Archive of Our Own ^beta

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[ SYSTEM LOG  // ENTRY 0427-A ]  

>> PROJECT: RECONSTRUCTION_IA-CON  

>> LINKED PERSONNEL: PROWL [ID: PRW-09]  

>> STATUS: ACTIVE  

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>> NOTES: Emotional recalibration process initiated…

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[:: ENTRY 01 // ALIGNMENT TESTING ::]  

>> Location: Iacon East Lab Block  

>> Primary Subjects: HOOK + PROWL  

>> SYSTEM STATUS: Tension noted. Curiosity rising.  

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For over four million years, Cybertron had never known peace. Or at least, not in any of the memories Prowl possessed from the moment of his activation until now. In all that time, he had never once seen Cybertron as a place of true tranquility. Even after the war ended and an era of peace began, Prowl continued to work tirelessly—dedicating every last bit of his effort and intellect to nurturing a planet just barely stirring back to life from the molten wreckage of battle, struggling to maintain that fragile, easily shattered balance within himself.

More than anyone, Prowl understood the immense, layered difficulties this planet faced, and how impossible it was to resolve them overnight.

When Starscream ascended to power, Prowl was invited back to Cybertron to serve once more—trailing behind him were five towering mechs, each bearing a deep purple symbol that caused no small amount of unease in those who saw it.

"We believe in you, Prowl."

And just like that, he let them into his life. Let them become part of it—even though “trust” was a word far too fragile and suspect, especially to someone who once carved out pieces of their spark just to mold it into something resembling an identity.

Perhaps it was his need for recognition—raw, unrelenting—that had hijacked all his reasoning in that moment. After all, Prowl had never truly been seen as anything more than a brilliant, cold narcissist. Every step he had ever taken was paved in discarded plating and spilled energon from mechs who had fallen—and worse yet, he wasn’t even the one who struck the final blows. He only held the hilt of the blade—clean, pristine—that someone else had already driven deep into the enemy, and twisted it, finishing off those he believed stood in the way of his mission.

Prowl, cold and ruthless.

Prowl, the brilliant tactician.

Prowl, heartless.

So when those five mechs turned to face him, extended their hands to him, for the first time, Prowl felt he had stepped beyond the mold the world had cast him into. And even more surprising was that the one who offered him that untainted trust had once stood on the other side of the battlefield with a weapon aimed at his spark.

The war is over now, Prowl reminded himself. They’re not Decepticons anymore.

And now, he had to face the consequences of the choice he had made.

“Good morning, Hook,” Prowl nodded to the mech standing neatly in one corner of the room, legs crossed, gaze locked steadily on him.

His visor burned bright red—a shade that made the optics ache just looking at it, not to mention the inherent brutality embedded in every member of the gestalt known as Devastator. But then again, Prowl was hardly one to judge others for their temperament. He had no right. And besides, Hook wasn’t even the worst among them—by comparison, he was practically composed.

“Good morning, Prowl.” Satisfied that the attention was finally on him, Hook stood up straight and walked over to his desk.

“Aren’t you going to Ratchet’s to register for your license today?” The question had one very clear meaning: please leave him alone.

But just as much as Prowl loved his personal space, the Constructicons did too. He swore there were times he thought they’d even praise the very ground he walked on.

“If you haven’t noticed, Bonecrusher labeled all your documents wrong just to get you to pick up the phone and call him. I don’t think you want me to leave this early.”

“What did he do?” Prowl swears on his fragging neural processor that his head will be snapped into two pieces with whatever the Constructions are planning. Are they trying to murder him just by getting on his nerves? 

“So—” Hook, apparently oblivious to the storm brewing in Prowl’s circuits, continued talking as if nothing was wrong. “He accidentally mixed up some of your notes. Screwed up a few labels. Not all of them, just enough to give you a headache. And don’t give me that murderous look, I’ll start thinking you’re flirting with me.”

