won't be inclined just divert his attention back to work. "What was the question?"

"Sir. I know what happened yesterday. Should we have a meeting later?"

"Yes, thank you." Prowl began stacking datapads on the desk, just to avoid his gaze.

The mech's face was tight with thought and Prowl felt chills.

Finally, he said goodbye and the communicator stopped shining. The call was over and Prowl gritted his teeth imagining their hums each time he did something they disapproved of and he can feel the familiar heat and tension coiling tightly at the base of his spinal cord. Every time he kept looking at him, Bonecrusher noticed, of course, he did. The Constructicon was not blind. In the past, during an interrogation, Prowl had a sense that told him how to break a mech open, but oh, the Construction...It never mattered what were they talking out loud, because Bonecrusher knew his game, all that focus on him, wild calculating. And his touch, the Bulldozer always knew how to push Prowl the right way. 

When Prowl stared, he stared right back at Prowl, and Prowl could assault him with all the statistics, rules, calculations, and numbers. Oozing of sex, Bonecrusher could dodge all of them.  Cut that scrap, Boss, I'm immune to you,  and the other Constructicons just sat and watched, puzzled what to do. The Tactician imagined Constructicon's fingers rubbing him between his legs with relentless vigor, gaze dark, unholy. At that thought, heat pulsated withing and sent a surge of shock through his frame and he started losing himself to it. With no more calls to do that day he was no longer forced to keep up the guise of professionalism. That's why Prowl wanted to barricade himself in his office and never come out.

"Ngh!"

Suddenly, scalding need crashed inside him spilling viscous warmth on the chair in one of the inconvenient times, as always. It was unexpected, shuddering, and more powerful than the otherwise dull aching that continued until this point. Prowl summoned up all the energy he could to ride it out. A hot ache shot through Prowl's core and he moaned, shifting about on the spot. Oh, he wanted to interface. Oh, he had a hankering for a spike. 

The Tactician stood up, just to wave off the lewd thoughts away, set his Energon cube aside, and walked towards the cabinet for more drink crystals, this time ones with a different flavor. As he was walking towards his desk, he saw his second phone that was glowing with a missed call. Prowl pressed a button to unlock it, swiped it up, and glimpsed at a notification coming from Getaway. It was labeled urgent. He called back.

"Boss we've been monitoring the situation and questioning the apprehended Decepticons. It's not over yet. Be careful, don't go alone anywhere. Bring your green team with you, scan every substance before taking it in your hands, and avoid crowded places. Getaway out."

With nothing else to do, aside from trying to swat his annoying need away, he stared at the ceiling. After some time has passed he resorted to eating to occupy his hands, mouth and mind. Slamming the console shut and turning off the device he stood up and headed to a smaller table where the crystal-press machine stood along with tasty donuts from his devoted Mix. He decided making more calls wasn't worth the effort, but he had a few documents he would be finishing up after the break.

He bit the donut.

And then he swallowed.

And then he almost broke down from dread.

Survival instincts kicking in, he was running, his vision was a blur, he heard nothing like a grenade had just exploded in his audio-shell. Dashing through the corridors, Prowl ran passing the mechs, they cursed at him, he did not care, he found medbay and he pounded on the door. The surgery was on - the red led glyph told him, probably the attackers from days before were operated on.

So he moved like in a dream, like in slow motion to the adjacent emergency room, which was closed. He tried to open it with his hands, the handle rattled but didn't budge, then with a pinch bar from his subspace, it broke in half and clattered on the floor. Prowl started hitting, pounding, feeling something heated expand in his chest. His processor ran serialized simulations of viable scenario outcomes, but they were smushed by the rising panic.

"Help me, help me!" He pleaded with mechs who were passing him by, they didn't stop trying not to look at him.

"Ironhide!" He stammered panic in his optics. "Jazz, please help me!"

"What?"

"Open the door for me!"

"Why?"

"HELP ME!" Prowl's vocalizer cracked, losing his mind.

"Only First Aid can open the door."

"OPEN THE DOOR!"

"We can't."

Through the fog and despair and dread in his processor, he saw Brainstorm treading slowly, unhurriedly, a suitcase in one hand, the other with a messaging device, texting someone. Prowl caught his hand.

"Boss?"

"Open the door".

Not thinking much, Brainstorm put a magnetic device and the door slid with a clink. The Scientist could just have left Prowl like this, but he stayed having bad misgivings about the situation.

"Boss, what-"

The room didn't look like an emergency medical room - more like a cubbyhole with many boxes stacked on shelves and bundled clobber. The ex SIC ran towards the nearest surgery cradle, unfortunately, it was unpacked just like the rest three of them. They were still wrapped in foil and had seals, nobody had bothered to unpack and hook them up to the energy outlet. 

"Huh?" Mechs passing by stopped walking and talking, a small crowd gathered around the door, watching. Someone whipped a camera and began recording.

"Don't worry, Boss. Um, Percy?" He made a call, tapping his foot.

"Brainstorm, I don't have your..."

"Boss swallowed the bomb."

"Okay, give me your location."

"Boss, don't worry, I'm here to help. Tear the foil. Phew, there's a power aggregator." Brainstorm was babbling while Prowl tore down the foil and plastic, scrabbling through the boxes, Brainstorm fought with a discarded power aggregator. "Scrap, where are the cables? Prowl, find the cables, they must be there somewhere, probably four sets in boxes."

"That fragging aggregator is a piece of scrap!" The equipment should be retired and dismantled. Instead, someone had stuffed it in this small room, probably in hopes someone would fix it. "Percy, come on, you're the engineer guy."

"Where are the cables?" A few boxes fell on Prowl's head. "Scrap, Brainstorm, they haven't got labels!" Prowl almost cried when he opened one box with a picture of the surgery cradle, but it contained some medical tape only. 

"Okay, I got the stupid thing working, have you got any cables Boss?"

The Tactician felt the heat in his chest, just below his neck flowing deeper and some fumes began leaving his mouth. 

"Can you just cut me open Brainstorm?" Stammered Prowl, optics wild with terror.

"Nope, it'll blow us both. I'm no Ratchet."

There were more fumes and he sobbed in panic but calmed himself down when he felt a pat on his shoulder and the Microscope squeezed past him, optics calm and focused scanning the room for a box with his visor. Perceptor spotted it, ripped a box laying on the shelf. White spongy filling, a datapad, and a bunch of cables fell on the floor. Perceptor threw the cables at Brainstorm who crouched behind the berth and hooked them up, one by one. With a scowl with too many teeth, Perceptor turned around to face the crowd.

"You!" Perceptor pointed at Blurr. "Go find First Aid. He's off duty."

"You!" He looked at surprised Hoist. "Go find the Constructicons!" 

"You!" Skids woke up from his daze. "Go get the fire extinguisher!"

