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The sight that greeted Prowl upon entry to his office would, in most circumstances, have been highly unusual: a pair of disembodied legs, dangling from the vent in the middle of his ceiling.
It would also, in most circumstances, have been cause to raise a base-wide alarm, draw his gun; and, if the pair of legs in question looked particularly dangerous (being certain shades of purple, or excessively spiky, or sporting built-in guns…), to comm. for backup from Jazz in the next room over.
Thankfully, he recognised the legs.
(They were rather nice legs).
“Nice of you to drop in, Getaway.”
There was a noise that could have been a snort of laughter, followed by a muffled clunk and a yelp - and the escapologist in question came crashing down to land sprawled on his back at Prowl’s feet.
“I would like to state for the record,” he said immediately, pointing a stern finger up at Prowl’s nose, “that that display of gracelessness was entirely Skids’ fault. He dropped me.”
“I only dropped you a little bit,” protested a voice from above Prowl’s head. “And I want it on record that for all my talents, I can't exactly superlearn myself a third arm to carry the engex, the regular energon, and your fat aft all at the same time.”
“Engex?” said Prowl, with a wry smile towards the ceiling. He extended a servo that Getaway didn't really need, but nevertheless accepted to haul himself to his feet. If neither of them let go once the task was complete… well. This was Prowl’s office. This was their safe space.
“Are you planning to get me overcharged while on duty, Skids?”
A pair of dancing amber optics - below a disarming grin - popped into view.
“I prefer ‘pleasantly buzzed’,” the theoretician replied, before hauling himself back up into the ventilation shaft. There was a chorus of busy clanking noises, then a shout from Skids of “Incoming!”
Getaway released Prowl’s hand, and dove forwards to catch the bottle of bright pink liquid that had quite literally dropped from the heavens. Eyes sparkling, he tossed it to Prowl, who caught it one-handed and examined the label.
“... Where in Adaptus’ name did you find this?”
“Ah, Prowl.” Getaway sighed and shook his head, leaning into an elegant curve against the edge of the desk. “We'd love to tell you, we really would. But I'm afraid then we'd have to tie you to a chair, and do all sorts of unspeakable things to you.”
“More unspeakable than usual, you mean?” Prowl threw back drily.
“We could always try for a new record?” Skids chipped in, voice echoing oddly in the vents. “I'm sure I remember one of you making a checklist last time. Or a spreadsheet… Ah, scrap,” he added, as something thunked against Prowl’s ceiling. “You've really outdone yourself this time, Boss. I know it's kind of the point, we’re helping you upgrade security - but moving the vents around?”
Quirking an eyebrow, Prowl set the bottle down next to Getaway before advancing to stand right under the open hatch.
“What are you rummaging around for up there, anyway?” he asked Skids.
“Wouldn't be surprised if you could just read my mind and find out, at this point,” Skids replied.
Prowl's mouth thinned for the briefest moment - recalling, even if his mind didn't want to, a different pair of amber eyes and an unpleasant association with that topic.
The softest of clinks drew him back out into the world before he could sink away from it, as Getaway’s servo brushed against the bottle of engex. He caught Prowl's optic with a look that could have been knowing, or just coincidentally intense.
(Because of course, it was coincidence that the two other mecha in this room knew far more than regulations said they should, and more than enough to ruin Prowl - emotionally, if not professionally - if this safe little bubble of theirs ever popped).
There was a concerned sort of silence emanating out of the vent.
“... I can't tell if you've gone quiet because you’re not dignifying that with a response, or because you're actually trying to read my mind,” Skids said after a moment. “Which - I would prefer for you not to read my mind, please, because I'm trying to pleasantly surprise you, here.”
“Not to ruin the aura of mystique, but mnemosurgery was never exactly in my repertoire.”
“Your personal repertoire,” Getaway muttered. Prowl conceded the point with a nod.
“Too dignified, then,” Skids concluded. “Got it. I'll be down in a mo’, just let me - oh, for the love of -”
An energon cube plummeted out of the vent and bounced onto the floor below, still mercifully intact. Prowl had moved to intercept, but didn't quite reach in time - neither, it seemed, had Skids, whose arm flailed uselessly overhead. Scooping the cube up, Prowl turned his gaze to the ceiling, and his agent’s rather rueful expression.
