[TF] Frame of Reference 06/07
Feb. 6th, 2020 06:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Frame of Reference
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
Part Six
"Are you sure you're ready to get out of the berth?"
Drift rolls his optics and stands, momentarily unsteady before he finds his feet. "If I don't, you'll sit by me until the end of time, and then no work is going to get done. I'd rather be cured."
Perceptor frowns, and his concern batters Drift in waves, nearly suffocating if Drift couldn't feel the affection behind them. "I still think we should wait for Ratchet to clear you."
"If he has it his way, I won't leave until he's one-hundred percent sure the virus is gone from my system and I'm going to go crazy if I stay cooped up in this room any longer." Drift grips the end of the berth, maneuvering around it. His legs wobble, but hold him.
Perceptor sighs and scrubs his forehead. "You're so stubborn."
"If I remember correctly, that's one of the things you liked about me." Drift grins, making a point to show off his denta. He takes care to hide them around the other Autobots, around the Wreckers, but Perceptor has known him as Deadlock, and they don't bother him at all.
"What I like is when you're healthy," Perceptor says, his tone sharp before he reels it in, trying to grip to his self-control.
"And I will be, as soon as you stop nannying me and go join the rest of the brilliant scientists who are going to cure this virus." Drift thumps his chest pointedly. "My spark is literally in your hands, Percy."
"I know that, too." Perceptor crosses his arms, targeting lens flashing in the overhead light. "Why were things simpler when you were a Decepticon?"
Drift works his way to the door and though his head spins a little, he makes it. Victory! "That's a question only you can answer." He pokes the panel and nearly crows when the door opens without a protest. "Maybe you liked it better when you didn't have to work so hard at it."
"That's not fair."
Drift peers into the hallway, but there's no medic or medibot in sight. There's no one to stop his escape. He slips out and unsurprisingly, Perceptor follows him, radiating disapproval and a simmering anger.
"You're the one acting different," Perceptor says, though he's smart enough to keep his voice hushed so Drift doesn't get caught.
"There are two different viruses inside of me changing who I am," Drift reminds him, as his tanks twist with distaste. "If I was ever anything to begin with."
Perceptor catches his wrist, pulling him to a stop with a strength few know him capable, save those who served among the Wreckers.
"I know you’re hurting, and I know you’re angry, but please don't forget you aren't alone. I'm on your side, Drift." He guides Drift off to the side of the hall, out of the flow of traffic. "I know your spark." His palm rests on Drift's chestplate then, over the locked seams protecting his chamber.
Drift softens.
He shoves down the fury trying to rise up and swallow him whole. He knows it's irrational. He knows his emotions are close to the surface because of the virus and their attempts to wall it away. But knowing and reacting are two different things.
"I'm sorry," Drift murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. "You're right."
"You don't need to apologize." Perceptor is too forgiving, Drift decides, as much as he's grateful for it. "Like I said, I understand. But please take it easy." A shadow flickers into his optics.
Drift, at once, feels like a fool and an aft all at once. Perceptor had been there, when Drift glitched. He'd watched as Drift collapsed, and been forced to admit there's nothing he could do, while desperately seeking better medical attention.
"I'm not going to do anything rash, I promise." Drift leans in and up, pressing his forehead to Perceptor's, not caring if anyone sees. "I just need to get out of the medbay before I go crazy."
"That, I think, I can relate to." Perceptor chuckles and slides his hand around Drift's, threading their fingers together. "Come on. I'll show you the laboratory and all we've done in support of the cease-fire so far."
"Want to keep an optic on me?" Drift asks as he lets Perceptor tow him down the hallway, much more at ease now that he's leading rather than chasing.
Perceptor gives him a look that's full of heat. "There are a few private quarters," he says, "Of which I have access to."
Oh.
Drift grins and his pointed denta make a reappearance. "Then by all means, lead the way." He's quite sure he has more than enough energy for this.
~
Prowl's alarm goes off because he hasn't thought to remove it. He wakes alert and ready to begin his duties, until the memory of the evening before trickles into his active queue. He sinks back into his berth, tucked between Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.
Or at least he should be, but the berth to either side of him is empty, a lingering warmth suggesting the twins haven't been gone long.
He still has permission to access the duty roster, and a quick check tells him their schedule. Both have a morning shift. There will be no sleeping in and snuggling, unfortunately.
Prowl leverages himself out of the berth. There’s no point in lingering. He might as well start packing up what little belongings he has and seeing what space there is to be had in the soldier barracks. That is, if Optimus will allow him to step down.
If that is truly the best course of action.
Prowl had been so sure, when he’d onlined in the medical bay and made straight for the conference room. He’d been certain he couldn’t be trusted, that the Autobots deserved better than a walking computer to help lead them into a peaceful future.
Now, he doubts himself, if but in a slightly different manner than before.
He steps out of the berthroom and nearly collides with Sideswipe, who’s holding a cube of energon. They blink at each other, and Sideswipe slips into an easy grin.
“I should have known you’d listen to your alarm, even if you didn’t have to,” he says, and offers Prowl the cube. “Here. Flavored just the way you like it.”
“Thank you, Sideswipe.” Prowl takes the slightly chilled cube, indeed how he likes it, and glances around the room. Sunstreaker is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps washing and waxing before his shift, per usual.
Sideswipe leans in, brushing his lips over Prowl’s cheek. “We’re pretty good at takin’ care of mechs. Just ask Ratchet.” He winks and pulls back. “But I gotta catch up with Sunny before he starts hollerin’ at me.” He taps his audial pointedly. “Mech can’t let me show up on shift lookin’ less than perfect. He thinks it reflects badly on him or something.”
Prowl chuckles. “Yes, I can see him saying that.”
Sideswipe grins before it slides away into something more serious. “Meanwhile, you’d better go see Ratchet or Jazz or Optimus or whoever you need to get this figured out. You belong up there next to Optimus, you know you do.”
Their faith in him is a thing of wonder.
“I’ll do my best,” Prowl says, but he makes no promises aloud. He’s not sure he’s ready for the truth Ratchet will hand him, for fear it echoes what he’s already assumed.
Sideswipe cups his face and pulls him in for a kiss, a longer one this time, sweet with the taste of Sideswipe’s preferred energon flavorings. He presses their foreheads together, a little hum rising in his intake.
“We love you for you,” Sideswipe murmurs, and Prowl’s spark jolts, as it always does whenever either twin offers him the word ‘love’ without flinching. “Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” Prowl promises, because this is one he can keep.
Sideswipe smiles again before he draws away, though reluctance shimmers in his field. “Sunny’s laying on the comms now, so I gotta go, but we’ll be back tonight.”
“Try not to get into trouble today,” Prowl calls after him.
“Would I do that?” Sideswipe asks with a look that would never qualify as innocent. He winks and vanishes out the door, which closes with a beep behind him.