"You!" Nautica spun on her heel running for the emergency toolkit hanging on the wall. "Just go Nautica!"

"And you..." He pointed at Blast Off. "...Stop recording the fuck now or I'll stuff the thing in your exhaust port!"

Finally, the automatic surgery berth activated with a whine. Brainstorm was inspecting the performing arm while Prowl's digits were pawing on the lid, sliding on the transparent glass, fumbling with the digital console, trembling as he typed the commands:  emergency surgery, spark surgery, foreign object, explosive material . The Autobot crawled in the machine activating the operation mode.

"Boss...BOSS! The anesthesia!" Brainstorm pounded on the protective glass that closed behind Prowl. "First Aid, Flatline, Hook! Anyone!" The Scientist was waiting for a response one hand to his audio, the other placed on the glass above Prowl's head. 

What the crowd saw, was nauseating, the surgery arm began moving in the cradle, slicing Prowl's chassis open and extracted an object, holding it in the air. Not thinking much, Perceptor overrode the cradle's lock aborting the finishing procedure and pulled screaming Prowl out of the operating berth. The deadly bomb stayed inside in the clutch of berth's arm and burst just a second after Brainstorm hit the lid and the bed closed. A small explosion of dust and debris stained the glass.

In the meantime, Prowl was laying on the floor,  crying . He crouched one hand with a gun, the other clutching cables, wires, and tubes spilling out of him. Miraculously, he was not bleeding thanks to precisely used laser. Perceptor was talking to him, trying to smoothly get Prowl's gun.

"Prowl!!!"

"Sweetspark!"

"Who hurt you? Prowl!"

"Thanks, Primus you're alive!"

Their voices were so frantic, so pained.

"No injections!" He roared at the approaching medics. Constructicons were panicking and only Hook tried to stay calm, clinical, detached because he had never seen Prowl looking that bad before. "Easy, easy Boss."

"Put the gun down, Prowl. We're taking you to the medbay."

"No!" His voice cracked, he cleared his throat.

"You have to understand, there's no gun policy."

"I don't care! I want outta here!" He croaked reaching for Constructicons.

"Boss you're just lucky that Brainstorm was nearby." If Prowl hadn’t made it to the medbay, he’d  definitely  had the thing explode in his spark.

"Shush Prowl, we're here for you." As quickly as they could manage, they seized Prowl's gun.

*****

The operating cradle was an expensive piece of hi-tech, with precise arm and sharp lasers that sliced him nice and clean. The three medics put him together very fast, hooked him, then unhooked all the tubes and cables from the repair berth in the medbay. 

"Take me away from here!" He ordered, trapped and caged and suffocated, and they opened their arms for him. Prowl's fingers clawed into their arms scratching paint and even denting the metal, his despair was that strong. He was clinging to them like he was barely clinging to his consciousness. There was no way for him to escape and breathe and the first tendrils of insanity seeped into his fuel tank. 

This time, he refused sedation and snatched his gun from Mixmaster's hands at the first opportunity. Somebody was out there to get him, and he had to be vigilant. Vigilant my aft, thought Hook. Prowl did everything stay in his room off the medbay, he was sitting frozen on his new berth in some kind of tense malaise, with a gun in his hand, he barely spoke, optics darting like a caged animal. 

They sat with him the whole day. The following day his consciousness started to waver and he let them take his gun away. He also let them feed him, liquids only. Until he was among the Autobots, he held himself together but Prowl was now in his alcove and his mind decompensated, hard. Something inside him shattered and he regressed to the state they had never seen him before.

"My mind...is falling apart." He was hungry. Yet, at that moment Prowl couldn't help but feel he could vomit at any second after taking a gulp. It was getting harder and harder to swallow but he forced his numb throat tubes not to gag. 

"Your spark is beating and that's what matters," Bonecrusher remembered how his Foreman looked braced against his desk, sparkbeat and pointed and ready to explode under his stare. How Prowl's optics got foggy when he looked at him and then shot focused, sharp, frightful, scheming, mean, without all this pain Prowl had been through. And now...and now...

"My processors..." A shuddering vent escaped him as he laid on his new berth like a memorial statue. The Autobot looked so completely lost in his mind, his faceplates emoting nothing, stiff like he was a carcass. The mech responsible for so many deaths looked like a cadaver himself. These optics so cold and unfeeling, callous, calculating, was it because of his detachment or design, so far gone now. 

"..Heal...Me..." Prowl's mouth met Bonecrusher's warm palm clamping it shut. It was an instinct. The Bulldozer didn't know what else he could do, he just wanted to offer touch.

"From my perspective." He risked murmuring his tender response to Prowl's babbling. "For all of that you've been through, your body deserves some pleasure." The fingers were now rubbing Prowl's neck in alternating motions massaging the stress away.

"It will help you forget, Prowl." The Bulldozer remembered how Prowl walked all mighty, barely containing inner radiation with carnal demand and at the same time so broken, so lonely. "It will help you recharge." Bonecrusher slid a wary gaze to meet Prowl's indifferent pathetically pale orbs. He observed the Autobot from the corner of his optics when he took his place on the berth.

"Mmh," The Bulldozer started to knead his side, putting the precise strength to make it soothing. His hands went further to the Tactician's armor gaps manipulating the wires there. This strange feeling of helplessness made the Autobot hardly notice hands slipping under his arms. The touch felt so comfortable and so easy. Little by little, ex SIC felt warmth all through his hub when large hands rested on his hips, heavy, secure, sensual, forcing the horrors of life to the back of his mind. His body felt grounded in a good way, protected by Constructicon's. The Autobot pulled his legs up and curled under the Bulldozer.

When the digits reached the sides of his thighs, it felt like the most natural sensation in the universe.

And suddenly, Prowl  wanted . 

"You...Hah.." A white-hot surge went through Prowl's frame and out of sheer impulse, his legs jerked and rubbed his thighs together. His faceplates on fire, he wasn’t looking. Primus damn him, he wouldn’t look. Prowl shrunk and trembled with a barely contained mixture of charge and embarrassment, no longer able to meet Constructicon's optics.

"Let me give you some more gentle strokes." The Bulldozer wanted to crack that shell, break Prowl open, lick away his sadness, make him feel absolutely perfect. "I'll make it feel so utterly perfect for you just how you want it." 

The Autobot got calmly backed of the berth. Bonecrusher held the Tactician there, his other servo moving over him, stroking Prowl's chin, caressing his audio-shell. Gradually, it moved down Prowl's frame, pinching his cables, invoking little sparks, blunt digits treading through the raised metal petals and they slid deeper, digging into sensitive sensors. Hesitantly, his claws brushed against Prowl's abdominal wires, causing Prowl to jump minutely.

