Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prowl’s tray was loaded. It smelled delicious. He took a nanoklik to tag Hound’s cooking skills just slightly lower in importance than his tracking. Then he turned to face the riot in the break room. As he did so, the noise level around him rose by a factor of 4.3. Bots in reach struck his plating or jostled him gently, while those farther away lifted cubes of engex and shouted his name.

Not riot, he corrected himself. Specificity of language was important. It saved lives. Not riot. Party.

For once, the Autobots had carried out Prowl’s carefully-orchestrated rescue mission without deviation or distraction, so the result was 100% success. Tracks and Gears were recovered safely and unharmed. They were in fact now perched precariously on the central table, trying to catch flung treats in their open mouths (a tragic waste of beautiful food). Why all this should be necessary Prowl did not know or care, but still he was... content. Gears had brought back unexpected, valuable intel on the Decepticon base’s electrical systems; Tracks had made friends with a pinkish Seeker-clone who was a good prospect for gathering further information; nobody had died.

Prowl was looking forward to enjoying Hound's famous delicacies (the mech mixed Earth minerals into the energon in tasty, unexpected ways). But he wanted to enjoy them uninterrupted. He had all the new recovered (stolen) enemy data to collate into his ongoing meta-strategy, and he'd hate himself if he missed something important because some bot had distracted him.

One table in the back corner looked mostly empty. It would have to do. Feeling itchy amid all the happy tumult, Prowl moved toward it. If the bot seated there insisted on talking to him, Prowl would munch the treats quickly (no time to savor), and wait till he was back safe in his office for tactical planning. Suboptimal, but necessary.

...

Mirage looked up, surprised. On the one hand, someone was brave enough to join him. Huzzah. On the other hand, Primus knew what pranks or jibes that someone might think were amusing. Mirage had never fully integrated with Autobot troop culture. They were so loud, so juvenile... and they resented him for thinking that. Mirage could turn invisible, but alas, his thoughts seemed to be written in neon across his forehead. He'd never lost his Towers accent or the etiquette drummed into him in youth. They were a wall of bafflement between him and almost all the other Autobots.

Prowl nodded to him: wordless but perfectly polite. He set down his astonishingly heaped-up tray and lowered himself into the seat opposite, with a frown that Mirage hoped wasn't aimed at him. "Was anyone else sitting here?" he asked belatedly.

Chagrined to be forced to admit it, Mirage shook his head.

"Good," Prowl replied, and then proceeded to act like he was sitting alone in a big empty room.

Mrage flicked through possible options for small talk, but they all felt painfully inane. Everyone knew Hound's cooking was delicious; everyone was glad Tracks and Gears were rescued, and Prowl outranked him too much to ask anything about what he was planning next for all of them. Mirage opened his mouth mutely... and shut it again. He did not let his perfect posture slump.

Prowl glanced up at him for an instant, quirked a startling half-smile, then faded back into himself. He lifted one of Hound's energon goodies, sniffed it, and took a big, slow bite, closing his eyes.

Mirage looked down at his tray. It was empty, of course. It was not polite to load up on desserts like a common... like... like everyone else had done. Mirage looked hopefully back to the serving counter, only to see Hound wiping it clean. The three greenish-gold squares of coppery goodness Mirage had delicately taken were all he was going to get. Tower manners precluded taking more than a few morsels at a time. Heaping them willy-nilly like the others had was an appalling breach of decorum. Still… Mirage sighed very softly, wishing he'd at least grabbed one of the rainbow titanium ones; they'd smelled delicious. Prowl had several piled on his plate, in fact. He was biting into his third one now.

Mirage in-vented through his olfactory systems, slumped a single tiny inch, and thought a curse-word he would never have allowed himself to say.

A movement from across the table startled him, and Mirage braced automatically for something someone thought was “fun.” But Prowl's hand simply dropped two rainbow-purple squares onto Mirage's empty tray.

"I noticed you didn't get to taste these. They're good." Prowl faded back into whatever complicated mental puzzle he was solving for at the moment, and continued acting like Mirage was just part of the table.

"Th-thank you!"

Mirage cringed. He had not stuttered in decavorns. All of that expensive therapy… Out of habit he started up the Days Without A Stutter counter, then realized no one was left to care or punish him. The whole file was a waste of memory-space. Feeling rebellious and a little dangerous, he deleted it. A delicious smell wafted up from his plate where Prowl had dropped the treats. So Mirage checked his posture, hitched up just a nano, and lifted one to his lips. The little squares were indeed delicious. He savored them in silence, still unable to come up with anything worthwhile to say to Prowl.