Prowl didn’t even know whether they’re getting ahead of themselves, or if they genuinely thought that he looked hot while plotting their demise. Either way, it was too absurd to deal with right now. It will be a problem for another day. Today, all he knew was that he had one more thing to deal with his on-going never-stopping list of nonsense: five mechs, endless chaos, and a disturbingly casual idea of flirting.

Taking one more deep breath, he stared Hook dead in the eye and spoke sharply, practically spitting out each word.

“You’re all banned from coming to my office. No further argument.” 

“But Prowl—” 

“I said no further argument.”

Hook looked taken aback by that statement, too stunned to utter anymore protest. After all, he was not the one who had messed up Prowl’s office. Banning all of them from entering this room felt a little cruel, especially considering their clinginess due to their gestalt bond — and the way he was the only Autobot who didn’t mistreat them despite the Decepticon symbols still emblazoned on their chests. 

Prowl forcefully shut down the bond after a wave of anger and disappointment flooded through his processor. Rubbing his forehead, he let out another sigh and reluctantly watched as Hook left the office, his optics lingering on the datapad still clutched loosely in Prowl’s hand.

Prowl could deal with their disappointment another day — not now, not when he already had too much to handle. The datapad dangled from his fingers, and a daunting pile of work awaited sorting. Primus, Prowl wished he hadn’t banned Long Haul; the mech had always been helpful in organizing documents like these. But still, he could not make exceptions — not when those big bots would inevitably find ways to annoy each other just to vie for Prowl’s attention.

Right now, he needed to get back to work.

◦∘⚙∘◦

Prowl finished his work for the day late that night—so late, in fact, that Luna I's light had already spilled through the window, casting pale illumination over stacks of datapads and long-forgotten books. The silence settled around him like a cold breeze: biting, bitter, intrusive, left him hanging and yearning. He rubbed the aching spot on his neck, turned off the datapad and retreated to his berthroom, surprised not to find a certain group of mechs lingering by his door. No sign of the Constructicons. No green or purple. Nothing. Just a hollow hallway with the usual spot for the new pot of plant Scavenger had bought. It seemed they’d taken his last “ban” announcement a little too seriously—and decided not to trouble him with more of what he once called nonsense.

In the stillness of the night, Prowl realized he had grown used to their noise. Their presence. To the point he couldn't bear the sound echoing in his head when being left alone.

Being around them, it's a strange feeling. Strange enough to make him think about all the things they'd done and tried to do for him: unfiltered praise, unrelenting loyalty, trying to keep up with his pace no matter how unreasonable, never left him alone. Alone. He used to resent that, find them overwhelming, and now he could not stand the loneliness they left behind them.

Prowl had never dealt well with silence—or with the sounds inside his trivial frame. He had always longed for a voice, a pair of audio receivers, whatever it took for his own voice to be recognized, his words to be heard, for him to be found. That was what the Autobots never gave him; all they ever did was follow his commands, not listen to the meaning behind his words. That was why he reached for Kup—stole his body, manipulated his mind—just to make him a communicator for Prowl, a tragedy he created. Frag, that was probably so fragged up of him, to the point it made Springer burst into anger and punch the daylight out of him—for whatever light still lingered inside.

Prowl had made enough bots hate him; he knew that like the back of his hand: Chromedome, for one. He knew he hadn’t been fair to his ex, to be honest—pushed him away, pulled him in, too much of a coward and too little of a lover. How could he even expect someone to love him when he didn’t know how to handle basic communication with the one he loved? How to love them properly, when all that remained inside his hollow frame was just a system of logical codes?

And the one who did love him—Tarantulas—he hadn’t stayed on good terms with him, either. Clearly had something so twisted up in their processor that Prowl could barely recognize it, much less keep up. He hated to admit it, but he deserved that. Deserved nothing more than to be the bad and crazy ex. After all, only Tarantulas ever reached for his hand again. Called his name. At least acted like they were once lovers.

And then, there were the Constructicons.