Prowl shakes his head and focuses on his energon, sipping on it as he slides behind his console. He powers it on, plugs into Teletraan, which recognizes and greets him. Datawork waits for him, and Prowl knows he should forward it to Ultra Magnus, but he hesitates. So much of who he is and what he does is bundled in these reports.
He doesn’t want to hand over the responsibilities. He knows he should. It’s for the best, but he still hesitates.
He doesn’t want to give this up. He wants to keep his post. He wants to stand alongside Optimus as they formally end the war and start working on a peaceful future. He doesn’t want to slink into the shadows, deactivate himself. He doesn’t want to live in fear.
He wishes they’d never found that file.
Prowl closes down the console without touching anything. He should fill out a formal abdication of post, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He drains his energon, tosses the cube into the recycler, and braces himself to leave his quarters, wondering if he’ll be locked out when he tries to return.
No. Not if Optimus truly wants him.
He doesn’t have a set destination in mind. Instead, Prowl wanders. The Ark is a wholly different place, now that they’re landed. Rather than having the crew cooped together in small quarters, they’re free to wander during their off-duty hours. There’s a wide berth given to the Nemesis and the neutral ground arranged in the middle for the scientists to work, but there is plenty of Iacon to explore.
Trinkets are being gathered and recovered. Stable buildings have been claimed by those eager to have private quarters again, even if it means they lack the amenities the Ark can provide. There is still a clear demarcation between Autobots and Decepticons, but Prowl has heard of no outright clashes, so he counts it a blessing.
The Ark is very quiet, especially without the ambient hum of a ship in orbit or in motion.
Prowl roams, taking in the ambiance, passing few Autobots in the process. Those who don’t know anything of the discovery treat him with smiles and greetings. Everyone is in high spirits.
His own disquiet is worth their peace.
When he can put it off no longer, Prowl changes direction and heads for the medical bay. If he has any hope of making a decision, he needs answers. Only Ratchet can provide them.
Ratchet, however, doesn’t seem to be present. There’s an odd stillness about when Prowl goes into the medbay, and while the door chimes to announce his arrival, he doesn’t hear Ratchet grumbling from the backroom.
Odd.
“Ratchet?”
“He’s not here.”
Prowl cycles his optics. That is not a voice he expected to hear, so when Starscream steps out of the corridor leading to the back rooms, Prowl is more than surprised. Nominally, the Decepticons and Autobots have been given free movement into their respective ships, but few are willing to take advantage of it. Ratchet comes and goes as he pleases, to no one’s surprise, but Prowl hadn’t expected Starscream to visit the Ark unaccompanied.
“I assume he’s at the laboratory,” Prowl says, unconsciously straightening. It’s not that he’s afraid of Starscream, or intimidated by the Seeker, but that he knows how keen Starscream can be. He’ll sniff out weakness in a sparkbeat.
Starscream folds his arms and tilts his head. “Yes. Along with everyone else.” Long fingers drum over the plating of his arm. “I came to retrieve a few pieces of equipment for a list Ratchet gave me. Or am I not allowed?”
“You don’t have to be defensive. I didn’t ask.” Prowl’s lips twitch toward a frown, but he schools his expression into neutrality. “Has any progress been made on the anti-virus?”
“Some.” Starscream moves closer to him, head cocked, his gaze sharp and assessing as it travels over Prowl. “You weren’t at the meeting yesterday, though it’s your designation logged on the treaty drafts.”
Anger flashes cold and quick through Prowl’s spark but he swallows it down. “I’m sure Optimus explained why.”
“He said you were indisposed, but we both know I’ve read the report.” Starscream’s wingtips flick, and his expression remains neutral. “So was it his decision or yours?”
“Mine,” Prowl grits out. He doesn’t want to talk to Starscream about this, but there’s no graceful exit from this conversation without offering Starscream a weapon to use against him. “Surely you can understand why.”
Starscream makes a noncommittal noise, and his gaze turns distant. “I know a little something about choices, whether given or not.”
“What do you mean?” There’s something in Starscream’s voice Prowl would tag as contemplative, rather than sly and cutting.
Starscream unfolds one arm and examines the tips of his fingers, a casual bit of frame language, but the clamping of his armor suggests an extreme discomfort. “I am a Seeker,” he says, as if that is all the answer Prowl should need. “We are all cold-constructed. We were put into pre-constructed frames to fit an existing mold. But I was sparked in the fields of Vos.”
Prowl’s optics widen. “You’re not Matrix born?”
“No. I was a field-born spark put into a cold-constructed frame because it was easier and faster. More malleable.” He gives Prowl a look flavored with a sharp smile. “When you want something that can be controlled, you start mastering it from birth.”
He doesn’t ask why Starscream is telling him this, because he knows and understands. They are not so different after all.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. Starscream, by virtue of his sparking, should have always been a puppet to his masters, but he’s obviously broken free of that mold to become what he is today. Arguably, it’s not a mech Prowl would want to be, but Starscream seems satisfied with his lot in life.
For a certain definition of satisfied.
“I don’t know if I trust who I am,” Prowl admits.
Starscream lifts his shoulders, rolling them in a near-shrug. “I can’t tell you how to do that. Trusting who I am is pretty much all I have.” He sets his jaw, and something fierce and determined rises in his field. “I don’t care what they tried to make me, I make my own choices, and I’m what I want to be. I’ll rip out anything that tries to tell me otherwise.”
“You think you had a choice?” Prowl asks.
Starscream cycles a ventilation, his wings twitching in a downward sweep. “I think there are a lot of things programming can make us do, but we always have a choice.” He lifts his chin, pride glimmering in his energy field. “And I choose not to be defined by a bunch of dead mechs.”
Prowl never thought he’d see the day he’d take advice from Starscream, and that it would be helpful.
“You make a very good point,” Prowl says.
“Of course I do. I’m not an idiot, contrary to proper belief.” Starscream chuffs a ventilation, and there it is, the arrogance he wields so prominently. He pauses and makes an irritated face before rolling his optics. “And Ratchet is shouting for his supplies. He’s lucky I’m not there in person.”
Starscream turns away from him, stalking toward the back, wings hiked upward in irritation. “I’ll see you at tomorrow’s meeting, Prowl. There are some phrases in the treaty I don’t like.”
“You assume I’m going to be there,” Prowl says, while amusement ripples through his spark. He feels lighter than he has since the discovery was made.
“I’m not a coward and neither are you,” is Starscream’s answer before he keys himself into the supply room -- he must have gotten the code from Ratchet -- and vanishes.
Will wonders never cease?
~
If Starscream takes any longer with that power converter, Ratchet is going to rip off his pretty wings and staple them to the wall of his medbay, as a reminder for all who come into his domain that they do so at their own peril.
Wheeljack chuckles. “You know, the only other mechs I’ve seen get under your plating like Starscream are the twins, and we all know they’re a special case.”
Ratchet tosses him a sour look. “I know what you’re implying, and I don’t like it.”