...

Prowl was in heaven. No one was talking at him! Even the sounds of “party” in the room were somewhat muffled, reflected away from this one corner table by a fortuitous trick of acoustics. (Prowl filed this fact away for use in case of other break room “parties” he might accidentally attend.) He was devoting fully half his processor to tasting and identifying each one of Hound's ingredients, while the other half (fueled delightfully) was free to apply intel to his running tactical program without any loss of data. It was the most productive, satisfying snack break he had spent in ages. Idly, he picked up a crackle-coated brown morsel that looked awful but tasted amazing, and dropped it onto Mirage's plate. "Try this one, too," he murmured without looking up.

…

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Bots began to leave: some singing, some staggering, all laughing. Mirage resisted fidgeting. It was too late to try to start a conversation now. Besides, he still had no idea what he would ever say to Prowl. But he didn’t want to be left in the break room to be noticed and perhaps made sport of by the presumably drunkest bots still lingering to “party.”

He vented in and murmured, “Thank you for sharing your treats with me, sir,” and sidled cautiously and silently from his chair.

A hand reached out at lightning speed and grabbed his arm. Prowl blinked, seeming to realize this was not appropriate behavior for this situation, and loosened his grip. He looked up at Mirage. “Thank you,” he said. “I thought I’d have to hide out in my office; but since no one else wants to sit with you, I was able to enjoy Hound’s goodies and get all Gears’s data into Tac without a single distraction!”

It was Mirage’s turn to blink. This was a lot to process all at once, and he had feelings... “What?” he gabbled uselessly.

Prowl rose from his seat too, and stretched luxuriously. He checked the duty schedule. Mirage was unassigned for the next 2.5 joor. “Let’s go thank Hound for making all those treats. The other bots all scarfed them down between yells without tasting them, and won't properly value the skill and knowledge that went into crafting them."

Mirage hesitated, rocking slightly in confusion.

"Come on," Prowl insisted. "I want to ask him how he thought to add the crunchy pyrite squares; and I’m sure you are wondering where he got selenium."

Mirage blinked again. He had indeed been wondering that. It was a flavor he’d not tasted since before the Towers fell.

Prowl tugged his arm gently, and leveled a look that seemed to see right through Mirage's armor. “Hound’s in the kitchen. Let's ask if there's a mixing bowl or spoon that we can lick.”

Mirage loosened his hydraulics, breathed, and let himself be led.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Earth: The Ark crash-site, one day after the Autobots’ initial online, battle, and repair

Prowl had serious doubts about the security of his new “office.” But when he raised questions about the advisability of installing the Autobot Chief Tactician into a room on the Ark’s exterior wall with a window opening directly to the outside world, Red Alert leapt to his feet, offended. He tilted his head with hands on hips, and glared at Prowl. 

“If you stick your hand out your window, you’ll lose it,” he declared. “If you stick your head out, you’ill die. There’s a 3mm laser-grid triggered by Cybertronium, an electro-net to catch anything with energon, and 14 hidden guns that will fire if they sense a Decepticon EM field. I only hope Ravage tries to get in that way. If he does, we’ll need to sweep up the tiny metal cubes the laser-grid will cut him into, but we’ll be rid of him!”

Red Alert’s fellow officers blinked warily at him and eased away. Red Alert crossed his arms and stared them down.

Optimus Prime braced his hands on the tilting, dented table around which he’d called the first command-level meeting on this new planet. “Thank you, Red Alert. Please return to your seat. Everyone…” he ex-vented slowly and sank back into his chair. “Red Alert has proven himself. We can trust him.”

Red Alert picked up his seat from where it lay against the wall and drew himself back into place at the table. Just like Inferno constantly reminded him, he cycled his systems three times before continuing his explanation in a somewhat calmer tone. “That window provides ventilation for Prowl’s tac-net so he’ll never overheat while he outwits the Decepticons and finds us a way to get back home.” He harrumphed and added softly to himself, “I’ve thought it through.”