The blue mech was hanging halfway out of a duct - a reasonable distance above the actual ceiling hatch - with one hand extended, as he stretched himself down the vertical shaft in between vent and office.
The vertical shaft that had definitely not been there on Skids and Getaway’s last visit.
“Honestly,” Skids said, still dangling precariously, “I just want to know how Grapple wasn't hospitalised over this. This is a maze that you've made him build, here. An actual, genuine, maze. With dead ends. And a trapdoor.”
“It's a perfectly normal, standard-design grille.”
“With loose screws and a death slide waiting underneath it. That counts as a trapdoor in my - actually, Getaway!” called Skids, trying to crane his neck and see into the office. “You're the expert -”
“You're the superlearner.”
Skids huffed, both servos now braced on the sides of the vent. “Fine. You're the expert until I can find a treatise on the history and manufacture of trapdoors. Tell me I'm in the right, here.”
Getaway never had the chance to get a word in edgewise: at that precise moment, there was a highly ominous creaking noise. This was followed immediately by a crash and a great deal of loud swearing, as something in the vent finally gave way and deposited Skids right on top of Prowl.
Prowl thought he might have shut down for a moment; when his optics spiralled back online, he was horizontal without full knowledge of how he'd come to be so. Also on the list of new developments was a slight ringing in his CPU, and a great deal of weight draped over his legs.
“See?” Skids groaned from somewhere near Prowl’s abdomen. “Death slide.”
“Doors,” was all Prowl managed to gasp, through a stab of pain in said - squashed - appendages.
“Scrap, sorry.” The theoretician shoved himself upwards to squat on his heels, as Prowl eased himself into a sitting position. Skids wasn't, apparently, too terribly contrite though - no sooner had Prowl flicked his doors to dispel the last dregs of cramp, than he was promptly tackled again, only narrowly avoiding falling right back to the floor.
“Skids-mff,” said Prowl eloquently, as the mech in question used his momentum to steal a kiss.
More like plunder a kiss, actually, since Skids’ lips lingered to conduct a thorough exploration; parting Prowl’s own with the briefest dip of a tongue, before moving so that Skids could investigate the curve of Prowl’s jaw. Servos slid up the second-in-command’s waist, and Prowl released a slow breath as own hands found Skids’ upper arms for grounding.
“You have some odd ideas of what constitutes a lunch break,” he said, and felt Skids grin.
“Couldn't resist, Boss, sorry. I know it's not been much more than a week, but when we're out there...”
Behind them, there was a series of clanks - Getaway, hauling himself back into the vent to retrieve something. A smallish object beaned Skids in the side of the head, definitively ending the kiss.
“Energon treats,” the theoretician said before Prowl could turn to look. “Your pleasant surprise.”
Getaway landed, catlike, on the floor beside the pair.
“See?” he said, looking smug as he sat down and sprawled out; resting his head on Prowl’s shoulder. “Skids’ fault entirely. Next time, we use the door like normal ‘bots and nobody drops anybody.”
“Normal ‘bots who can break into one of the securest rooms on the base in thirty seconds flat.”
“Well, that is why you keep us around, Boss.”
“Isn't it,” Prowl murmured. Getaway threw him a sharp look. Skids continued where he'd begun rubbing his thumbs in circles on Prowl’s sides, gaze lowered - but Prowl saw his optics brighten by the minutest fraction.
“... Is anyone going to go fetch the treats?” Getaway asked after several seconds of silence.
“I'm not moving,” Skids declared obstinately. “Not when I've got the best seat in the house.” He let his servos drop, but remained straddling Prowl’s knees.
Prowl made a small noise that was half sigh, half snort of laughter. “You'd think the best seat would at least be an actual chair. A nice, inanimate one that doesn’t get numbed circuits in its legs after a while.”
Skids’ only reply was to wriggle until he was more comfortable.
As he rolled his eyes, Prowl felt Getaway slide a servo up his back, coming to rest between his doorwings. The escapologist gave a thoughtful hum right next to his boss’ ear.
“Y'know, if nobody wants to grab the treats…” Skids glanced over immediately at the tone in Getaway’s voice, optics narrowed mischievously - and Prowl shivered slightly at the trace of a finger over the edge of one of his doors.
“Skids - I'm thinking maybe we should tell Prowl where we got the engex.”