"I want to...I don't want to." A needy sound dragged past Prowl's lips and his frame was suddenly alive, his entire body stirred with something wild and chaotic under Bonecrusher's gaze. Something uncontrolled was happening.

"How long have you been going without a healthy overload?" Bonecrusher hung his face above Prowl's head until Prowl looked up barely enough to meet his gleaming visor for a second, his hot exhalation tickled Prowl's nose. "By the looks of you, I’d say you’re at least on your fourteenth century, Prowl.” The Constructicon had never seen a mech moan soundlessly as Prowl did, sound breathy, short, and compressed. His brilliant, beautiful Prowl all pent-up, hot, furious, ready to erupt, used to misery for so long he couldn't enjoy life. From the stone-like, inert figure the touch made the frame blossom with life, fans whirling with a whine. 

"Ohhh."

"Remember me...?" Huge thumbs pressing under the armor of Prowl's abdomen made the Autobot's awareness flicker with black lust. "Remember me touching you?" Gifted fingers found their way above Prowl's T-cog, just like that night Prowl let Bonecrusher pet him and began pushing minutely on sensor-laden transformation seams. The hand felt suddenly burning and heavier, inciting sparks from Prowl's muscle cords with every brush on Prowl's frame.

"Oh, oh, oh..."

The Autobot should have told the Constructicon to leave him alone, his tac-unit fought its ground. He should have screamed and called the others to stop Bonecrusher forcing himself on him. But instead, the ex SIC was moaning under this mech getting more aroused by the second. Prowl's hand lingered on his face, trying to hide the purple flush of his cheek plates. Every wire in his frame was tingling and Prowl could feel it all at once. 

"My brilliant Foreman. My Prowl." 

Why was Bonecrusher saying his name in such an erotic undertone? What was the Con doing to Prowl's frame thrusting his heavy digits into his aching T-cog? Bonecrusher's scent, oh Primus, Prowl's need tugged at his frame. The Autobot whined as one of Constructicon's hands again found their way they did that embarrassing night.

"Don't worry...I'll only keep my fingers on your...spot." He concluded after letting his thumb trail on the Autobot's codpiece's light.

"Hah! Ohh!" Broken vibrations escaped the Autobot after the first push of the heavy, smothering palm on his trembling delicate part. Pretty soon Bonecrusher pushed a little farther, and Prowl's frame was demanding more stimulation quicker than he's expected.

"You know my hands." He rumbled in Prowl's audio and the Autobot's optics rolled back. "Let my hands help release your charge."

"You-H!" Prowl knew how ridiculous he sounded but he couldn't help it, because his neglected interfacing array was torturing him. He quivered in need and vented loudly when minitransformations trembled inside him, his belly the epicenter of the quake.

"You'll see how amazing it feels when a mech touches your special place."

"N-No."

"Let go," Bonecrusher whispered to Prowl's audio, sound comforting, yet thick with arousal, promising him heavy petting. "Look how it's nagging at you." The Constructicon commented at the strained spurt of lubricant hitting Prowl's closed covers and seeping on the berth, then he wedged one large hand between Prowl's thighs, ghosting over the smooth metal.

"Mnn..nnngg…" The Tactician closed his optics shutters tightly in vain. The Bulldozer didn't disappear from his alcove.

"Stop ignoring it." The Constructicon almost snarled while his thumb was rubbing Prowl's abdomen with intensity, strokes deliberately shallow, making a slippery squirt escape Prowl's body again. He initiated another push.

"I-I...Ohhhh..."

"Say yes and I'll take care of everything else."

These words these fingers won't disappoint the cravings between Prowl's legs. With that defeated sigh the last ounce of restraint escaped, the ex SIC's mouth broke into a shuddering plaint forced by the feverish urge. He needed friction...he needed...

"What are you doing?" Lured by the unusual sounds, Hook approached cracking his knuckles dramatically at the Bulldozer and Bonecrusher's hands moved instantly off Prowl's frame.

"Just petting him." Bonecrusher's hands balled into fists.

"Who in the world allowed you to touch Prowl!!?" Abruptly, furious Mixmaster punched Bonecrusher in his face, and the Bulldozer got floored, totally hadn't seen that coming.

"He wanted this!" The shocked Constructicon ducked the other punch but got slammed by Hook and Energon dripped from his nose.

"How dare you!" Growled Hook. They'd made the sorry fragger pay. Oh, they loved fistfights and today was the perfect opportunity to gang up on the smug and infuriating bastard.

"How dare you ruin Prowl's moment!" The Bulldozer tried fighting off, but his voice was no longer demanding or empowered. He was so busy justifying himself he didn't notice Long Haul's looming.

"You decided for him." Long Haul smashed Bonecrusher's shoulders, obviously aiming for his head but missing. "Since Prowl clearly never planned on asking any of us!"

"Of us? He's mine!" Roared Mixmaster.

"What have you just said?" Bonecrusher was stronger, the imbalance was visible and his punch sent Mixmaster crashing backward.

"You idiot!" Long Haul grinned as he heard the crack of the next blow from Hook connecting with Bonecrusher's jaw. 

"Take this!" Long Haul tumbled under Bonecrusher's kick. The Bulldozer didn't give the Dump Truck time to retaliate and went to headbutt him.

"Ow! You slagger!" Now Long Haul was furious. He smacked Bonecrusher's face, once, twice shattering his visor until the Bulldozer's frame struggled to cope with the slow pace of his processors and pain seared throughout every wire in his beaten frame. 

"I didn't intend to-I only wanted him to unwind just slightly," The normally confident voice had gone soft, optics trained on the floor. "-but he got excited easily, so I-" 

"That will teach you a lesson."

His confusion was visible, his hands were shaking.

"STOP!"

"STOP YOU MORONS!!!"

They froze mid-fight, paint scuffed, armor dented, bleeding on the floor.

"YOU HALFWITS, IDIOTS, YOU FRAGGERS!"

"Um, we are sorry, Sir."

"OFF MY SIGHT!"

"We-"

"OFF MY SIGHT ALL OF YOU!"  

They acknowledged his order and showed their obedience, thanks to Primus. Prowl swore himself for how his voice cracked at the end of the sentence. Too late. The thing they were hiding, the lurking evil crawled like maggots out of their mouths and optics. 

*****

Prowl laid in his new, mildly radiating and humming berth, surrounded by pillows and blankets, alert when he heard a muffled voice calling for him. It was then that he felt being gently turned over to face a closed spark casing pulsing with life and affection just for him. With his cheek on Scavenger's glowing chest and a hand on his back, his optic shutters finally grew heavy.

grew heavy.