Optimus Prime reached across the table and patted his forearm. “You’ve done well, Red Alert. Waking up in a crashed ship after losing 4 million years, finding ourselves stuck on an alien planet under attack from the same Decepticons we were fleeing… It’s been a lot for all of us to process. But you’ve kept us safe. We’re lucky to have you. And you’re right about the ventilation.” (Red was not right about ever getting home, but Prime was trying hard not to think about that right now.) He turned to Prowl. “Do you have any further concerns?” he asked.

Prowl realized he was still gaping at Red Alert, and closed his mouth. “I’d like an off-switch,” he began, voice going thin as Red Alert’s sharp optics narrowed at him, “in case I need to exit through the window in an emergency.”

Red Alert pursed his lips, then nodded.

“And when you have the time, please recalibrate your system so I’ll have some clearance past the window. I’d like to be able to look outside without my head getting cut into tiny cubes by lasers.”

Red Alert squeezed his optics shut, and nodded again.

“None of these defenses will be set off by organic life, correct?” Optimus Prime asked.

Red Alert stiffened and repeated a response that was becoming rote: “No indigenous life-forms will trigger any of the Ark’s defenses, Sir,” he recited between gritted teeth. How did Prime know the local wildlife wasn’t dangerous? Or in league with the Decepticons? But he’d argued the point several times already, and Prime always won.

“All right. Dismissed, and get some rest everyone,” Prime ordered. “It’s been…” he sighed, “...a long day.”

The Ark: Prowl’s office, now

Something hurtled through the window and hit Prowl in the back of his head. He drew his gun and leaped over his desk to shelter on its other side, sending the emergency comm-code for an invasion as he did so. His door was locked as always, so the attacker could go no further without breaching the wall; but that meant Prowl was stuck in here with it. 

He peered cautiously around the corner of his desk and saw a blackish something on the floor beneath his open window. It was apparently organic, and much smaller than he'd thought. His tac-net fritzed painfully as it tried and failed to follow all the thing’s erratic flops and flaps, scratches and hops. It seemed to be malfunctioning. The sounds it made were like engines seizing, gears grinding, and ancient air-raid sirens. Bits kept falling off it constantly: black feathers littered Prowl’s clean floor, mixing with smears of whitish goo. Prowl winced. He took a breath. Held it. Exhaled. His tac-net stopped spinning so wildly and identified the small attacker: Corvus brachyrhynchos, or Crow. 

:Cancel alarm: he commed before Red could send Ironhide to break his door down. He eased forward, and spoke in the low voice he’d heard the medics use to sooth a fearful wounded patient. He reached out carefully, planning to nudge the thing back out the window before it could soil more of his office…

Earth: west slope of Mount St. Hilary

The comm startled Hound so badly that his horn beeped and he jerked into the first steps of his transformation. The herd of deer that had been resting all around him in the little grassy glen leapt up to flee, their graceful bodies skidding sloppily and tripping in their wild panic. Several quail bolted upward with a frantic flail of wings. Squirrels chirred angrily down at him from the trees. 

Hound sighed. It had been such a pleasant day. He made sure all four tires were on the ground, ran a flush cycle through his systems, and tried to keep the resentment from his voice. :What is it, Prowl?:

Prowl sounded haggard, breathless. :Something got into my office. It’s a kind of bird, I think. It’s broken, but won’t let me help it out the window: There was a scuffle in the background, then a yelp. :Please Hound. It’s– it’s growling at me and destroying everything. I need your expertise:

Hound grimaced inwardly. The words themselves were calm enough, but Prowl’s voice had a squeak in it. This kind of thing only happened in the silliest of situations, where the Tactician’s fabled logic programs gave up in the face of chaos. On Cybertron, Autobots traded Prowl-stories like legends, debating the veracity of such tales as The Time Prowl Freed a Platoon From Shockwave’s Trap by Reading Oil-Streaks, or When Soundwave Himself Tried to Interrogate Prowl and Lost. But here on Earth – a place where Hound would gladly have spent the rest of his life – Prowl was the one who floundered. Never in the face of danger or when other bots depended on him, but things like birds in his office were too much. Hound decided he’d be sad if Prowl’s steel-cold reputation got tarnished because he couldn’t out-logic a wounded bird.

He started his engine and set his tires onto the narrow track downhill. :I’m on my way. ETA 20 minutes. Transform to vehicle mode if you can; that should help calm it.:

:Thank you. I’ll do that.:  

Over the comm, Hound could hear Prowl converting quietly into his cruiser form. He also heard things crashing to the floor along with the bird’s grawks and yelps.  