“Sure, sure. Just like you don’t watch his aft when he walks away.” Wheeljack lifts a coding synchronizer and hauls it to a different table. “You keep forgetting that I knew you before the war. Both of you.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Ratchet demands.
Wheeljack’s indicators flash amusement at him. “If you didn’t already know, you wouldn’t be so defensive. Hey, don’t we have work to do?”
“You are terrible at trying to change the subject,” Ratchet snaps, shoving a finger his best friends direction. “And I’m not talking about this.”
“About what?” Wheeljack asks as a chime rings above both their heads.
“That had better be Starscream with my converters,” Ratchet huffs as he swivels around to glance at the monitor, but no, it’s not a Seeker stepping into the research center, but Prowl. No doubt with a question Ratchet’s been trying to answer since the fool stumbled into an uncomfortable truth in the bowels of Iacon.
He’s not going to get this uploader finished today. Ratchet can feel it.
He sighs and clicks his sequencer into pause. “I’ll be back.” Ratchet leverages himself off the stool and heads for the door, passing a silent Shockwave who’s been observing their shenanigans but not commenting. “Don’t let Wheeljack do anything volatile.”
“I have zero control over your chief science officer, but I will endeavor to try,” Shockwave says without a single blink from that eerie optic of his.
Tch. Decepticons.
Ratchet intercepts Prowl in the hallway, the second in command looking both curious and confused. He schools his expression into something more neutral when he spots Ratchet, however, and Ratchet knows a defense mechanism when he sees one.
“About time you showed up,” Ratchet says, and maybe he’s a bit gruff, but gentleness has its time and place, and now is not it. “You finally ready to hear what I have to say?”
Prowl holds himself rigid, sensory panels arched like a pair of sentinels, his armor in a smooth clamp tight to his frame. “No. But hear it I shall.”
Ratchet tilts his head toward a nearby door. “Alright, come on then. You probably want some privacy for this.” He keys it open and gestures Prowl into the tiny cubicle with the single console. Sometimes, Shockwave gets annoyed with their banter and comes in here to work, silent and alone.
It’s a tight squeeze for two, but they manage. The conversation isn’t going to be terribly long anyway.
“We’re making great progress on the anti-virus,” Ratchet says conversationally as the door shuts behind them. “We should have a beta trial ready by this afternoon, and Brainstorm and Perceptor are building a drone to test it on.”
Prowl nods slowly. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He folds his arms under his bumper. “Though perhaps given my current status, you shouldn’t have shared that information with me.”
Ratchet rolls his optics. “Right, so let’s get one thing straight.” He leans back against the console, his spinal strut aching, and he resists the urge to rub it. Primus, he’s getting old. “Yeah, your base processor is designed around a battle system. Yes, in their infinite wisdom, they shoved a spark at it to power it. But you’re not a machine. You’re a mech.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Prowl frowns, and his field snakes out of his control, heavy with fear and disquiet.
“Only because you’re not a medic.” Ratchet pokes Prowl in the chasiss, right over the triple-reinforced shielding he has for a chestplate. “You got a spark, you’re a mech. Doesn’t matter what they intended. You might have started out as a computer, but that spark has made you who you are, and your whole life alongside it.”
Prowl worries at his bottom lip. His forehead crinkles, and there’s contemplation in the clicking-hum of his vents. “How do I know the choices I’m making, aren’t just the choices they programmed me to make?”
“Because you’re not a machine. As soon as they gave you a spark, they made you a person. You’re not an advanced AI, Prowl. I promise.” Ratchet shifts his weight and frag it, he reaches back and rubs his heel along the base of his backstrut. “You’re a mech, same as the rest of us.”
Prowl is silent, and Ratchet knows it’s because he’s digesting the new information, calculating the truths in it faster than any of them can understand. It makes sense now, knowing the construction of Prowl’s processor, but before, it had always been something of a mystery.
Damn the Senate for messing with things they don’t fully understand.
Ratchet lets him think and massages his aching spinal strut until Prowl finally stirs with a slow, decisive nod.
“Thank you, Ratchet. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“Well, don’t spend too long thinking. We need you at the negotiation table.” Ratchet grunts and pushes off the console edge, opening the door so they can slip out of the tiny room. “No one understands civilian law like you do.”
“You’re kind, but I’m well aware of Ultra Magnus’ past experience,” Prowl says.
Ratchet snorts and slaps Prowl on the shoulder. “I’m talking civilian life, Prowl, not law enforcement and legalese. This isn’t just battle anymore. It’s commerce, too.” Which Prowl excels at, if he’d give himself two seconds to remember it.
“Fair enough.” Prowl tips his head in acquiescence as the exterior door opens, and Starscream strides inside, a crate tucked under one arm.
Ratchet straightens, shooting the Seeker a glare. “About time you came back. What did you do? Go sightseeing?”
Starscream arches an orbital ridge at him. “Miss me that much, did you?” His gaze slants to Prowl with an acknowledging tip of his head. “I hope you found the answers you needed.”
“Enough to contemplate, yes,” Prowl says. “And now I’ll leave you all to the more important task of the anti-virus.”
Prowl leaves, but Ratchet reserves the majority of his attention for Starscream, and the something simmering between them.
“I know you’re grumpy by nature, but I’d swear you save the worst of it for me,” Starscream says, his tone light, but something buried in his words. “Do you hate me that much or are my brands the problem?”
“You know it’s neither of those things.” Ratchet takes the crate from Starscream, who relinquishes it without a fuss. “This isn’t the time for anything but our research. There are mechs depending on us.”
Starscream lifts his chin. “Hm. Duty. So that’s what you’re going to hide behind.” He sweeps past Ratchet, wing flicking toward him as he does. “If you insist. But don’t be surprised if by the time it’s done, I’m too busy for you.”
Trust Starscream to have a sense of dramatic flair. Ratchet doesn’t bother to argue, lets Starscream stalk his way into the laboratory.
Ratchet sighs.
The war is over, but nothing is easy and complications abound.
There are still plenty of battles to fight.
~
“We have to get out of the berth sometime today. There is work to be done,” Optimus murmurs, his optics half-shuttered, his field a lazy swirl of contentment around him.
Jazz chuckles from where he’s curled atop Optimus’ frame, limbs intertwined, holding him in place if anyone asks. Optimus is, of course, strong enough to simply lift Jazz and set him aside, but he rather likes this quiet moment the war had never afforded them.
Primus, he prays this cease-fire becomes permanent and the peace lasts. He is so very tired of fighting.
“We don’t have a battle to plan or troops to move. I think the Autobot army will survive a little bit longer if you give yourself time to ventilate,” Jazz says with a hum. He nuzzles into Optimus’ intake, his lips leaving a tingling path of pleasure in their wake.
Optimus shifts, his array warming at a rapid pace. It feels absolutely decadent to lie here like this, slowly rising to pleasure rather than a quick frag after the heat of battle, or a furtive interface in the dead of night.