Prowl couldn’t categorize them—hanging loosely between the good and the bad. Their processors didn’t put up with anything clean, especially not when the gestalt bond connected, and he could read the noise storming through their shared mind. It was like a haze—maybe even worse than the screaming haze he had encountered himself and had helped create. They longed for violence. Destruction. Devastator. Were they made only to be like that? A walking weapon? A twisted success story for Shockwave’s pride—when he showed them off to his masters and his so-called colleagues?

Had they ever been considered anything more than an invention—a successful one? Merely a bot, a living body, a person worth recognizing and interacting with as such? Or were they destined to remain that piece of metal forged for war, their names indistinguishable from one another, unable to receive respect without merging into one united body? The hazardous line between being a war machine and being five lonely mechs stirred something inside Prowl—maybe empathy, if he still had any of that left.

And the worst part?

They treated him like he wasn’t the broken one. Like they weren’t the bad ones.

They clung to him. Recognized his voice whenever it surfaced. They caressed his frame—frag, they even polished it when they thought he was in deep recharge. They should have been the broken ones. So when had Prowl let them slide into his life and care about him this much?

We’ve destroyed enough things in our lives, Prowl. We know what a broken thing looks like. And you’re not it.

He should have been.

He was.

And since the day they stepped into his house—turned it into a home—they hadn't let him entertain that thought even once. They patched him up bit by bit until he forgot how fragged up he was, until he forgot he once barely functioned like any other loving, cutesy mech.

The war stole that from him. The world stole it from him. Alone with his thoughts, Prowl returned to the old frame he once wore like armor. The heartless one. So empty that even Bumblebee hadn’t recognized those reckless sparks in his optics when his brain failed to keep his body upright.

And he let himself get carried away.

A mech can only wish for so much.

◦∘⚙∘◦

The next morning came, after all. A little uneasy, but not unwelcome. Prowl had dealt with enough problems in his life that a mild disappointment overnight wasn’t enough to shake him.

His short and barely enough recharge didn't give him the satification, apparently more headache and aching in his back, but he also grew to that. He expected the Constructicons were still mad at him, for whatever announcement he had made and stuck to, but the familiar noise once more came here to interrupt him. Those footsteps, their laugh, the noise they brought with them—they never knew how to keep silence or read the room, or they could but didn't bring themselves to care about anything of those nuisance rules. Whatever the case, Prowl didn’t keep up his hard stare for long. Smiled to himself instead, Prowl realised he needed that: the lively they brought into his home, just as much as the silence they stole from it.

He couldn't remember the last time the noise around him hadn’t come from someone needing help—or barely communicating with him through layers of bureaucracy, responsibility, and his stubborn decision to stick with a dying planet… and now, a newly reborn one. It’s an easy one, he realised, to be consumed by the sound and these simple, well-meant intentions like that. It's good. Reassuring, even, he'd give them that. But Prowl wasn’t about to let them see their victory in making him feel that way, not yet, not when he still didn’t know how to deal with the consequences that might follow.

A knock on his door. More noise. And then a knock.

They really had just come to disturb him.

"Come in." Prowl called, wings fluttered behind him as he tried to shake off the lingering discomfort.

In came Long Haul. Always the brave and sort-hearted one, he didn’t seem too bothered by Prowl’s distance—not that Prowl had banned them from his berthroom or anything. Still, he seemed hesitant.

"Just come in. I won't bite."

Bonecrusher followed, flashing a new set of sharp dentas he’d picked up from Primus-knows-where. "Yes, but I will."

Prowl gave him a look. Bonecrusher still seemed to be flattered by that one, but Prowl knew those stupid dentas would have to come out eventually—they’d mess up his occlusion and his ability to intake energon properly.

"Don't be an idiot like that, or the rest of your denta will fall out too. I will make sure of that." He shrugged, enjoyed the shrunken look on Bonecrusher's face.

"You're not as calm as you pretended to be, Prowl."