Please hurry: Prowl begged him.

Hound increased his speed and lost some door-paint to a boulder as he careened around a tight bend. He’d ask Ratchet for repairs and beg forgiveness later. 

Hound wondered if he might need reinforcements. He contacted Beachcomber, who’d been granted a mental health sabbatical and was currently pretending to be a rent-by-the-hour sand buggy somewhere on the coast of Mexico. :Hey mech. I’ve got a wildlife question for ya…:

:Houuund!: Beachcomber sounded delighted. And relaxed. Hound tried not to be jealous as he jounced across a streambed, missed a hole, and almost toppled sideways. He and Beachcomber bonded over being the only two Autobots who would admit they liked living on Earth better than Cybertron (a stance most of their fellows saw as rank betrayal). But their two personalities were so different that spending lots of time together was uncomfortable. 

Hound winced as his undercarriage scraped over a rock. He wasn’t paying enough attention to the trail. :Listen Beachcomber… You’ve been putting together a database, right? I need information on a bird…: He broke off as his tires skidded on loose gravel, and he cranked hard on the steering.

:Yeah, sure! I got info on all kinds’a flora and fauna. How much data you want me ta send?:

Hound sighed and cleared a whole sector of internal data storage. :Probably a lot.: He bounced over a boulder. :I can’t narrow down the species ‘til I see it. For right now, send me whatever you’ve got on caring for a wounded bird… a relatively large one from the sound of it.: 

:You ain’t seen it, but you know the sound?: Beachcomber sounded intrigued. :Send me the recording. I might recognize it:

Hound was doubtful, but he sent the sound-file anyway. :Prowl said it was… growling? I’m not even sure it’s a bird…:

Beachcomber listened to the audio, then laughed. :Ohhh, you mechs got yourselves a corvid. You’re in for a treat!: He paused. :Wait – you said it was wounded? Maybe not such a treat then…:

Hound gave a rueful laugh. :Yeah. It flew in through Prowl’s window and it can’t – or won’t – go out. I’m on my way over there now and trying not to panic. Will any of these things be useful?:

He sent Beachcomber a quick inventory of the organic repair kit he’d been assembling piece by piece over the years they’d spent on Earth: bottles of water; bags of nuts, seeds, dried meat, dried bugs, compressed grasses; bits of soft cloth, blankets, and those clever hand-warmer pouches; a human first-aid kit filled with uncounted bandages and ointments he was not sure how to use; and finally a solemn lockbox holding sedatives, syringes, tiny needles, and three kinds of suture-thread. Hound had never gotten up the courage to use those yet. Watching something hurt was awful; but hurting or killing something by his own fumbling hands was so much worse.  

Beachcomber sent him back a ping. It wasn’t words; just simple acknowledgement. Neither mech had to say what they were feeling.  

Prowl’s office, 2 hours later

“Don’t touch it! It’ll just get madder!” 

The crow lurched away from Prowl’s hand with an angry yawp and flash of beak. 

Hound stared. Prowl’s word-choice had seemed odd before, but yes– it did growl at them. It also yelled, threatened their families, and swore. At least, that’s how Hound interpreted the angry grawks and yackles. He and Prowl huddled on the floor against one wall, watching the crow attack Prowl’s office and ignore the food and water Hound had carefully laid out. It was surprisingly intimidating to see so much rage packed into a creature this tiny. It flopped and hobbled, wreaking havoc on Prowl’s neatly-ordered shelves. It tore at datapads and treasured trinkets with its claws and beak, pooped on the most important ones, and howled like its vocalizer doubled as a metal-grinder. 

Prowl winced. The crow was ruining an antique lawbook he had rescued from a burning archive in the first days of the war. It was his favorite comfort-reading: a reminder that things once made sense and might make sense again if he could only persevere… and now a crow was pooping on it. He hoped he’d have the chance to clean the thing before the acid etched it. “Are you sure this is a normal Earth-bird?” he whispered to Hound. “I thought they all made high-pitched, patterned sounds?”

The crow glared at them, and tore into the corner of the lawbook. Prowl winced again. His servos were starting to wear from the repetitive reaction.