Chapter Text

The bright sun of Cybertron illuminated Luna 2 in natural light. The place was almost totally white to the horizon. A glance through the site would show a clearly apparent beach like-theme: a white, sparkly ground made of crystal shards and natural, colorful pools rippling touched by a soft waft of sparkly dust. The pressed crystals were warm under Cybertronian's pedes. The natural oil and acid were saturated with different minerals - baby blue, orange, green, and purple bodies of fluid were surrounded by the white shining boulders glittering with the mineral residue of each colored lake splashed with shimmering powder. There were particles in the air, sharp enough that when one touched their lips they could taste the crystal film. It was a wasteland, yes, but it had been cleared from trash, and the thick layer of white debris of crushed crystals made it seem clean and untouched by war. Mecha could go there and relax after tiresome days and bask in radiation. 

Most of the Autobots were occupying the space, doing their various casual activities that day. Blurr and Sunstreaker were polishing their plating, Ironhide was drinking Engex together with Xaaron, reminiscing on the old days. Cyclonus being dragged into one of the pools by Tailgate while he was trying to stop Whirl from telling gruesome tales to a bunch of NAILS. It wasn't often they had free time away from the city, which was mostly due to the fact that building new infrastructure was still in the beginning stages. Derelict walls, barely standing blocks of flats waiting to be demolished, and landfills of debris with trash to be moved and melted in pits. Not much has been done to change the situation.

"I guess the fun's over now." Said short Autobot Swerve, finally able to squeeze past Nautica, Skids, Brainstorm, and Lotty. Giving them an exasperated sigh, now able to see the culprits of the commotion on the beach the Autobots had chosen to relax and have fun on. Other Autobots slowly took a peek at the intruders, they reached out to peel the tarp from the shining crystal debris on the ground. Cautiously, they craned their necks before lifting the tarp fully to their chests, making sure they didn't make rapid movements. When they raised it high enough to fold into a nice cube the guards stopped yelling at the green and purple mechs who rolled into the beach, the dump truck drove in mauling the smooth surface of the ground, a slender white figure following them shortly after.

Beach occupants wouldn't shout to cause a disturbance, but with every following action the green mechs made, they could feel a pang of annoyance and jealously. The culprits were now making themselves comfy - when they found the best spot they promptly began to unpack, and the neighbors had to move whether they liked it or not. Eventually, other mecha dispersed. When someone shouted about the rules, the Constructicons, of course, didn't appear to notice the objection. 

Was it an offense to try to cover yourself from the wind with prickly specs and nosy optics of other mecha? It was difficult to say, although it seemed the Constructicons didn't know what the beach windscreen was for. The next image that rose to life: their place looked like a camp, covered by a white tarp canopy. The whole thing was decorated with green and purple flags hinting at who was sitting under it. The Constructicons were walking around the Tactician like he was their master, emperor, or a noble, something of that nature fawning over him. At this point, the Autobots were even more displeased. 

"My my." Someone purred faintly. "The deskhumper with his halfwits has just arrived."

"Or the halfwits with their bitch."

The voice came from the bar behind the group of friends. The Autobots didn't turn around although they primed their audios.

"What's with them anyway?" Butted in Trailcutter.

"What do you mean?"

"Prowl and the Cons. I thought he hated them." Trailcutter took a sip from a can, then handed it to Swerve. 

"I bet Prowl wants to frag them."

"You mean if he hasn’t already." Commented Blurr and they giggled collectively.

"I heard Prowl is a freak in the berth. Fragging and interrogation are the same things for him."

"Apparently so."

"While jokes about interfacing and discharging your waste tanks are funny, I don't get why are you talking scrap about Prowl. I know he was my boss, but I don't remember after I shot myself in the head." Asked Skids. "What's so weird about a bot facing other bots?" 

"It's funny because it's  Prowl, " Swerve replied annoyingly. "He's fun to tease. I wonder what do they find compelling about the mech."

"Aww, thank you Skids! That's so nice of you!" Nautica chirped and took a can of soft drink from Skids, secretly glimpsing over at Brainstorm, Swerve, and Lotty as they sat in the shadow of a parasol, helms together as they bowed over a datapad, reading the article together. Next to them sat Perceptor, who clearly didn't want to be there.

"Did you hear that Prowl moved with Constructicons?" Started Swerve. He was greatly liking this conversation. 

"Yeah," Nautica answered. "I think it's about the time they stopped being so shy about their relationship." She looked at Skids who set a crate of cans on the tarp covering the ground and invited him to lean on her side. She laced her fingers with Skids'.

"Prowl will have five husbandos." Leered Blurr. "I sure hope he knows what he’s doing!" 

"Will Megatron's trail ever happen?" Riptide read out loud and stopped scrolling.

"Finally some relevant news." Interjected Skids naively.

"Relevant information in Lost Light Inside?" Nautica's face twisted in a smirk. "Totally unbiased info?" Under the pretense of staying close to Skids, Nautica peeked at the datapad, contemplating her strategy.

"Admit it, Riptide, you read this newsletter for comment section only." Chuckled Swerve while silently shitposting on his small datapad.

WILL MEGATRON'S TRIAL EVER HAPPEN? 

"The total Luna 2 makeover", sounds great but will it ever be ready? How is the construction progress on Luna 2? You will find the answer in the report below.

In preparation for the Megatron's Trial, the shuttle bays have almost grown from the scrapheap, the asphalt is slowly and painfully turning into the road network. The worst situation is with residential buildings.

"At least some buildings have been cleaned of avian droppings."

4 billion years ago, the Rascol Arena was considered one of the most beautiful stadiums on Cybertron designed by deceased architect Scrapper. When hostilities began on Luna 2 the stadium was forgotten, slowly turning into ruins. The building was chosen for the upcoming Megatron's trial, which will bring tangible benefits and, as a consequence, perhaps accelerate alliance with the Galactic Council.

The delays at the construction site caused problems in the coordination of works in the industrial area, and thus the costs tripled. The investment budget is increasing due to the necessity to perform additional works. In this situation, its budget, i.e. 199.515 billion shanix, is at risk. Some commissions are not finalized, and some even not initiated. The builders of the stadium, mechs calling themselves Constructicons tasked with renovation comment on the situation.

"The work would go much faster if only we didn't run out of electricity every single day." Explains Constructicon Hook. "There are power cuts several times a day, so we have to stop work every few hours."

"We lack the tools needed to build and helping hands. We were supposed to oversee construction, not spend time on heavy labor." Complains the Digger.

"We could spend this time tearing down old hovels and building new skyscrapers." Says Bonecrusher, the explosives expert, the only specialist qualified to carry out a controlled demolition to minimize losses. "Although from my point of view I would have done it differently. I'd detonate the scrap out of it and start over."

The mech responsible for construction surveillance is on and out work.

"He's continually on medical leave." Other builders comment on the work of Prowl of Petrex, the ex Autobot Second In Command. He closely supervises the work of the Constructicons but gives them more and more liberties. There are many stories and anecdotes about Prowl during his prolonged absence. The tales that he sneaked out at night to Cybertron or that he was seen in all sorts of places and venues. Most often, however, he walked from Constructicon's quarters to his office and back.