"And you're not as angry as you pretended to be, 'Crusher. Don't make me repeat myself."

With that, that's enough for all of them. They stepped fully into the rooms, loud and happy. Those mechs always tried to get a reaction out of him, maybe they thought that if he got mad, it meant he still cared, not that Prowl complained about it, he's good with that. Even if, from the outside, it didn’t look like the healthiest relationship.

"Did you hear that, Hook? He called me Crusher. A nickname! I should be proud!"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard. I'm not deaf. But isn’t it kind of unfair for the rest of us, Prowl? We want nicknames too, you know.”

"Look! His optics flash like high-temp plasma when he is mad. So cool! I want mine to do that!” Scavenger chimed in.

"We already had one. We didn't need to get another one. Cut it out, Scavenger."

Their chatter kept going, rolling over itself in waves. No one tried to stop it—and clearly, none of them planned to—until Prowl decided to step in.

"Enough with that. Morning report, Hook?"

Hook shrugged. "Nothing's special. Though Mixmaster said he had something for you."

"And that is?"

"I heard from Hook that your back is stiff last night." Mixmaster cut in brightly. "Decided to mix some new energon for you to try. Fresh from the oven! Best energon blend you’ll ever taste—I promise!"

Prowl's optics softened. He didn't expect that from them—not this early. "Thank you, Mixmaster." And then, he hesitated. He still learn how to do it, after all. "I appreciate that."

"Wait, you actually want to try it?"

"Do I look like I have a choice?"

And then, they laughed. They laughed too much, really. But maybe that wasn’t all Prowl cared about anymore. Maybe he'd just forgotten his estate was being filled with laughter for how long, that's all.

"Nope. Clearly." Mixmaster grinned. "But I like that you hesitated."

Chapter Text

[:: SYSTEM ENTRY // SCAVENGER // UNSTABLE NODE ::]  

>> ALERT: Emotional detected  

>> FILE TAGGED: PROWL_[01]  

>> AUDIO SCRAP: “He said my hands were steady…”  

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"Does anyone know who fixed my window?"

It was suddenly one of those indistinct summer days — at least, summer as Prowl had come to understand it after arriving on Earth and learning about its hottest season. Cybertron didn’t have seasons; its weather rarely changed. Sometimes, Prowl missed Earth’s shifting climate, especially when it got so cold that his systems couldn’t operate properly, giving him an excuse to retreat into his little cocoon and take a well-earned rest. But this wasn’t Earth. Back on Cybertron, Prowl had dedicated himself to building a better future for whoever still called this planet home. A hard mission, he could tell, but it was easier to bear knowing he wasn’t fighting that battle alone. Still, sometimes, his companions in this noble effort tested the very edges of his patience — and on those days, his anger stirred as reliably as ever.

"I don't know." Scavenger replied.

He stood next to his little plant pot, gently plucking off leaves that had faded into pale, hollow tones — a quiet sign that their time in this world was nearly up.

"You don't know?"

"Yeah, I haven’t been to your office since that day. Even though the ban’s been lifted."

Ah, yes, Prowl had lifted the ban, eventually, after all the small gifts and overly flattering praise they showered him with. Generous mech, they called him. He just kept telling himself he could survive the chaos they inevitably left behind.

The night was still young. Scavenger, persistent as ever, had stayed behind to help with the workload. He wasn’t particularly helpful — academic work wasn’t his strength — but just having someone there made those long, uncomfortable nights feel a little softer. That was enough.

"Strange. It didn't have that feature since the last time I checked, which was literally yesterday."

"Maybe some fairy mech just appeared and fixed it?"

"You still believe in fairy tale?" It took Prowl by surprise. He hadn’t expected a seasoned soldier between theatre of war like Scavenger to keep something so innocent and hopeful locked in his spark.

Then again, maybe it was better to believe in fairytales than to lose hope in their entire kind. The war had taken enough from all of them — in some cases, too much.