Hound patted his knee absently, still staring at the crow, agog. “Yes, it’s a crow. Beachcomber confirms it. They are… intelligent…”

“It’s like it’s angry at us personally ,” Prowl remarked. “Like it hates Autobots…”

Hound blinked. “I wonder… Did you see how it got injured, Prowl?”

“No. It flew in here and crashed into the back of my head. I have no idea why. It’s not logical! ” Prowl pressed his fingers against his brow. “Birds can see , right?” He glanced at the crow, who was definitely glaring right back at him. He sighed. “Of course it can. Maybe it flew in here on a dare. Who knows.” He turned a pleading gaze to Hound, hoping he might explain this chaos. “It was… a little bit quieter right at first, when I was hidden behind my desk. But when I tried to help it back out the window, it went full rage-mode. It hasn’t calmed down since.”

“Not even when you were in vehicle-mode? Cars ought to be familiar to it.”

“Not really. It kept on watching me and grawking like it knew I was still in there.”

“Hmm.” Hound thought for another moment, then pinged Optimus Prime’s comm.

:Yes, Hound?:

:Uh, Sir, sorry to bother you, but… would you please send an Autobot-wide comm asking if anybody hurt a big black bird? It’s in Prowl’s office and it seems like it hates Autobots: 

There was a klik of silence while Prime processed this strange request. The comm went out. One by one, everybody pinged back negative.

:That’s what I thought. Looks like this crow had a run-in with Decepticons. Now it thinks all transformers will hurt it. Um… thank you Sir. Hound out.:

Hound leaned his shoulder against Prowl’s for some moral support. He had no idea what to do. Everything Beachcomber had sent him said to leave the crow alone. Ratchet’s medbay was full of things to repair Autobots. But he had no x-ray, no anesthesia, no way to hold the crow still for treatment without causing it more damage. If Hound’s scraps of food and nest of blankets weren’t enough, then he and Prowl would have to watch it die. “I hate everything about this,” Hound whispered. “It’s awful.”

“Me too.” Prowl replied. The two bots hunkered close and watched the crow glare back at them and wreak malicious mayhem as the sun sank lower in the sky.

Prowl’s Office: Day 2

Some bot opened the door a crack and slid two energon cubes in. Prowl listened to the hushed receding footfalls, recognized them, and commed Bumblebee. :Thanks for bringing us breakfast:

:No problem,: the little yellow mech replied, his chipper tone a bit subdued. :How’s the invalid?:

Prowl looked across the ruins of his office at the crow. It blinked back at him balefully. :Still alive. For now.: 

:Don’t give up hope:

Prowl didn’t know how to reply to that. He sighed. :Sure, Bumblebee.: 

Prowl nudged Hound into bleary wakefulness and handed him a cube of energon. They sipped together silently, watching the crow.

Some time during the night it had gone quiet. Prowl had been certain they would find it dead by daylight, and did not know how to feel about that possibility. The crow had wrecked things he had treasured, irreplaceable items brought from Cybertron, the home they’d probably never see again. Its lifespan was the scantest moment, an infinitesimal fraction of his own. Yet Prowl could not stop caring, not stop wanting it to thrive. Watching it now, as it wobbled over to drink from the dish of water Hound had laid out yesterday, Prowl felt an almost painful pressure in his spark. 

The crow cocked its head to look at him like it could see what he was thinking. Then it took another hop, and with three quick jabs of its sharp beak gobbled up a handful of fresh raspberries Hound had snagged for it from a bush he’d scraped through while careening down the mountain. 

Prowl looked over, and saw Hound was also watching with his optics shining and intense. He took hold of the green mech’s hand and squeezed. There was still hope.

Day 3

Mirage brought energon for them. But when he glanced in through the door to see (and smell) the mess, he goggled wordlessly at Prowl, appalled, and fled.

Prowl didn’t understand why he and Hound never got up and left. It wasn’t logical to sit here on his office floor and watch a crow to see if it could heal a wing he hoped was only sprained. It was only a crow. He had responsibilities! He had a crew!

And yet.

Neither he nor Hound ever made a move toward the door. Because that night a cold wind had blown in through the still-open window, and they’d come online at sunrise to find the crow hunkered in between their bodies where their vents blew out warm air from idling engines. It was like a miracle. Prowl thought his spark might burst. It felt like Primus himself had reached out a finger and said, “You Are Worth Loving.” Prowl thought he might die now if this crow died.