He sweeps a hand down Jazz’s back, and Jazz arches into his palm like a voltaic cat, his engine purring.
“I don’t think this qualifies as restful.” Optimus cups Jazz’s aft, one finger dipping between his thighs to fondle the hidden panel.
He finds swollen heat instead, dampness coating the tip of his fingers. Jazz is already open and ready for him, the eager rolls of his hips speaking of impatience.
“Come on, big guy. Don’t keep me waitin’,” Jazz pants and starts to knead at Optimus’ chassis, fingers sliding over his windshield and around the seams of his armor.
Someone pings Optimus’ door.
He stills, with Jazz squirming atop him, inches away from sinking onto his spike. “Wait,” Optimus murmurs, accessing the system to see who’s on the other side.
“Ignore them!” Jazz says, and maybe it’s a whine, not that his third would ever admit it aloud. Spies do not whine, thank you very much, Jazz would say. They plead in a strong, demanding tone.
Optimus sighs and shakes his head. “I can’t. It’s Prowl.” He sits up and lifts Jazz from his lap, laying him back down in the berth. “If I turn him aside, he might choose to submit his resignation after all.”
Jazz groans and collapses into the berthpad, squirming to tangle himself into the covers. “He has the worst timing.”
Optimus slides out of the berth and presses a kiss to Jazz’s head, between his finials. “I’ll be back as soon as I finish speaking with him. I promise.”
“You’d better,” Jazz says as his head vanishes beneath the mesh blanket, until he’s little more than a swaddled lump on the bed, his field withdrawing from Optimus and taking the warm arousal of it with him.
Optimus tries not to sigh. He grabs a meshcloth and hastily wipes himself clean, stowing his spike with some effort. Prowl, he knows, won’t chime the door again. He’s more likely to consider Optimus indisposed and leave him be, rather than press for entrance.
Optimus hurries to answer the door, and catches Prowl before he gets down the corridor. “I apologize, Prowl. I was distracted and--”
“By Jazz, I wager. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.” There’s no irritation in Prowl’s voice. If anything, he looks faintly amused. “You two deserve a quiet moment.”
A flush creeps into Optimus’ face before he can push it down. “I had thought we were--”
“Discreet?” Prowl finishes for him, and that amusement continues to linger as he approaches Optimus, gaze sharply assessing and lingering on Optimus’ hip. “You were, but Jazz needed a confidante, and I volunteered. Especially when it came time that I began a romantic relationship of my own.”
Optimus steps aside so Prowl can enter, and takes a chance to glance at his own frame. There’s a streak of black paint in a long, rather lurid stripe through a swath of red. Well, at least he’d wiped off the lubricant. How embarrassing, for a Prime to be caught in such a state. But then, this is Prowl. He’s certainly seen Optimus in worse conditions.
“He’s going to be angry with me,” Prowl adds as Optimus shuts the door in his wake and turns to face Prowl. “I’ll make this as brief as I can.”
Optimus nods and gestures Prowl to the small sitting area available for his use. He has the largest quarters in the Ark, and while he tried to argue he didn’t need anything more extensive than the rest of his crew, he’d been overruled.
“What can I do for you?” Optimus asks.
Prowl audibly cycles a ventilation, and the amusement washes away into a more sober expression. “I want to apologize first. I acted rather rashly and didn’t think about how my actions would impact the Autobots in this difficult time.”
Optimus shakes his head, holding up a hand before Prowl offers more apologies. “It’s quite alright. I understand. I don’t know of anyone who could have responded differently.”
“I should have,” Prowl says with an air of self-castigation. He cycles a ventilation. "However, I can't change the past, I can only change my actions in the future, and it is my hope you'll allow me to return to my post."
Relief floods through Optimus so quickly he almost deflates, until he steels his spinal strut. "It was always yours, Prowl. I never intended to take it from you."
Prowl smiles, and Optimus can see it for the fragile offer it is. "That's because you are a good mech. It would never occur to you how I might be compromised."
"I trusted you before we knew about the Senate's plans for your computing system. That trust doesn't get wiped away because of something you have no control over." Optimus sits back in his chair, posture shifting to comfort and ease with hopes Prowl might try to mirror him. "The very fact that your first instinct was to protect the Autobots proves to me what I already knew -- that you're committed to us, you are on our side, and you are worthy of our trust."
Prowl's sensory panels twitch, though his expression is one of careful control. "I'm honored by that trust, and I swear to do right by it."
"I already know you will." Optimus smiles, relieved to the very core of his spark. "We have another meeting this afternoon to discuss the parameters of the treaty. I'd like for you to be there."
"I wouldn't miss it." Prowl rises with elegant ease, and Optimus stands as well. "I won't take up any more of your time. I know you were otherwise occupied. We can talk more later." He glances to the side, to the closed door of Optimus' berth room, and a hint of Prowl's rare humor peeks through his poise.
Optimus chuckles as he walks Prowl back to the door, the warmth in his spark suffusing his entire frame. "I appreciate your discretion." He keys open the door and Prowl moves to leave, but Optimus lays a hand on his shoulder.
He shifts to look up at Optimus, a question writ across his brow.
"I want you to know nothing has changed," Optimus says, because it needs to be said. "That no matter your origins, I trust you, and you will always be a mech in your own right. I see you no different now than I did before."
A ripple runs through Prowl's armor, tingling against Optimus' palm before he withdraws his hand. "Thank you, Optimus," Prowl says. "It's a relief to hear you say that."
He treats Optimus to a rare, small but genuine smile, and takes his leave.
Optimus watches him go for a moment before he slips back into his habsuite, and beelines for his berthroom. It was easy enough to set aside his arousal while speaking with Prowl, but thinking of Jazz waiting for him in the berth is enough to bring it back to life.
Peace is within reach. Optimus is even more sure of that now.
So he's going to remind himself of all the reasons he's fighting for it, and he's going to go snuggle his lover.
~
Prowl goes back to his office.
It's never been locked to him, and when he steps inside, it's the closest feeling he has to coming home, other than sliding between Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.
He sits at his desk, he powers up his console, and is immediately bombarded by announcements and messages. There are a thousand and one things that need his attention and rather than forward them to Ultra Magnus, Optimus had opted to leave them for Prowl. As if he trusted Prowl would return to his duty.
Their faith in him is beyond measure. It makes Prowl's spark throb with warmth, with affection, and programming or not, he's sure it's not feigned. It has to be real. This gratitude, this comfort, this relief, it has to be real.
It is real.
Prowl smiles and settles in to work. There's a meeting later today, and he has only a partial draft of the treaty -- though he notices Ultra Magnus and Optimus both have logged in and made suggestions or proposals to his current draft. It'll be easy enough to incorporate them. Prowl should have something ready for the Decepticons by the meeting, including addressing the various concerns they’ve already made.
It's what he's good at.
It's what he was sparked to do.