"Yes! The Decepticons even had this inner rumor that if you lost a denta, put it in a pouch and hang it near your recharge berth. A fairy will come take it and leave you a gift in return!"

It seemed Scavenger had finished tending to his plant, because now he was slowly making his way over to Prowl’s desk chair.

"Did it ever work?"

These days, life moved slowly for Prowl — slower than he liked. There wasn’t much work left to do. The new government was functioning well, and even Starscream seemed reluctant to deal with Prowl’s infamous temper anymore. Not that Prowl minded. He was long past his days of being important in the government command chain. Now, he enjoyed the peace — the quiet.

The Constructicons, surprisingly, were good company. Hook was currently designing a garden on his estate, insisting that Prowl needed somewhere peaceful to spend his afternoons when he didn’t have to report to Central. Mixmaster had brewed up a strange energon blend he called “tea,” and Long Haul had crafted a delicate set of china to drink it from — ridiculous, really, seeing a group of giant mechs sipping energon from fragile little cups that threatened to crack under the slightest pressure anytime soon. But Long Haul never minded making another set. And then another. His patience was something Prowl had come to admire, for him was never the kind of mech who cared about those delicate things.

And that was Prowl’s life, now. Quiet. Good. He spent his afternoons surrounded by them — like a pack of lost puppies who’d decided to follow him home. Once, they’d even convinced him to have a picnic and in exchange for cooking some smoky new dish, they got to take turns napping on his thighs. He never gave a name to this relationship. He didn’t do relationships. But whatever it was — it was enough. Life was good.

Scavenger was looking at him now with bright, happy optics, practically buzzing with excitement. So Prowl turned his helm and waited for whatever story was about to drop.

"Listen. So there was this one time, my denta fell out in a fight with Skywarp." He wore the unmistakable of course I won expression. "And Hook told me to hang it above our recharge berth. Next morning, boom! It had turned into a bag of sweet energon! The Denta Fairy really exists, I swear! If you ever lose one, you should try it too. You’re good — I bet the Fairy would give you an even bigger gift!"

It made Prowl smile. He thought I was good? Strange, no one had ever told him that before. And judging by the story, it was probably Hook playing the role of Denta Fairy all along, but that also wasn’t something Prowl intended to ruin.

"Yes, I would do it. But my days of dentas replacement are long gone, so it might take a while before I get another chance at that experience."

That made Scavenger smile even brighter. His visor lit up by two degrees — a subtle shift Prowl had come to recognize over time.

"You believe in me?"

"Yes. You have no suspicious reason to lie to my face, so I believe you."

Their conversation felt odd. Weird, in a way. Childish, in another. But it didn’t bother Prowl. He had all the time in the world now to listen to things like this. Childlike things.

Slowly, Scavenger reached out. His servos, not as large as Long Haul’s, nor as precise and smooth as Mixmaster’s, shyly took hold of Prowl’s. He gave a crooked smile. One of his canine dentas was missing — probably the one that got knocked out during the fight with Skywarp. Prowl suddenly felt like he was dealing with a high school crush. And he wasn’t used to that feeling. Back in his academy days, his classmates had hated his weird, uptight aft.

"Thank you for believing in me." Scavenger said gently, his fingers brushing over Prowl’s joint with an absent kind of tenderness. "The Seekers always laughed at me for believing in things like that."

It always felt strange for Prowl to comfort someone. It simply wasn’t in his programming. He was built to be a police unit, to enforce order, to uphold the law, not to give soft, sympathetic optics to someone who’d been mocked for dreaming.

And besides, Prowl was never good with words. Reframing things — flipping the table — was the only way he knew how to express himself.

"That's because they're a bunch of afts."

"Yeah, agreed. We Constructicons never had a good relationship with them. We just stuck with each other."

That sounded exactly like them, but Prowl didn’t say it out loud.

"You know," Scavenger went on, "we always just had each other. The Decepticons weren’t exactly a model of functional teamwork. But then there was us. And we had each other."