“I’m starting to understand why you spend so much time outside,” he told Hound in a whisper, as they watched the crow peck at a pile of seeds and dried mealworms.

Hound slung an arm across Prowl’s shoulders, stretched his legs out, and leaned back against the wall. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” He groaned, feeling his stiff hydraulics catch. “You know, if Smokescreen thought to run a bet on you becoming a wildlife enthusiast, he’d have made millions.”

“Not all wildlife,” Prowl mumbled through the fog of inadequate recharge and bad logic. “Just this one.”

The crow’s head jerked up, watchful, when they moved. It was still cautious. But that afternoon it began tugging trash and treasures into its blanket-pile nest. And while collecting shiny things, it hopped across Hound’s foot without flinching. 

Day 4

“We ought to build a sort of staircase,” Hound suggested. “Let it hop up to the window-ledge at least.”

“That won’t help if it still can’t fly.”

Hound shrugged. “Who knows? They say where there’s life there’s hope.” He held out a handful of dates and jerky. The crow scarcely hesitated before hopping up onto his wrist and nabbing a few morsels. Hound’s face began to hurt from grinning.

Prowl inspected the strewn rubble of his office. It reminded him of battlegrounds after a siege. But there were certainly plenty of things they could make steps with, including his own chair. There was a kind of unspoken agreement with their crow roommate: he and Hound’s space was by the far wall, and low. They hadn’t tried to stand or move much for fear they might undo the fragile trust they’d built. Prowl thought this crow might give Swindle a run for his money in terms of negotiation. It was tiny, wounded, yet had somehow managed to take over and destroy the office of the Autobot Chief Tactician. Prowl had not tried to reclaim even his chair. 

Besides, the crow had pooped all over it.

It took all day. Prowl’s patience was the pride and terror of both factions. Hound frequently spent whole days parked motionless, observing. But still it was torturous to move so slowly. Prowl planned the whole effort out first, of course. Then after double-checking every step, he sent Hound a file listing the items they would gather and their order of retrieval, with instructions for assembling them into a crow-sized staircase with the least amount of crow-scaring movements.

Despite these efforts, by that evening the crow was enraged and almost as distrustful as it had been the first day. But as night fell, as Hound and Prowl fell into an exhausted recharge, it settled grumbling into its nest-pile and slept.

Day 5

“Should we name it?”

“I don’t know. Do crows have names?”

“Actually yes! Beachcomber says they have specific calls for each crow in a family. He says crows live in very close-knit groups.”

“Why hasn’t his family come to find him then?”

They fell silent. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Prowl spent the day analyzing all the crow’s vocalizations. He realized with delight that it had particular grawks for each of them. He rose, creaking slightly, and moved slowly to the window. The crow had climbed up to the ledge and was sitting there, looking out. It did not flop away down its staircase when Prowl approached. They stood together with the wind blowing into their eyes. “What do you want us to call you?” he asked as if the crow might actually answer him. It grawked something, but looked at Prowl like he was lunatic when Prowl tried to repeat the sound back at it. He supposed he deserved that; he was talking to a bird. The crow ruffled its scruffy feathers, and turned back toward the bright blue sky and wide world flowing down the mountainside away from them. Prowl watched it try to stretch its wobbling wings. He had to manually lock his frame to avoid reaching out to hold it steady against the gusts.

Day 6

In the morning the crow was gone.

Hound scoured the ground beneath Prowl’s window for hours, but found not a single black feather. He peered into every tree nearby, examining each branch from trunk to tip. He stood still and silent, listening. No caws. No crow. Nothing. He did not come back inside the base that day. Or the next day. Or the next.

Prowl walked out of his office like a life-sentenced prisoner reentering a world that had moved on without him. He picked up a mop, a bucket, and a crate for the incinerator, and began to clean. He moved methodically, mechanically, like some dead thing animated. By evening, he had finished. Everything was back in place: rebuilt meticulously if it was repairable, tossed into the incinerator-bin if it was not. All his fastidious personal security measures were once again applied: the sand in the window-track to reveal unexpected movement, the fingerprint-dust over his shelves of special items, the datapad set at just the right angle on his desk. It was his office once again, exactly as he liked it.

It felt empty.

Prowl felt empty.

He leaned his head down on his desk and mourned.

 Day 47

“Come out,” Hound had suggested. “We’ll make it a picnic.”