***
Universe: Transformers AU
Characters/Pairings: Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Optimus/Jazz, Megatron/Soundwave, Perceptor/Drift, Ratchet/Starscream, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble
Rating: M
Enticements: Sticky Interfacing, Angst, Moral and Ethical Quandries
Description: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
"Are you sure you're ready to get out of the berth?"
Drift rolls his optics and stands, momentarily unsteady before he finds his feet. "If I don't, you'll sit by me until the end of time, and then no work is going to get done. I'd rather be cured."
Perceptor frowns, and his concern batters Drift in waves, nearly suffocating if Drift couldn't feel the affection behind them. "I still think we should wait for Ratchet to clear you."
"If he has it his way, I won't leave until he's one-hundred percent sure the virus is gone from my system and I'm going to go crazy if I stay cooped up in this room any longer." Drift grips the end of the berth, maneuvering around it. His legs wobble, but hold him.
Perceptor sighs and scrubs his forehead. "You're so stubborn."
"If I remember correctly, that's one of the things you liked about me." Drift grins, making a point to show off his denta. He takes care to hide them around the other Autobots, around the Wreckers, but Perceptor has known him as Deadlock, and they don't bother him at all.
"What I like is when you're healthy," Perceptor says, his tone sharp before he reels it in, trying to grip to his self-control.
"And I will be, as soon as you stop nannying me and go join the rest of the brilliant scientists who are going to cure this virus." Drift thumps his chest pointedly. "My spark is literally in your hands, Percy."
"I know that, too." Perceptor crosses his arms, targeting lens flashing in the overhead light. "Why were things simpler when you were a Decepticon?"
Drift works his way to the door and though his head spins a little, he makes it. Victory! "That's a question only you can answer." He pokes the panel and nearly crows when the door opens without a protest. "Maybe you liked it better when you didn't have to work so hard at it."
"That's not fair."
Drift peers into the hallway, but there's no medic or medibot in sight. There's no one to stop his escape. He slips out and unsurprisingly, Perceptor follows him, radiating disapproval and a simmering anger.
"You're the one acting different," Perceptor says, though he's smart enough to keep his voice hushed so Drift doesn't get caught.
"There are two different viruses inside of me changing who I am," Drift reminds him, as his tanks twist with distaste. "If I was ever anything to begin with."
Perceptor catches his wrist, pulling him to a stop with a strength few know him capable, save those who served among the Wreckers.
"I know you’re hurting, and I know you’re angry, but please don't forget you aren't alone. I'm on your side, Drift." He guides Drift off to the side of the hall, out of the flow of traffic. "I know your spark." His palm rests on Drift's chestplate then, over the locked seams protecting his chamber.
Drift softens.
He shoves down the fury trying to rise up and swallow him whole. He knows it's irrational. He knows his emotions are close to the surface because of the virus and their attempts to wall it away. But knowing and reacting are two different things.
"I'm sorry," Drift murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. "You're right."
"You don't need to apologize." Perceptor is too forgiving, Drift decides, as much as he's grateful for it. "Like I said, I understand. But please take it easy." A shadow flickers into his optics.
Drift, at once, feels like a fool and an aft all at once. Perceptor had been there, when Drift glitched. He'd watched as Drift collapsed, and been forced to admit there's nothing he could do, while desperately seeking better medical attention.
"I'm not going to do anything rash, I promise." Drift leans in and up, pressing his forehead to Perceptor's, not caring if anyone sees. "I just need to get out of the medbay before I go crazy."
"That, I think, I can relate to." Perceptor chuckles and slides his hand around Drift's, threading their fingers together. "Come on. I'll show you the laboratory and all we've done in support of the cease-fire so far."
"Want to keep an optic on me?" Drift asks as he lets Perceptor tow him down the hallway, much more at ease now that he's leading rather than chasing.
Perceptor gives him a look that's full of heat. "There are a few private quarters," he says, "Of which I have access to."
Oh.
Drift grins and his pointed denta make a reappearance. "Then by all means, lead the way." He's quite sure he has more than enough energy for this.
Prowl's alarm goes off because he hasn't thought to remove it. He wakes alert and ready to begin his duties, until the memory of the evening before trickles into his active queue. He sinks back into his berth, tucked between Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.
Or at least he should be, but the berth to either side of him is empty, a lingering warmth suggesting the twins haven't been gone long.
He still has permission to access the duty roster, and a quick check tells him their schedule. Both have a morning shift. There will be no sleeping in and snuggling, unfortunately.
Prowl leverages himself out of the berth. There’s no point in lingering. He might as well start packing up what little belongings he has and seeing what space there is to be had in the soldier barracks. That is, if Optimus will allow him to step down.
If that is truly the best course of action.
Prowl had been so sure, when he’d onlined in the medical bay and made straight for the conference room. He’d been certain he couldn’t be trusted, that the Autobots deserved better than a walking computer to help lead them into a peaceful future.
Now, he doubts himself, if but in a slightly different manner than before.
He steps out of the berthroom and nearly collides with Sideswipe, who’s holding a cube of energon. They blink at each other, and Sideswipe slips into an easy grin.
“I should have known you’d listen to your alarm, even if you didn’t have to,” he says, and offers Prowl the cube. “Here. Flavored just the way you like it.”
“Thank you, Sideswipe.” Prowl takes the slightly chilled cube, indeed how he likes it, and glances around the room. Sunstreaker is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps washing and waxing before his shift, per usual.
Sideswipe leans in, brushing his lips over Prowl’s cheek. “We’re pretty good at takin’ care of mechs. Just ask Ratchet.” He winks and pulls back. “But I gotta catch up with Sunny before he starts hollerin’ at me.” He taps his audial pointedly. “Mech can’t let me show up on shift lookin’ less than perfect. He thinks it reflects badly on him or something.”
Prowl chuckles. “Yes, I can see him saying that.”
Sideswipe grins before it slides away into something more serious. “Meanwhile, you’d better go see Ratchet or Jazz or Optimus or whoever you need to get this figured out. You belong up there next to Optimus, you know you do.”
Their faith in him is a thing of wonder.
“I’ll do my best,” Prowl says, but he makes no promises aloud. He’s not sure he’s ready for the truth Ratchet will hand him, for fear it echoes what he’s already assumed.
Sideswipe cups his face and pulls him in for a kiss, a longer one this time, sweet with the taste of Sideswipe’s preferred energon flavorings. He presses their foreheads together, a little hum rising in his intake.
“We love you for you,” Sideswipe murmurs, and Prowl’s spark jolts, as it always does whenever either twin offers him the word ‘love’ without flinching. “Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” Prowl promises, because this is one he can keep.
Sideswipe smiles again before he draws away, though reluctance shimmers in his field. “Sunny’s laying on the comms now, so I gotta go, but we’ll be back tonight.”
“Try not to get into trouble today,” Prowl calls after him.
“Would I do that?” Sideswipe asks with a look that would never qualify as innocent. He winks and vanishes out the door, which closes with a beep behind him.
