Chapter Text
The house was accessible from an unassuming street by way of a short path sheltered between two larger buildings, the kind of place instantly noticeable for how hard its owners were trying to blend in. No paint on the exterior walls yet (pigments of all shades were still hard to come by), nor any baubles or stickers to commodify the identities of its inhabitants. Prowl noted the undernourished crystals hanging from boxes under its shuttered windows (an energy-slash-sanitation crisis-in-the-making borrowed from Earth). He maintained a brisk yet even pace up the short walk, capturing in his peripherals the open windows he passed, and he did not hesitate to raise his hand to knock against the heavy door set in the center of the home’s face.
He could tell by the echo that the space on the other side of the door was small, with openings on either side that must have led into the rest of the house. There was a table just to the left of the door, as well as what was either a bench or a second table, lower, against the wall opposite. The walls were unpainted just like the exterior, but they were polished, the construction behind them solid and thick, built on top of an old structure that had suffered a scraplet infestation for some time. Prowl had just set his processor to the task of modeling whatever sat on top of the table then the door opened and he got his answer: a worn dataslug and a printed image of two bots, one wrapped around the other’s shoulders from behind.
Rewind walled off the doorway.
“What do you want, Prowl?” he asked.
Prowl had thought that much would be obvious.
“Chromedome,” he said, since apparently it wasn’t. “It’s urgent.”
Rewind wasn’t just watching Prowl; he was staring, visor steady as a sniper’s sights. It did not waver as he shifted his weight over one leg, nor as he tapped he side of his helm once, turning off the camera affixed there. He then slid his thumb under it while one finger came forward to cover the lens. Holding it that way, he tugged, hard enough to pull his helm with it, until with a click of tabs disengaging the camera came free. A panel on his arm opened—click—revealing a camera-length tube that ran parallel to the plating, but Rewind stopped just before inserting it and drew it back to his face, inspecting the lens. Prowl watched him with some uncertainty, trying to calculate at what point he would be justified in getting impatient.
“What do you want?” It was only the wording that gave it away as a question, Rewind’s actual tone flat enough to drive on.
By Primal decree, Prowl did have to answer that question. Preferably with Optimus’ written approval and a datafile detailing Rewind’s rights, but Prowl was quickly learning which rules Optimus would overlook so long as he made a show of obeying them occasionally.
“I have a case that’s recently opened up that could concern planet-wide security,” he said. “Everything as it stands, including this quiet domestic life you’ve been granted,” he gestured to the drooping crystals, “could potentially be at risk. Solving it is now top priority, and Chromedome is the only one qualified to assist me.”
Rewind was no longer looking at the camera, but rolling it idly between two digits.
“I think you should leave,” he said.
Prowl did not leave.
“I will speak to Chromedome.”
“No, you won’t.” Rewind inserted the camera into his arm. It did not go in willingly, requiring some force before it snapped into place. Even then, Rewind did not shut the panel, but took a moment to scratch away dust that had accumulated within. Prowl could hear the point of his finger scratching against the metal, a steady rhythm. “He doesn’t do that anymore.”
Ah.
“I already have access to mnemosurgeons,” he said. He’d made an investment, a neutral who’d trained briefly before the war. He needed more time before he would be skilled enough to assist with real investigations, but so too would Prowl to find loopholes around all the restrictions that had been placed on the practice. All in time. “Chromedome has other skills that are unique to him. I can’t replace him with anyone else.”
Rewind waved his hands in an open gesture.
“All of it, then,” he said. “He’s done with the investigations, the crime fighting. He’d be done with the war, if he were allowed.”
“Not with me.”
“Completely done with you,” Rewind said. He made a pointed glance to the picture on the table, one which Prowl could not help but follow. It looked wrong, to Prowl’s eyes: the couple in the photo were classifiably happy, but they weren’t doing anything. It was empty, devoid of purpose, and he glared at it long enough that Rewind actually turned the photo so Prowl could no longer see it.
“He’s not,” Prowl said, looking back to Rewind’s optics. “He still needs me. I’m the only one who understands all that he is capable of.” He felt a tingle at the back of his neck but had enough self control not to scratch at it.
“He really doesn’t, Prowl.” Rewind finally flipped the panel on his arm closed, locking away the camera. “I’d say find someone else to do your dirty work, but I wouldn’t actually wish that on anyone, so just frag off.”
Prowl did not move, though neither did Rewind. They stood on either side of the threshold, staring each other down like they had many times before. Usually it ended with Chromedome shuffling Rewind out of the room, casting sharp glances over his shoulder that Prowl had never been able to understand, but it seemed he would not be putting in an appearance this time. He set his engine to burn on a gentle hum, a sound so quiet and low Rewind wouldn’t realize he was hearing it even as it caused his plating to prickle with unease. Prowl watched him shift his weight over the other leg, feeling that victory was close.
“You know what?” Rewind said. “He did actually mention you the other day.”
Chance of a lie was 64%, but letting Rewind play out his hand would be of greater benefit than stopping him short.
“What did he say?” he asked, expecting an insult.
Rewind stepped forward so he had to lean back to look at Prowl. He had, like most veterans, hastened to scale back on his military-grade armor, reducing his height further. There was so much empty space between him and the door frame it made the entire house seem ill-fitting. At the same time, he acted like he wasn’t even aware of the constant danger he put himself in, tilting his helm gamely and exposing areas where delicate lines and wires were covered with just the barest scrap of plating. Prowl found it pathetic.
“You won’t ever know,” Rewind said, rolling his head the other way, “because he wasn’t talking to you.” He stepped back and the space between them opened again, the harsh line between inside and outside once more unobscured.
“I’ll have to ask him,” Prowl said, a moment too late, “when we speak.”
“Okay, Prowl.”
He expected something more, but as the silence stretched out he realized Rewind was trying to dismiss him. Giving in would no doubt lead to consequences down the line, but he needed to get moving and it was clear no more value would come out of this conversation.
“Tell him I came by,” he said as he turned away.
“Of course I’m going to,” Rewind scoffed. “I don’t keep things from my conjunx.” He said the word with much more emphasis than Prowl thought was necessary.
“Then you’ll pass along my new comms code?” Prowl asked, producing the datachit and holding it up.
The door shut heavily between them.
All things considered, Prowl thought as he made his way back between the buildings and up to the street, it could have gone worse.