Scavenger always got emotional when talking about his brothers, even more than the others.

"And now, now we have you. And that’s still strange. We never thought we’d ever have something this good in our lives. At first, we didn’t know how to react. Honestly, sometimes we still don’t. But it’s a good thing. That you are real."

He was looking directly at Prowl. No room for retreat, no clever sidestep. This was about him. Scavenger was talking to him. He was talking about him. And somehow, it still felt like he was describing someone else.

For all his years serving the Autobot, and even now far removed from the war, Prowl had never once considered himself a good mech. Hell, even the one who was his surperior hadn't fully trusted him. His own identity had slowly slipped away piece by piece with every decision he made, for him not having that much of an identity for himself. Over time, there was so little left of himself that he couldn't even say who he was anymore. People slowly forgot him, forgot the mech who was constructed cold, who had lived all his life giving everything he had to a world that always seemed to return the cold shoulder. He had tried. Primus knew he tried. But maybe there was never enough for the warmth to reach him.

So much of his dream, of who he wanted to be, had been slipping away. He was no longer the mech that once believed in building a better world, a better future. That version of himself now only existed in some distant dreamscape, buried beneath a landfill of oh-so sweet old memory files, with the rare praise from a superior who had once said his efforts might be remembered.

Prowl was not a good mech. And he knew that for certain.

"We like you, you know." Scavenger cutted through his thoughts, so quiet and gentle. His optics still refused to leave Prowl.

"I know. Your feelings aren't exactly subtle." He replied, softly this time.

Scavenger shook his head. "No, I don't think you understand."

He looked stuck, his processor clearly struggling to find the right words and explain everything. His servos began to tremble slightly within Prowl's grip. He was too nervous to think straight, mouth set in a determined line.

"Bold of you to assume I don't understand." He rolled his optics, but there was no real edge to that.

Prowl did understand. He knew how important it was for a gestalt-bonded individual to say words like that out loud. It was like introducing a foreign part into a body - some strange, unnamed organ - without knowing it would be accepted or rejected. No manual. No certainty. Only hope.

Poor those lonesome, brave mech. Willing to make space for him in their collective. Willing to let him in.

Even if it meant they all might unravel six feet under.

"You don't know how much this means to us." Scavenger whispered, still, his grip didn’t loosen. "Thank you for letting us stay, Prowl. It means everything — to have somewhere we belong to."

There were dents on his servos, marks left by years of work and war, likely not enough visits to a proper medic. Maybe they had Hook to patch them up now and then, but even Hook had his own preference. Prowl didn't think that Hook cared much about aesthetics, not his own, let alone anyone else's.

It looked out of place against Prowl's: larger, rougher, lonelier. Prowl's own servos were not much of a fighter's hands. Sure, there were worn patches on his index and middle fingers — marks left by years of writing, typing, planning, but nothing deep, noting jagged. His servos were small, clean, and neat. In contrast, Scavenger's hands were honest.

Something stirred in Prowl's spark. Gently, he turned Scavenger's servo over, examining the back. Those creaking joints probably needed to oiling. And there was grime that no scrubbing could entirely remove. Prowl could do that. Prowl could care for them, too. Just like the way they had quietly, patiently cared for him.

"Strange, huh? Not much to look at." Scavenger mumbled, suddenly too self-conscious about his condition.

He had tried to stay clean, that much was clear. Their work often left them covered in dirt and grease, but right now, there wasn’t a single pebble or patch of grime stuck in his folds.

"It's okay, I think. It's enough."

His tone didn't change. His expression didn't shift. But deep inside his spark, Prowl just hoped that Scavenger understood what he truly meant behind those quiet words.

"Your hands are good. They're steady enough. It's enough."

Prowl was never good with words, but maybe Scarvenger could understand his flow.

And when that night ended, it ended with Scavenger smiling like an idiot, Prowl's servos still nestled in his as they both returned to their rooms. Something warmer than silence lingering between them.

The warmth had reached out for him.