Prowl shakes his head and focuses on his energon, sipping on it as he slides behind his console. He powers it on, plugs into Teletraan, which recognizes and greets him. Datawork waits for him, and Prowl knows he should forward it to Ultra Magnus, but he hesitates. So much of who he is and what he does is bundled in these reports.
He doesn’t want to hand over the responsibilities. He knows he should. It’s for the best, but he still hesitates.
He doesn’t want to give this up. He wants to keep his post. He wants to stand alongside Optimus as they formally end the war and start working on a peaceful future. He doesn’t want to slink into the shadows, deactivate himself. He doesn’t want to live in fear.
He wishes they’d never found that file.
Prowl closes down the console without touching anything. He should fill out a formal abdication of post, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He drains his energon, tosses the cube into the recycler, and braces himself to leave his quarters, wondering if he’ll be locked out when he tries to return.
No. Not if Optimus truly wants him.
He doesn’t have a set destination in mind. Instead, Prowl wanders. The Ark is a wholly different place, now that they’re landed. Rather than having the crew cooped together in small quarters, they’re free to wander during their off-duty hours. There’s a wide berth given to the Nemesis and the neutral ground arranged in the middle for the scientists to work, but there is plenty of Iacon to explore.
Trinkets are being gathered and recovered. Stable buildings have been claimed by those eager to have private quarters again, even if it means they lack the amenities the Ark can provide. There is still a clear demarcation between Autobots and Decepticons, but Prowl has heard of no outright clashes, so he counts it a blessing.
The Ark is very quiet, especially without the ambient hum of a ship in orbit or in motion.
Prowl roams, taking in the ambiance, passing few Autobots in the process. Those who don’t know anything of the discovery treat him with smiles and greetings. Everyone is in high spirits.
His own disquiet is worth their peace.
When he can put it off no longer, Prowl changes direction and heads for the medical bay. If he has any hope of making a decision, he needs answers. Only Ratchet can provide them.
Ratchet, however, doesn’t seem to be present. There’s an odd stillness about when Prowl goes into the medbay, and while the door chimes to announce his arrival, he doesn’t hear Ratchet grumbling from the backroom.
Odd.
“Ratchet?”
“He’s not here.”
Prowl cycles his optics. That is not a voice he expected to hear, so when Starscream steps out of the corridor leading to the back rooms, Prowl is more than surprised. Nominally, the Decepticons and Autobots have been given free movement into their respective ships, but few are willing to take advantage of it. Ratchet comes and goes as he pleases, to no one’s surprise, but Prowl hadn’t expected Starscream to visit the Ark unaccompanied.
“I assume he’s at the laboratory,” Prowl says, unconsciously straightening. It’s not that he’s afraid of Starscream, or intimidated by the Seeker, but that he knows how keen Starscream can be. He’ll sniff out weakness in a sparkbeat.
Starscream folds his arms and tilts his head. “Yes. Along with everyone else.” Long fingers drum over the plating of his arm. “I came to retrieve a few pieces of equipment for a list Ratchet gave me. Or am I not allowed?”
“You don’t have to be defensive. I didn’t ask.” Prowl’s lips twitch toward a frown, but he schools his expression into neutrality. “Has any progress been made on the anti-virus?”
“Some.” Starscream moves closer to him, head cocked, his gaze sharp and assessing as it travels over Prowl. “You weren’t at the meeting yesterday, though it’s your designation logged on the treaty drafts.”
Anger flashes cold and quick through Prowl’s spark but he swallows it down. “I’m sure Optimus explained why.”
“He said you were indisposed, but we both know I’ve read the report.” Starscream’s wingtips flick, and his expression remains neutral. “So was it his decision or yours?”
“Mine,” Prowl grits out. He doesn’t want to talk to Starscream about this, but there’s no graceful exit from this conversation without offering Starscream a weapon to use against him. “Surely you can understand why.”
Starscream makes a noncommittal noise, and his gaze turns distant. “I know a little something about choices, whether given or not.”
“What do you mean?” There’s something in Starscream’s voice Prowl would tag as contemplative, rather than sly and cutting.
Starscream unfolds one arm and examines the tips of his fingers, a casual bit of frame language, but the clamping of his armor suggests an extreme discomfort. “I am a Seeker,” he says, as if that is all the answer Prowl should need. “We are all cold-constructed. We were put into pre-constructed frames to fit an existing mold. But I was sparked in the fields of Vos.”
Prowl’s optics widen. “You’re not Matrix born?”
“No. I was a field-born spark put into a cold-constructed frame because it was easier and faster. More malleable.” He gives Prowl a look flavored with a sharp smile. “When you want something that can be controlled, you start mastering it from birth.”
He doesn’t ask why Starscream is telling him this, because he knows and understands. They are not so different after all.
Prowl cycles a ventilation. Starscream, by virtue of his sparking, should have always been a puppet to his masters, but he’s obviously broken free of that mold to become what he is today. Arguably, it’s not a mech Prowl would want to be, but Starscream seems satisfied with his lot in life.
For a certain definition of satisfied.
“I don’t know if I trust who I am,” Prowl admits.
Starscream lifts his shoulders, rolling them in a near-shrug. “I can’t tell you how to do that. Trusting who I am is pretty much all I have.” He sets his jaw, and something fierce and determined rises in his field. “I don’t care what they tried to make me, I make my own choices, and I’m what I want to be. I’ll rip out anything that tries to tell me otherwise.”
“You think you had a choice?” Prowl asks.
Starscream cycles a ventilation, his wings twitching in a downward sweep. “I think there are a lot of things programming can make us do, but we always have a choice.” He lifts his chin, pride glimmering in his energy field. “And I choose not to be defined by a bunch of dead mechs.”
Prowl never thought he’d see the day he’d take advice from Starscream, and that it would be helpful.
“You make a very good point,” Prowl says.
“Of course I do. I’m not an idiot, contrary to proper belief.” Starscream chuffs a ventilation, and there it is, the arrogance he wields so prominently. He pauses and makes an irritated face before rolling his optics. “And Ratchet is shouting for his supplies. He’s lucky I’m not there in person.”
Starscream turns away from him, stalking toward the back, wings hiked upward in irritation. “I’ll see you at tomorrow’s meeting, Prowl. There are some phrases in the treaty I don’t like.”
“You assume I’m going to be there,” Prowl says, while amusement ripples through his spark. He feels lighter than he has since the discovery was made.
“I’m not a coward and neither are you,” is Starscream’s answer before he keys himself into the supply room -- he must have gotten the code from Ratchet -- and vanishes.
Will wonders never cease?
If Starscream takes any longer with that power converter, Ratchet is going to rip off his pretty wings and staple them to the wall of his medbay, as a reminder for all who come into his domain that they do so at their own peril.
Wheeljack chuckles. “You know, the only other mechs I’ve seen get under your plating like Starscream are the twins, and we all know they’re a special case.”