So now here they were, sitting together on an honest-to-Primus big red checkered cloth, with an honest-to-Primus picnic basket filled with Hound’s energon goodies. It did not escape Prowl’s notice that they were his favorite varieties. Prowl had no idea where Hound had found the blanket or the picnic basket: neither one was standard-issue human sized. He thought vaguely that somehow Hound might have made them.

Prowl wasn’t compromised. He’d insisted on that. It was one bird, he always said. It had wreaked havoc on his office and disappeared. To grieve its leaving was illogical. So he’d fulfilled his role as Chief Tactician. He’d predicted a major Decepticon raid based solely on the moon phase and a wrestling event in Vegas. The Autobots had sent Megatron’s forces packing without any damage to the human structures. There had not been even one stray shot.

But Optimus Prime watched him worriedly when he thought Prowl wasn’t paying attention. Prowl pretended not to notice. Mirage made tentative attempts to reach out, but Prowl flatly said that he was fine, thank you, and shut the door. It was one bird. 

But sometimes, when the nights grew dark, he’d tiptoe down to Hound’s quarters and knock. He never said much, but he didn’t have to. 

And sometimes, when the days were long, Hound would comm Prowl with a polite request for an hour of his time. 

So they were here now in a small field on the mountainside, having a picnic.

Hound was teaching Prowl about spruce trees. “They’re my favorite,” he explained, before re-launching into an impromptu lecture. “I’m thinking of using the needles in a hematite cocktail. What do you think?”

Prowl was confused about how a mech might have a favorite tree. He was unsure what “needles” were or why they should be part of an energon cocktail. But he listened. Hound’s voice was soothing. As it lapped over him, he slowly let himself relax into the sun-warmed symphony of wind through trees and the rustlings of small animals.

Hound’s voice stopped abruptly. Prowl lurched upright. He had heard it too: a rough-voiced yaark that tugged at his spark like a fish-hook.

Hound’s hand clamped around his arm with a grip strong enough to hurt. There, hopping across the grasses, was a crow.

Their crow.

There was no mistaking it. Especially when it bobbled right up to them, hopped onto the picnic blanket, and deposited a beakfull of earthworms between them. It stared up at them proudly, cocking its head to one side and flapping its wings. One wing still looked a little raggedy, but it was working. The crow proved it by flop-flapping up onto Prowl’s shoulder, and cawing loudly right into his audial.

Prowl could have sworn that the crow chortled at him when he flinched.

A painful swelling bloomed inside his chest. He returned Hound’s incredulous, open-mouthed grin. He wondered if he’d ever felt this happy; worried this kind of joy was as illogical as was his grief.

The two mechs resumed their picnic, smiling until their cheekplates ached at how the crow sputtered and showed off between them. All the while it found sneaky ways to drop earthworms and spruce needles into their armor.

Day 209

This time, while Hound was showing Prowl how to gather the ores he’d need to make gypsum-frosted energon crisps, the crow swung overhead and dropped onto Hound’s shoulder-mounted cannon. By now they weren’t even surprised. 

The crow cawed loudly, demanding their full attention. Hound shared an amused glance with Prowl. They both straightened up with pistons aching from too long spent bending down to look at rocks, and turned to look at the insistent feathered ruffian. It yawped and chuckled, strutting back and forth across a fallen log. 

“What is it this time?” Hound enquired, half expecting an answer.

The crow gave out a high, commanding call. Two other crows flew down out of a nearby tree. Then three more. Still the crow continued its imperious demand. Cautiously, several more crows emerged from the forest. 

Hound was mesmerized. Moving with more care here than he did sneaking through an enemy encampment, Hound sank down against the crumbled rock outcropping he and Prowl had been examining.

Prowl observed Hound, watched the crows, and followed suit. 

It was a memorable, happy day. They both came back to base covered in muck.

Day 1879

This time there would be no recovery. He knew it as soon as he saw the crow. 

Prowl had been out on what he called patrol but knew in his spark was joy-riding. He’d been letting his big engine pull him forward along a familiar highway, taking the turns a little too fast and drifting on the thin ice forming in the shadows after the first gentle snowstorm of the year. 

He was almost home when the flock divebombed him. 

He followed where they led him, unsure what he should expect. 