"The Constructicons have not shown up for work many times. When they do, one of them is missing. Usually, there are only two of them on the construction site. It is not known where the rest are."

When they stopped showing up, penalties were imposed. However, these penalties were paid by their boss.

"The Constructicons are in Prowl's custody, so he has to hold him accountable. If someone wants to build Luna 2 roads and stadiums, he either does it perfectly or pays fines."

(...)

(200 comments) tap to read

featured comment:

love_springers_bumperr:   they're stupid and obnoxious but i'd let them mount me

> ultrashagus:    bruh

> patheticfool : time to start knockin'

> twinferno:    You will get a punch in the face :0

> love_springers_bumperr:    i'd die a happy mech

whirlybird:  the digger guy gives good head

hotwheels:  Man, these mechs are the fragging smoke show!

talksalot : I heard they love Prowl for his personality

> mirgg:  They love his personality, what a load of scrap. Prowl's simply rich :P He's got credits, his look doesn't matter to them.

anon:  O boy I need a nice piece of Constructicon aft

tfanon:  I will subtly ask: Why are there no Constructicons in the Decepticon side of the apartment complex? Do you know? Exactly. They do too...

bralwis:  where is the rest of the comments?

thisisbadcomedy:  It is said that Constructicons steal. - That's right. More than once, I have seen them steal from a hardware store, etc. Recently, they came to my store pretending they wanted to buy something but left when I showed them my gun.

mindwipe:  Constructicons themselves have chosen this way of life, they extort and steal.

asfsfsfssaffdfer:  Praxians are like flightless seekers.

>mindwipe:    Praxians are ugly. What kind of comparison is that ...

>whirlybird:    And I'm both ugly and stupid, so no one wants me. xD

wheel1949:  the header suggests that this was a text about politicians, I'm disappointed

>hotwheels:  haha

morning_screm:  wondering what Prowl's 'o' face looks like

>asdashdbwf:  YOU DON'T WANNA KNOW

>forcefields:  for sure it looks better than mine xD

rauwheel:  And all this takes place in my beloved Luna 2? So awkward...

waste_management:  Nothing will surprise me on this planet. Read my blog to find out more.

anon:  The conclusion is that a Constructicon must be beaten as soon as he appears on sight.

1anon1:  Decent Decepticons DO NOT EXIST! SIMPLY DO NOT!

sunstrk:   Is this a true story? 

best regards

Sunstreaker

Ps. please visit http://www.bestpaintpolish.cyb/lubes

 >Snaggletooth:  someone reports this account for spammin

(tap read more comments)

*****

EARLIER THAT DAY

It was a calm, sunny morning. Finally, one with no critically wounded patients to fight for. The soft sound of the heavy labor vehicles swelled in the background, but not much else. First Aid enjoyed the near quietness because his own life had been filled with the dissonance of life: buzzing alarms, pounding screeching metal, vehicles reeling across the roads, mechs screaming in agony. In such rare moments, he truly appreciated how nice the silence felt. 

His chronometer gave a little ping. Driving towards the Lost Light, he passed the apartment complex; he was supposed to visit one patient and he tried not to think about anything nerve-wracking that happened two days ago.

"Could you come to our quarters to see Prowl?"

"Why?"

"He is behaving strangely. Perceptor told us to call you."

"I'm off duty. Bring him to the medbay."

"Perceptor said to tell you the Parasite or some scrap like this."

First Aid's optics lit up. He could feel his spark lurch inside. This meeting he had agreed to made the Energon in his lines running fast. It would be all a dreadful experience, an experience that might end in his deactivation. The Constructicons. They were unquestionably terrible individuals. First Aid couldn't let his guard down around them, especially if Prowl was weak, unable to stop them. No matter the medic had good intentions there was no escaping whatever these cruel mechs had prepared if he could not help their Boss.

The door slid open and that's what he saw: Hook was drunk, Mixmaster was staring in the distance and scuffed all over Bonecrusher was contrite and silent. Scavenger was sitting next to the Long Haul. Apparently, they weren't in the mood for torturing the Autobot medic.

First Aid couldn't see Prowl at first, the Tactician was in his wash racks. A box with chemicals was standing next to Prowl's pedes and he was scrubbing the walls. The Tactician inclined his head politely and the corners of his mouth turned out in a small smile. As it was to be expected from Prowl, the walls were impeccably cleaned out.

"He's been at it for two days now."

The Tactician looked at First Aid and showed him the chair to sit on. When First Aid didn't, Prowl gave him a minute nod, then returned to cleaning the wall.

"Prowl likes tidiness and order." Commented on the Medic, a slight tremble in his voice. "He said it relaxes him."

The hab suite had not been cleaned out since the traumatic day when Prowl lost control and destroyed it out of rage looking for Perceptor's cameras. Although the broken furniture had been removed, the place needed renovation, and Prowl didn't have time to do it because he had spent it sitting in his office or in Constructicon's quarters and in the brig. Scrubbing and cleaning the place was delayed. 

"There is just one problem. Prowl's mute."

Prowl turned around calmly, nodding to the Medic who was staring at him nervously since the meeting started.

"He's not crossed or anything, he simply doesn't talk to us." Added Long Haul.

"His voice box is alright." Assessed Hook.

"We gave him a datapad, so he could write something, but he gets all irritated." They started talking trying to justify themself to the medic. "And he does that weird thing with his hands, we tried hand talking, but still no use."

"Other than that he behaves, well... He cleaned his hab suite." It frankly needed a cleaning since the time Prowl had wrecked the place out of sheer fury. "He is too calm in my opinion."

"That's because his protective protocol onlined. He mentally shut down his voicebox. It will work again when the shock wears off."

"Has he got a parasite?" One of the Cons mumbled simple-minded.

Prowl folded his arms, doorwings twitching up, and looked at them with rather grandly disbelief.

"No, Prowl's hasn't got any parasites. It's a codename for...uh...I cannot tell you more, it's classified data. He is trying to talk to you. It's been a while, but think I can do some interpreting for you."

Prowl unfolded his arms, stepping towards the Medic with his typical coldness and grace.

First Aid slowly wrapped his hand around Prowl's right servo, watching the Constructicons from the corners of his optics as he reached him with his other hand. Scavenger gave him an encouraging look, bobbing his head up and down in a way of telling the medic to keep going.

"Give medicine." Prowl made two gestures and First Aid reluctantly translated them, and he could feel his spark clench desperately. "Idiot Hook." He continued, looking a bit scared.

"Wow! Okay, Mix, c'mere. You need your medicine." 

"You can do the hand talking!"