Ratchet tosses him a sour look. “I know what you’re implying, and I don’t like it.”
“Sure, sure. Just like you don’t watch his aft when he walks away.” Wheeljack lifts a coding synchronizer and hauls it to a different table. “You keep forgetting that I knew you before the war. Both of you.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Ratchet demands.
Wheeljack’s indicators flash amusement at him. “If you didn’t already know, you wouldn’t be so defensive. Hey, don’t we have work to do?”
“You are terrible at trying to change the subject,” Ratchet snaps, shoving a finger his best friends direction. “And I’m not talking about this.”
“About what?” Wheeljack asks as a chime rings above both their heads.
“That had better be Starscream with my converters,” Ratchet huffs as he swivels around to glance at the monitor, but no, it’s not a Seeker stepping into the research center, but Prowl. No doubt with a question Ratchet’s been trying to answer since the fool stumbled into an uncomfortable truth in the bowels of Iacon.
He’s not going to get this uploader finished today. Ratchet can feel it.
He sighs and clicks his sequencer into pause. “I’ll be back.” Ratchet leverages himself off the stool and heads for the door, passing a silent Shockwave who’s been observing their shenanigans but not commenting. “Don’t let Wheeljack do anything volatile.”
“I have zero control over your chief science officer, but I will endeavor to try,” Shockwave says without a single blink from that eerie optic of his.
Tch. Decepticons.
Ratchet intercepts Prowl in the hallway, the second in command looking both curious and confused. He schools his expression into something more neutral when he spots Ratchet, however, and Ratchet knows a defense mechanism when he sees one.
“About time you showed up,” Ratchet says, and maybe he’s a bit gruff, but gentleness has its time and place, and now is not it. “You finally ready to hear what I have to say?”
Prowl holds himself rigid, sensory panels arched like a pair of sentinels, his armor in a smooth clamp tight to his frame. “No. But hear it I shall.”
Ratchet tilts his head toward a nearby door. “Alright, come on then. You probably want some privacy for this.” He keys it open and gestures Prowl into the tiny cubicle with the single console. Sometimes, Shockwave gets annoyed with their banter and comes in here to work, silent and alone.
It’s a tight squeeze for two, but they manage. The conversation isn’t going to be terribly long anyway.
“We’re making great progress on the anti-virus,” Ratchet says conversationally as the door shuts behind them. “We should have a beta trial ready by this afternoon, and Brainstorm and Perceptor are building a drone to test it on.”
Prowl nods slowly. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He folds his arms under his bumper. “Though perhaps given my current status, you shouldn’t have shared that information with me.”
Ratchet rolls his optics. “Right, so let’s get one thing straight.” He leans back against the console, his spinal strut aching, and he resists the urge to rub it. Primus, he’s getting old. “Yeah, your base processor is designed around a battle system. Yes, in their infinite wisdom, they shoved a spark at it to power it. But you’re not a machine. You’re a mech.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Prowl frowns, and his field snakes out of his control, heavy with fear and disquiet.
“Only because you’re not a medic.” Ratchet pokes Prowl in the chasiss, right over the triple-reinforced shielding he has for a chestplate. “You got a spark, you’re a mech. Doesn’t matter what they intended. You might have started out as a computer, but that spark has made you who you are, and your whole life alongside it.”
Prowl worries at his bottom lip. His forehead crinkles, and there’s contemplation in the clicking-hum of his vents. “How do I know the choices I’m making, aren’t just the choices they programmed me to make?”
“Because you’re not a machine. As soon as they gave you a spark, they made you a person. You’re not an advanced AI, Prowl. I promise.” Ratchet shifts his weight and frag it, he reaches back and rubs his heel along the base of his backstrut. “You’re a mech, same as the rest of us.”
Prowl is silent, and Ratchet knows it’s because he’s digesting the new information, calculating the truths in it faster than any of them can understand. It makes sense now, knowing the construction of Prowl’s processor, but before, it had always been something of a mystery.
Damn the Senate for messing with things they don’t fully understand.
Ratchet lets him think and massages his aching spinal strut until Prowl finally stirs with a slow, decisive nod.
“Thank you, Ratchet. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“Well, don’t spend too long thinking. We need you at the negotiation table.” Ratchet grunts and pushes off the console edge, opening the door so they can slip out of the tiny room. “No one understands civilian law like you do.”
“You’re kind, but I’m well aware of Ultra Magnus’ past experience,” Prowl says.
Ratchet snorts and slaps Prowl on the shoulder. “I’m talking civilian life, Prowl, not law enforcement and legalese. This isn’t just battle anymore. It’s commerce, too.” Which Prowl excels at, if he’d give himself two seconds to remember it.
“Fair enough.” Prowl tips his head in acquiescence as the exterior door opens, and Starscream strides inside, a crate tucked under one arm.
Ratchet straightens, shooting the Seeker a glare. “About time you came back. What did you do? Go sightseeing?”
Starscream arches an orbital ridge at him. “Miss me that much, did you?” His gaze slants to Prowl with an acknowledging tip of his head. “I hope you found the answers you needed.”
“Enough to contemplate, yes,” Prowl says. “And now I’ll leave you all to the more important task of the anti-virus.”
Prowl leaves, but Ratchet reserves the majority of his attention for Starscream, and the something simmering between them.
“I know you’re grumpy by nature, but I’d swear you save the worst of it for me,” Starscream says, his tone light, but something buried in his words. “Do you hate me that much or are my brands the problem?”
“You know it’s neither of those things.” Ratchet takes the crate from Starscream, who relinquishes it without a fuss. “This isn’t the time for anything but our research. There are mechs depending on us.”
Starscream lifts his chin. “Hm. Duty. So that’s what you’re going to hide behind.” He sweeps past Ratchet, wing flicking toward him as he does. “If you insist. But don’t be surprised if by the time it’s done, I’m too busy for you.”
Trust Starscream to have a sense of dramatic flair. Ratchet doesn’t bother to argue, lets Starscream stalk his way into the laboratory.
Ratchet sighs.
The war is over, but nothing is easy and complications abound.
There are still plenty of battles to fight.
“We have to get out of the berth sometime today. There is work to be done,” Optimus murmurs, his optics half-shuttered, his field a lazy swirl of contentment around him.
Jazz chuckles from where he’s curled atop Optimus’ frame, limbs intertwined, holding him in place if anyone asks. Optimus is, of course, strong enough to simply lift Jazz and set him aside, but he rather likes this quiet moment the war had never afforded them.
Primus, he prays this cease-fire becomes permanent and the peace lasts. He is so very tired of fighting.
“We don’t have a battle to plan or troops to move. I think the Autobot army will survive a little bit longer if you give yourself time to ventilate,” Jazz says with a hum. He nuzzles into Optimus’ intake, his lips leaving a tingling path of pleasure in their wake.
Optimus shifts, his array warming at a rapid pace. It feels absolutely decadent to lie here like this, slowly rising to pleasure rather than a quick frag after the heat of battle, or a furtive interface in the dead of night.