When he came to the place the flock showed him, Prowl collapsed onto his knees like his hydraulics had been cut. He sent a static-garbled comm to Hound. Then, with a vocoder glitching in grief, he began crooning to the dark form in the thin cold skiff of snow. The crow moved weakly, and cawed something rude but full of friendship. Carefully, oh so very carefully, Prowl did what he had always wanted to but never dared: he lifted the crow in his hands and held it close against his body, hoping his engine’s warmth might be a comfort as it once had been before. The other members of the flock settled around him on the ground in silence.

Hound skidded to a stop before he got too close and startled them. He transformed quietly, and walked to where he saw Prowl kneeling in the darkening wet undergrowth. His legs hurt with the tension between wanting to sprint and yet never wanting to arrive. He didn’t want this to be real. But suddenly he was there, looking down at the crow in Prowl’s hands; and it was, indeed, dying. 

“They’re supposed to live much longer than this!” Hound complained to the cold air like it might do something. “Beachcomber told me—” He broke off and swayed, catching himself on Prowl’s shoulder. “Why am I so sad?” he keened. He fell to his knees beside the other Autobot, and mechs and crow-flock mourned together as the tiny form fluttered, gasped, and forever stilled.

They buried it deep beneath a blackberry bush so the thorns would protect the corpse. Without a word, Prowl reached across his body and broke off his right side-mirror, then his left. He crumpled them, then laid out the bright shards in a semi-circle around the little grave. Hound brought out all his snack reserves– more than the flock could ever need – and strewed them heedlessly over the bracken. The crows pecked listlessly, too sad to eat. But it was all that Hound could give. 

When the night came, Hound and Prowl sat together in the mud. They held onto one another while the flock settled in quietly against their warmth. It was precious. But not the same.

Day 2059

It was a beautiful Spring day. Hound had enticed Prowl out for another picnic with the promise he could be the first to taste the final iteration of his newest recipe. A warm wind whispered through the trees and the yellow sun shone happily. After consuming the entire pan of calcite-studded blue energon cake, the two bots lay back in the grass and relaxed into a slightly-muzzy fullness. 

“It’s a good recipe,” Prowl declared, “but you should probably serve it in much smaller doses.”

“Smaller than half of the pan ?” Hound teased. “I told you that blue energon will make you tippy for a few hours.”

“Make us tippy,” Prowl corrected. “Don’t care. It was yummy.”

A commotion arose from the woods beside the grassy field where they’d laid out their picnic. Wings clattered, chipmunks scolded, creatures scurried. Hound struggled up onto an elbow, frowning. “Prowl!” he hissed. “This is something bad.”

“Whuh?” Prowl heaved himself clumsily to his feet. He brought his gun out of subspace. Hound joined him, powering up his shoulder scope to scan in infrared. The two braced back-to-back, squinting into the dark shadows beneath the trees. 

A flock of crows exploded up out of the forest, diving and screaming at something within. They heard a voice. A Decepticon voice. “You slagging pests get off me! Pit-spawned, brainless, nasty beasts!” Something huge thrashed inside the forest. “I’ve smacked you down before, and I’ll do it again!” it shouted. Hound sent Prowl the infrared data pinpointing the Decepticon’s location. They exchanged a nod, then charged, zig-zagging between bits of cover. They knew that voice. It belonged to Motormaster.

They saw where he’d been lying in wait. They saw the undergrowth smashed down where he had slowly crept up close enough to shoot. They saw the mess the raging flock had made of him: slimy white streaks of crow-poop, sticks and little stones jamming his joints, acorns still plummeting into the cracks in the Decepticon’s thick armor. 

Prowl lined up a careful shot, watching with tac-net revved to follow the flight-path of every single crow, and shot an acid pellet between all the feathered fighters into Motormaster’s undercarriage. The Decepticon let out a wordless roar. Lurching into his semi truck form with a painful crunch of gummed-up gears, he fled off through the forest, smashing into trees and swearing.

The Autobots stood still to watch as the flock settled down around them. There were so many it was hard to count them. They were muttering crow-curses and still angry, but several perched proudly atop their two Cybertronian friends. Each one, it seemed, was fighting to recite their part in the great victory. 

Blinking behind the flashing tail of a bird balancing on his chevron, Prowl looked at Hound. “Do you have any crow-treats?”

The scout nodded solemnly. “Sure do!” He spat a feather that had somehow gotten in his mouth, transformed, and opened up his hatch. “Here, help me out…”