"That's not a hand talking." He answered in a nearly high-pitched voice. "Prowl developed hundreds of home signs specialists cracked it and taught it to his medical and enginer staff."

"Can you teach this? How long Boss will be like this?"

"I don't know. Probably after a couple of days or so. Maybe a week."

"A WEEK?"

"Then teach us that sign thing!"

"I cannot. That's classified information." The medic's back stiffened. "Nothing new or dangerous is going on. It's only his reaction to events."

"You said a couple of days! How we are not supposed to be alarmed? He's mute!" First Aid's spark almost flew into his intake when the Constructicon addressed him in a threatening growl. Hook made a sign as he was going to slap the medic on the face, but stopped himself when he saw Prowl glaring at him.

"It's nothing serious." After some time has passed First Aid noticed their concern and he laconically described Prowl's condition, claiming more detail was unavailable. Long Haul stood up from his chair, servos in the air as he yelled angrily "Like 3/4 of his medical history! Come on you Autobots!" But Scavenger had managed somehow to make him sit down under the pretext the medic was trying to follow the commands Prowl had made him obey.

"He talked  my processors are disintegrating  yesterday! How are we supposed to ignore this situation?" A few voiced concerns turned into a near a full barrel of verbal assaults worth of anger that the medic was nearly vibrating, hands balled into fists in an attempt to keep his hands from shaking.

"A sign language for Prowl and his staff? Not serious? Come on, it's not a normal thing!" 

"We're not that stupid, Autobot! Are you going to answer me?" Bonecrusher's gaze awkwardly intensified the focus on the Medic.

Initially, First Aid had been glad that the Constructicons were unusually silent, just concerned, a lingering sense of recent discord between them helping him fight his panic. Whatever they had been arguing about it made them less likely to lunge at him. Now, the medic was less grateful. He knew if he was to turn his back to them, they'd read his intentions wrong, and it was most likely he wouldn't struggle from their grasp.

"Uhh, Prowl? Help me out, please?"

Prowl shifted to face him wholly, his faceplates in a slightly weary expression. Then he knitted his brows as if he was suspicious of the medic too. However, he grabbed First Aid's hands before the doctor could summon a single glyph and made several hand signs.

"What does he want to say?"

"Prowl wants to tell you...hm...I forgot most of the signs." He stammered. " Basically, he becomes mute after a long time of stressful events. When the stressor is removed he sort of mentally backslides like this. An incessant, prolonged expose to stimuli can even crash him."

There was a pause: the Cons froze and reset their optics. Prowl stood up and gave them another nod. He turned back to renovation, humming slightly to himself at work. 

"Okay, okay." Constructicons might have guessed First Aid's distress even in their alarming state of mind because they sat down collectively and addressed him with a quieter voice. "Yup, Prowl had enough of the scrap that's been happening for months, I guess."

"What should we do?"

"Just let him rest. Make sure his processor's not running harder, I know he'll look for datapads."

Prowl huffed at the medic's comment but didn't fight. First Aid warned him of operating his processor at full volume. It meant no working. Still, Prowl didn't argue. He's been in his state for too many times already.

The Constructicons gave him a dubious look.

"He'll be okay because he was not hooked into-" First Aid cut himself short. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you more. All I can tell you his tacnet intact." 

After a few minutes of silence, they growled in confusion. It was unnerving, in fact, how calm their Boss was. They observed him with benign optics.

"Trust me, he'll be okay. I’m sure he'll get his head sorted out." First Aid went on, sounding as if he doubted his words a little. "Spend some time together doing his favorite activities." 

Not long after though, their faceplates morphed into hopelessness, optics thin in embarrassment.

"Uh...Tell us, Auto-hm. Medic First Aid, what should we do?" First Aid's frame had relaxed considerably when their gaze was not on him anymore. "We know he likes casino games, but he got banned from most of them because he had been counting cards or something."

"We are no match for him in tactical games, anyway," sighed Scavenger.

"He loves racing, but he can't transform."

"Well, you'd probably noticed he loves hot places because he has problems with self-regulation." It was the truth, Prowl's hands and pedes were cold even when the temperature was unbearably hot. "His constructed cold frame is continually cooling down and his body temperature drops drastically when exposed to cold. That's why he eats a lot and seeks warmth all the time."

"Soaking in pools is a bad idea," sighed Bonecrusher "We don't know what the rest of his hobbies is."

"Take him for a walk or something." First Aid said simply and Prowl made an offended squawk. "Looks like the mech could use one."

"Together?" Constructicons blinked collectively and frowned as their confusion doubled.

"It'll keep him from glitching." First Aid reflected a moment and felt his spark slow back to his normal beat. "Give him some sense of normalcy. Just remember to protect him from the rush of input. So nothing too excitable."

"But other mechs will..."

"Then tell them his voicebox is malfunctioning after the bomb accident and he's waiting for new parts."

There was a quiet, disoriented trill escaping Prowl's mouth, then he let out a strangled mumble of defeat.

"You might also tend to any...needs that he has." First Aid paused at the word needs, catching himself then recovered smoothly and politely. "Don't let the refueling problems mess with his self-regulation. You may give him some nutrients in his fuel to compensate. Another reason he has to be protected."

Little had the medic suspected that he'd leave their hab suite not only intact but also carrying a box of sweets the repentant Constructicons gave him as an apology gift.

"Get better soon Prowl." With a heavy spark said the medic, a blue note in his voice.

*****

Now that they were somewhat reassured, the Constructicons made a goal to get the Tactician out of his hab suite every once in a while. Easier said than done. It was their duty, they had to help him heal, even if that meant tackling him in their arms and forcefully take him out of the building. As soon as they heard footsteps they dropped him on his pedes and he had to play along, walk with them to the destination they chose for their  quality time  together.

They were hiking to the beach. Long Haul was driving in his alt mode unhurriedly while Prowl was carrying a box raising it up from his chest to his face when he didn't feel like looking at other mechs passing him by. He barely looked up at Bonecrusher, just gave him deliberate wing flares of acknowledgment. These wings were so tense, forced to remain set in their default shape, and unable to transform due to the stasis lock band on his arm. Bonecrusher had never seen a Praxian transforming their sensor panels completely, but he heard it was a captivating sight. Finally, Prowl turned to look at him, and although his frame and faceplates didn't reflect it, the Tactician's optics were soft on him. Quiet, harmless, and sad.

It was when Hook brushed Prowl's arm as they marched to a large area with white ground and a few natural glimmering ponds. They passed a small stand selling Energon treats, and later a small bar with a big banner, no alt-modes, no guns, no briefcases which they promptly ignored, and received some angry shouts from the guards. The more they were nearing their destination the more Prowl kept slowing down subconsciously so Constructicons had to pull him along at the right speed. It was exhausting to maintain the constant appearance of firm self-control.