He sweeps a hand down Jazz’s back, and Jazz arches into his palm like a voltaic cat, his engine purring.
“I don’t think this qualifies as restful.” Optimus cups Jazz’s aft, one finger dipping between his thighs to fondle the hidden panel.
He finds swollen heat instead, dampness coating the tip of his fingers. Jazz is already open and ready for him, the eager rolls of his hips speaking of impatience.
“Come on, big guy. Don’t keep me waitin’,” Jazz pants and starts to knead at Optimus’ chassis, fingers sliding over his windshield and around the seams of his armor.
Someone pings Optimus’ door.
He stills, with Jazz squirming atop him, inches away from sinking onto his spike. “Wait,” Optimus murmurs, accessing the system to see who’s on the other side.
“Ignore them!” Jazz says, and maybe it’s a whine, not that his third would ever admit it aloud. Spies do not whine, thank you very much, Jazz would say. They plead in a strong, demanding tone.
Optimus sighs and shakes his head. “I can’t. It’s Prowl.” He sits up and lifts Jazz from his lap, laying him back down in the berth. “If I turn him aside, he might choose to submit his resignation after all.”
Jazz groans and collapses into the berthpad, squirming to tangle himself into the covers. “He has the worst timing.”
Optimus slides out of the berth and presses a kiss to Jazz’s head, between his finials. “I’ll be back as soon as I finish speaking with him. I promise.”
“You’d better,” Jazz says as his head vanishes beneath the mesh blanket, until he’s little more than a swaddled lump on the bed, his field withdrawing from Optimus and taking the warm arousal of it with him.
Optimus tries not to sigh. He grabs a meshcloth and hastily wipes himself clean, stowing his spike with some effort. Prowl, he knows, won’t chime the door again. He’s more likely to consider Optimus indisposed and leave him be, rather than press for entrance.
Optimus hurries to answer the door, and catches Prowl before he gets down the corridor. “I apologize, Prowl. I was distracted and--”
“By Jazz, I wager. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.” There’s no irritation in Prowl’s voice. If anything, he looks faintly amused. “You two deserve a quiet moment.”
A flush creeps into Optimus’ face before he can push it down. “I had thought we were--”
“Discreet?” Prowl finishes for him, and that amusement continues to linger as he approaches Optimus, gaze sharply assessing and lingering on Optimus’ hip. “You were, but Jazz needed a confidante, and I volunteered. Especially when it came time that I began a romantic relationship of my own.”
Optimus steps aside so Prowl can enter, and takes a chance to glance at his own frame. There’s a streak of black paint in a long, rather lurid stripe through a swath of red. Well, at least he’d wiped off the lubricant. How embarrassing, for a Prime to be caught in such a state. But then, this is Prowl. He’s certainly seen Optimus in worse conditions.
“He’s going to be angry with me,” Prowl adds as Optimus shuts the door in his wake and turns to face Prowl. “I’ll make this as brief as I can.”
Optimus nods and gestures Prowl to the small sitting area available for his use. He has the largest quarters in the Ark, and while he tried to argue he didn’t need anything more extensive than the rest of his crew, he’d been overruled.
“What can I do for you?” Optimus asks.
Prowl audibly cycles a ventilation, and the amusement washes away into a more sober expression. “I want to apologize first. I acted rather rashly and didn’t think about how my actions would impact the Autobots in this difficult time.”
Optimus shakes his head, holding up a hand before Prowl offers more apologies. “It’s quite alright. I understand. I don’t know of anyone who could have responded differently.”
“I should have,” Prowl says with an air of self-castigation. He cycles a ventilation. "However, I can't change the past, I can only change my actions in the future, and it is my hope you'll allow me to return to my post."
Relief floods through Optimus so quickly he almost deflates, until he steels his spinal strut. "It was always yours, Prowl. I never intended to take it from you."
Prowl smiles, and Optimus can see it for the fragile offer it is. "That's because you are a good mech. It would never occur to you how I might be compromised."
"I trusted you before we knew about the Senate's plans for your computing system. That trust doesn't get wiped away because of something you have no control over." Optimus sits back in his chair, posture shifting to comfort and ease with hopes Prowl might try to mirror him. "The very fact that your first instinct was to protect the Autobots proves to me what I already knew -- that you're committed to us, you are on our side, and you are worthy of our trust."
Prowl's sensory panels twitch, though his expression is one of careful control. "I'm honored by that trust, and I swear to do right by it."
"I already know you will." Optimus smiles, relieved to the very core of his spark. "We have another meeting this afternoon to discuss the parameters of the treaty. I'd like for you to be there."
"I wouldn't miss it." Prowl rises with elegant ease, and Optimus stands as well. "I won't take up any more of your time. I know you were otherwise occupied. We can talk more later." He glances to the side, to the closed door of Optimus' berth room, and a hint of Prowl's rare humor peeks through his poise.
Optimus chuckles as he walks Prowl back to the door, the warmth in his spark suffusing his entire frame. "I appreciate your discretion." He keys open the door and Prowl moves to leave, but Optimus lays a hand on his shoulder.
He shifts to look up at Optimus, a question writ across his brow.
"I want you to know nothing has changed," Optimus says, because it needs to be said. "That no matter your origins, I trust you, and you will always be a mech in your own right. I see you no different now than I did before."
A ripple runs through Prowl's armor, tingling against Optimus' palm before he withdraws his hand. "Thank you, Optimus," Prowl says. "It's a relief to hear you say that."
He treats Optimus to a rare, small but genuine smile, and takes his leave.
Optimus watches him go for a moment before he slips back into his habsuite, and beelines for his berthroom. It was easy enough to set aside his arousal while speaking with Prowl, but thinking of Jazz waiting for him in the berth is enough to bring it back to life.
Peace is within reach. Optimus is even more sure of that now.
So he's going to remind himself of all the reasons he's fighting for it, and he's going to go snuggle his lover.
Prowl goes back to his office.
It's never been locked to him, and when he steps inside, it's the closest feeling he has to coming home, other than sliding between Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.
He sits at his desk, he powers up his console, and is immediately bombarded by announcements and messages. There are a thousand and one things that need his attention and rather than forward them to Ultra Magnus, Optimus had opted to leave them for Prowl. As if he trusted Prowl would return to his duty.
Their faith in him is beyond measure. It makes Prowl's spark throb with warmth, with affection, and programming or not, he's sure it's not feigned. It has to be real. This gratitude, this comfort, this relief, it has to be real.
It is real.
Prowl smiles and settles in to work. There's a meeting later today, and he has only a partial draft of the treaty -- though he notices Ultra Magnus and Optimus both have logged in and made suggestions or proposals to his current draft. It'll be easy enough to incorporate them. Prowl should have something ready for the Decepticons by the meeting, including addressing the various concerns they’ve already made.
It's what he's good at.
It's what he was sparked to do.