"I know the place is boring, but we just walk you there to see the oil and acid lakes." Scavenger had found out about this place and Hook told him hiking was a terrible idea. It was so strange to show up with Prowl in a place frequented by Autobots. But, Scavenger, being a digger obsessed with crystals, insisted that the place was a real gem, something pure and divine. The clear blue sky made the oil glow in various colors. It was a sunny day and they gleamed beautifully.

"You don't have to bathe in them, just sit and enjoy the view." Beamed Scavenger and Prowl patted his arm to make him shut up. After a beat of silence, the Excavator took Prowl's and rubbed it on his faceplates, then got a playful poke on Scavener's mask. Though nearly inaudible, Prowl's lips huffed and curled into a tiny pout and when his hand slipped away from the mask.

Bonecrusher's optics widened from behind his visor, but he kept his face expression otherwise indifferent. The Autobot had touched Hook and Scavenger, a thing Bonecrusher never thought Prowl'd initiate himself. The feeling of possessiveness rolled into his spark, he almost growled when his optic caught a glimpse of Scavenger's happy wagging tail. The Bulldozer was scandalized. He was jealous that Prowl laid next to them in the berth, how his palms rested on their chest plating. He was jealous as Pit returning to the Tactician's alcove to apologize only to find Scavenger in recharge against Prowl. But that’s nothing compared to the fact he was doing this casual thing, brushing their frames.

It's the little things that hurt Bonecrusher's pride the most. However, after giving it some thought, he realized how silly his concerns were. His Boss was beginning to feel painfully charged around him, not around them. That night Prowl wanted, oh how he wanted. His abstinence made his frame go on the fritz from arousal when the Constructicon touched his thigh. That's why Bonecrusher had continued with his ministrations to comply with ex SIC's silent wishes. Prowl had said no, yet Prowl's frame yearned for his touch, to feel his digits run over every inch of plating. But it didn't mean he'd not encourage Prowl again. He would also have to be extremely careful with it. The Bulldozer wanted to see that neglected body fiery with lust even if it meant taking a step back.

That's when a painful memory struck him, he was still sore all over his frame stinging from the punishment that was bestowed upon him. Had the Constructicons stopped when Prowl ordered them to? Yeah, they had. However, he had endured another beating later that night. He had been held by Long Haul and Scavenger and when they had only begun his head had been already sore and scuffed. Sufficiently prepared, Hook approached him with a sadistic smile. Lash after lash of Hook's rope on Bonecrusher's back his pedes curled but he hadn't made a single sound, struggling to be still. The strikes were merciless, precisely working their way down to the end of his spinal cord. At some point he thought his sturdy plating was about to split from the assault, however, Hook was excellent at sadomasochism play after centuries of indulging in his kink. The Medic was a perfectionist, his work was always flawless. By the end of his treatment, everything had hurt him so much he had felt numb to following strikes. Any time his processor considered touching Prowl that way the memory would make him regret the idea entirely. His plating ground sickly with every slight shift.

"Come on Prowl, it's the best viewing location." Which was swarming with mechs. Prowl glared at them the entire way forward, decreasing his movements as much as he could. "Boss, you can't stay in your alcove forever, it's not healthy for your spark."

While other mechs frequenting the beach grabbed a few cans of Energon and a piece of tarp, the Constructicons came fully prepared. 

Their team has always been self-sufficient, independent, individuals blending together yet remained separate mechs with all their distinguishing traits. If they had to count on anything, they'd count for themselves and their relationship was very close, sometimes healthy, sometimes devastating but they always settled matters with one another. Woe the mech who butted in their squabble, no matter how serious or meaningless it was. 

When they got to a good spot, Long Haul dumped their things on the ground. Putting pedes into the crystal shards, they instantly got to work. The Autobots gawked in surprise when the mechs put up a canopy all of the team could sit under. Mixmaster had set it up, and Hook had unfolded a soft and thick carpet-like thing they put on the ground so the debris didn't poke at their afts .  "Frag off!" Shouted Bonecrusher hearing complaints. He didn't wait for an answer pushing a pole into the ground and securing it behind him. He stopped to make sure the tarp was solid, before sitting down on the plush padding. 

Shoulder tense under Long Haul's hand, Prowl let himself be guided down until he was resting on the soft matting. He heard Prowl's in-vent hitch as he ghosted his digits over his side. "Don’t worry Prowl, nothing will happen today." He caught Prowl's hand to reassure the Autobot and relax basking the haze of safety radiating from his spark. The Bulldozer could see the lethargy in Prowl's movements, and gravity insisting he should lay down his head or lean on one of the Constructicons. The unnerving thing he was silent and seemed to dissociate from his usual self, which was more worrying. No other Autobot noticed, but Constructicons did. 

" We just wanted to spend some time with our Prowl outside of work." Hook crouched before his Boss rummaging in his subspace and gave him a shiny half-filled Energon cube. The metal around his optics wrinkled in an easygoing smile and shielded Prowl's frame with his. 

"You gotta drink that one, we will carry it around until it's empty." Prowl eyed the cube hungrily then stared back at them helplessly. The Constructicons had witnessed how hard it was for Prowl to eat. So Hook carried the same cube in his subspace all the way to the acid pools from time to time nudging Prowl to take a sip. They wanted to monitor his fuel intake that way.

Despite that, Prowl sat comfortably and leaned on one of them with a new fancy-looking glass and a curly straw in it. Confectionery was placed in front of him. Indeed, he looked like a noble just chilling with his servants and using them as furniture. His silence and lack of interest in other mechs could be easily recognized as his usual self-important endeavor. The Constructicons stared at passersby with insolence, passing the treats among themselves taunting other mechs.  Lord Prowl is trying to relax here. Scram, you peasants.  With their protective nursing coding activated, they'd not tolerate mechs getting too close. There was more to Prowl's state than just the inability to talk. Clearly, everything he had gone through had almost killed him. 

Prowl practically let his frame fall limp against Scavenger, using only his one servo as support. It looked almost charming. Crossing his arms over his chestplate, the Constructicons let out another spark felt sigh. What else are they supposed to do with their shocked, mute Prowl? They looked at each other, anticipating the other to make a move. It had been a long, long time since any of them had seen Prowl so detached from reality and they found themselves powerless when they tapped on his shoulder, he didn't respond in any way, barely touching his fuel. It was such a setback. They've even managed to get genuine friendliness from him recently, instead of mere tolerance. 

The Tacticians opened his optics, which had drifted shut, and sulked, his blue spheres pale and empty. Next, gripping Prowl under his arms, Long Haul lifted him from Scavenger's side and placed him next to Hook. A red visor shifted downward, the Medic offered him another glass of Energon, and Prowl took a sip, moving the straw in his mouth. Sadly, after a moment Prowl was only nibbling at it. He remained close to the four of them, occasionally being prompted to refuel more. Bonecrusher noticed Prowl's faceplates flattened and he couldn't stop a tiny sigh slipping out of his mouth. 

"Wow Boss, your hands are so cold! Unbelievable." Whispered Scavenger accidentally brushing Prowl's finger when he handed him a new cube. The Constructicons were forged and their limbs were never cold. They usually felt content in their bodies, the parts of their frames and sparks were one, blossoming with warmth, pulsing with wholeness. A perfect balance in every way.

It took full four hours to refuel him. Constructicons surreptitiously caressed his other hand almost constantly, and Prowl stayed still against them, seldom shifting in place. Bonecrusher stared down at Prowl and felt uncharacteristically big, despite knowing Prowl's frame proportions. There was a part of him that just wanted to touch but he shook these thoughts out of his processor. His Boss didn't speak and couldn't halt him and that would make things go so, so wrong. The Bulldozer shuffled closer. Normally, the smallest movement from them would make Prowl jump. Not this time. Two days ago, he anticipated the mech would allow the Con to pleasure him with his hands. His Boss fought his lust but surrendered, so the Constructicon thought it was the right time to go ahead. Bonecrusher wanted other Constructicons to be jealous and to have such an intoxicating power over Prowl, to bed him.

Power. It suddenly struck him and then Bonecrusher shrunk into himself, disappointed with his own behavior. It could have been his fault that Prowl was mute. He stubbornly pressured Prowl, he knew his Boss had issues and was hard to seduce. A small thing that tipped Prowl into this stupor and he forcibly reminded himself that it was all his wrongdoing and it was the truth. These thoughts stung more than Hook's lashes ever had.

"I'm so, so sorry Prowl." Not even he, the mech Prowl clearly desired, could get intimate with Prowl just like that, like a mech wanting another mech. 

There was a surprising warmth in Prowl's optics, considering his normally disconcerting gaze. But never before had he seen an unknown sorrow flicker in them. He was merely observing the Bulldozer, not recoiling, not snarling at him but Bonecrusher knew he failed him. He failed to soothe him. Failed to deliver comfort. 

Prowl wagged his finger, almost playfully, at Bonecrusher that meant to say:  Bad, bad mech.  And the bulkier mech was comforted to note that some of the numbness was starting to ease out of his silent Boss.

The Con's fans kicked rapidly as if they wanted to outrace his sparkbeat. When he looked back at Prowl he saw veiled hopeless sorrow in his optics. But then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. 

*****

 His head felt cloudy, there was an unfamiliar pressure between his audios. The reality was being filtered through it. First Aid left and Prowl hated that they pulled him out of his quarters again, but they were bigger and stronger and he wasn't in any state to make demands. He wanted to go back to scrubbing. The way the dirt vanished from the tiles and metal satisfied his sensory input. Sensory input distorted by the things he had gone through. The numbness had plateaued and he felt almost comfortable.

The Strategist felt useless walking alongside Long Haul. The big truck cast shadow on Prowl and the Police Car was glad that the box in his hands was another thing separating him from reality. His little bubble of cloudy mist numbed him protectively from the existence he had to wade through, like a living person in the valley of the dead, or like a death in the valley of living. The Cybertronian sun was blinding him, the debris of crystals warm under his pedes, he could taste the powdery acid on his lips. Time after time a straw hit his lips and he took a tiny sip.

Concealed by a bulky shadow, the Tactician glanced down for a klik and took two sips before looking back up at the Medic with a pout. His wings gave a little flutter. Everything was so foreign to him. Prowl's throat tubes worked, but not a single word formed in it, just some faint static. So he took a sharp intake of air then gave his cube back to the Crane. He didn't have a choice but to be seen while strangers were scrutinizing him in public, so he closed his optics, and...he felt protected in a cocoon of warm fog and glowing fields of his subordinates. No...gestaltmates...

The Bulldozer was watching him and Prowl was calculating dozens of different outcomes for this situation. The ruby optics behind the visor would turn him on an instant and yet, the hazy bubble cushioning him from existence cushioned his interfacing array too. He knew it was waiting, waiting to explode under the right circumstances, the right touch. But now Prowl didn't care because the curtain of numbness downed his lust. The Tactician looked up at Bonecrusher and bobbed his doorwings lightly. No, no, the interface was not going to happen even though he wanted it so much. His grand processor ran simulations and they clearly told him: do not. So why the all-powerful longing told him otherwise? What he would have liked to get done was to be pleasured all night. That didn't matter - the world was unreal around him.

"Wow Boss, your hands are so cold! Unbelievable!" Prowl would have replied to Scavenger. But he couldn't. He was still wordless, he couldn't even control the sounds he was making. His existence has been slowed down by the emotional mist wrapped around his processor like a bandage. He stared at the sky and watched two avian creatures fly in a circle: he's been there for four hours and he hasn't felt a damn thing changing in his processor. The Prime has already assigned him a handful of new tasks and he's been stuck in his own head.

"I'm so, so sorry Prowl."

Finding his disappointment tempered by the haze of shock, he wagged his finger at Bonecrusher. He wished the Bulldozer knew the influence of Prowl's modifications on his psyche, the necessary and the unwanted, the healing and the destructive, and the sheer amount of frame repair he endured to survive. Diverting his attention from the longing musings, Prowl turned to look at Mixmaster, who's been silent all day in his alt mode. Prowl poked Mixmaster's shield. Reluctantly the Cement Mixer transformed and looked at him.

"Boss, is everything alright?"

Prowl tugged at Hook's arm, simultaneously patting Mixmaster's chest.

"You want me to help Mixmaster, right?" He got a nod in response. The Surgeon couldn't stop the sad sneer that stretched across his faceplates, optics stuck to Prowl's. Reality seeped into his mind and he directed his focus to Mixmaster's well-being, something that's been nurturing him for a few days. Why was the Surgeon so upset, so unwilling to speak? Maybe that's what the Constructicons were feeling when it was Prowl's stubbornness blocking communication with them. Prowl sulked, crossing his arms with a clank. Then managed as stern as it was possible expectant face expression.  I want answers.

"Look Prowl, I'm doing everything I can to fix him." The Surgeon sat with his knees up and eyed Mixmaster. 

"But Mixmaster's mind can't be fixed." Squeaked Scavenger.

"Not by you, at least, because you aren't capable of fixing fragging anything!" Snapped Hook.

"I'll be like this for several weeks." Whispered Mixmaster. "And then, I'll be all happy and invincible. Over and over again. Don't worry about me, Boss. Enjoy the view because it surely is beautiful." The mental fog around Mixmaster's face dispersed and Prowl was acutely aware of the words and the sadness in them. The Tactician halted touching Mixmaster's chest, his frown deepened. Prowl took the Chemist's hand turned and made a few slow yet pronounced hand signs.