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It wasn't a thought that anyone considered in their leisure time, but every mech subconsciously expected Prowl to have numerous curious quirks. Part of it was the result of Prowl's special brand of conscience – mechs found it peculiar enough, and so waited for other obscure facts about the tactician's life to surface any moment. But it wasn't all there was. The other reason was something all of them could relate to. After everything that happened during the war and the decisions many of them, Prowl in particular, had to make, it was expected for some eccentricities to arise sooner or later.
Still, of all the possible quirks, no one expected to see the feared and loathed tactician to walk almost every solar cycle to the freshly opened textile store, full of best imported fabrics and bedding, and then leave with an armful of what Earthmen called 'pillows'. He had to have a small dozen of them by the time mechs started to get interested in that particular quirk of his post-war life, of course if he had started buying them around the time mechs had begun noticing it. It was just as possible the pillows took most of the space in his assigned quarters.
It was unusual enough for others to get suspicious. And when the mechs got suspicious, they tended to talk and their imagination ran completely wild.
“He must be plotting something, everything he does is work and plotting-related,” exclaimed Sideswipe one of those days, when he was slowly getting overcharged on engex, with his friends in equally good, but suspicious mood, gulping down new Maccadam's finest brews.
“Maybe he discovered some weapon-making qualities of those fabrics and buys them all for Wheeljack, to make use of?” asked Longtooth worriedly, his fans whirling as engex flew through his pipes. Others shivered, seriously worried that Prowl would be soon contacting them about some suicidal mission.
Jazz however just rolled his eyes. “You are all ridiculous,” he said and sipped on his energon.
“You are saying this now,” said Circuit. “But you'll see we are right when Prowl admits he wants to overthrow Starscream and rule Cybertron by himself.”
But Prowl really wasn't doing any of that.
What the mechs failed to imagine, was that Prowl not only functioned outside of his work as a tactician, but also during this shaky time of peace learnt to enjoy simple pleasures in life. Like lying down in a berth full of fluffy pillows.
All of this because of one dainty psychiatrist.
It was short after the end of the war, when Prowl forced the whole command to undergo psychiatric evaluation. Optimus made it clear that it should also involve the tactician himself. To say the least, Prowl wasn't exactly ecstatic about it. However after postponing it for as long as he possibly could, he finally went to see Rung.
“You look quite tense, maybe you want to lie down?” was the first thing Rung asked Prowl. It only made the Praxian's doorwings tense some more and his back straighten so very much, it must have looked almost painful.
“I don't see why I would want to do that, but thank you for your offer,” he answered, trying to keep his voice level and hide the fact the visit was actually making him nervous.
“Maybe it doesn't look like it, but it's actually really comfortable. You should try it, I insist,” said Rung, his voice encouraging and optimistic.
Despite himself Prowl looked at the reclining berth. It was covered in pillows – the same he had seen on Earth, just much larger, the size suitable for Cybertronians. Rung must have noticed him staring. “A shop near the new academy started importing the fabrics and making pillows.” He chuckled. “We deserve a little bit of luxury, don't we?”
Prowl didn't answer. Did they really deserve that? Instead of giving himself the answer, tentatively he sat on the edge of the berth, his doorwings relaxing minutely. He couldn't remember when was the last time they didn't ache. After vorns of war and constant unrest, he couldn't force the cables in his body to slacken and plating to flare out at least a little. His doorwings were the worst, half the time he felt like he was going blind with how little information he was able to pick up with his hurting appendages.
“They really hurt, don't they?” Rung was looking sympathetically at Prowl's doorwings. Instinctively Prowl moved them up and down, wincing in pain. It seemed to be answer enough, for Rung stood up from his place behind the desk and approached the tactician. “You really need to relax,” he looked seriously worried. “Would you mind me trying something?”
Prowl wanted to scowl and tell the psychiatrist to move away, but couldn't convince himself to do so. Rung didn't present any threat and the single thought that his body could hurt less, was too tempting to resist. “No. You can try whatever you want.”
“Thank you.” Slowly, as if making it possible for Prowl to examine every move he made, Rung circled the bed and stood behind Prowl. The tactician glanced over his shoulder and watched with surprise as Rung climbed on the berth and settled behind him. Another couple of kliks and he felt Rung's delicate fingers trace the edge of his doorwing. He was expecting the touch, but still he fidgeted. Rung must have known that would happen, because he waited for Prowl to retain his calm before touching the appendages with both his servos.
Prowl shivered. Maybe the touch was tentative, but still his doorwings were just so painful... Before he could finish this thought, his processor went blank for a klik, and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from moaning in pain, as Rung quickly moved his fingers down to the cables at the base of his doorwings.
“Those are really tense,” said Rung as he started rolling the cables between his fingers. At first almost unbearably painful, Prowl couldn't help but relax his mechanics as he felt Rung work methodically on every bit of tense cabling, making them loosen and forcing his doorwings to lower for the first time in vorns. Prowl let them sag, which immediately prompted Rung to massage the hinges he uncovered this way.
This time he didn't manage to stop the moan. His plating rattled minutely as it flared out, and his whole body sagged. Rung only hummed and kept on going. His fingers were small and dexterous, and incredibly talented at finding the places that hurt the most, only to grind against them until they loosened. Soon they wormed their way under his plating and wriggled . Prowl almost whined. He had to grip the edges of the berth to steady himself.
“Maybe you should lie down?” asked Rung as he brushed tips of his fingers over his sensitive plating.
“Yes, I should maybe do that,” Prowl said, trying to hide his awkwardness that arose under the talented digits. He moved to lie down. Rung helped him maneuver his body, so he was comfortably lying on his front, numerous pillows supporting his body. As soon as he was cosy, Rung leaned over him and put his servos back on his doorwings. Now he was thoroughly massaging them whole – alternating between rubbing the plates and kneading the hinges.
It felt so good, Prowl's fans turned on automatically. It earned him a gentle rub to one tip of a doorwing.
“As good as it feels now, I'm not a medic and I can't do anything to stop them from hurting for long.”
“I know,” replied Prowl. “I had a talk with Ratchet. I would have to change my job and cut myself off from everything and everyone.” Was it him, or was his vocalizer slurring the words? Only now he realized that his optics were dimmed, too. It had to be the pillows. He couldn't deny it, they were quite comfortable.
Rung hummed, not once stopping the slow movements of his fingers. “Maybe you should think about buying yourself some of those pillows. If you arrange them carefully, it might get much cosier to sleep, with your doorwings supported by them.” Rung chuckled. “I can even give you one of mine, as a start.”
And indeed, Rung's aquamarine, fluffy pillow was the first in Prowl's collection. It was soon joined by other bedding pieces, of different texture and colour, turning Powl's berth into giant nest. But he didn't care. He didn't have a spark to care, when thanks to that nest his doorwings were hurting less and less every solar cycle, making a small spark of happiness bloom inside him.
It didn't even matter if he looked ridiculous, sprawled on top of dozens of pillows, as he was informed he did, by no one else but the infamous spy.
“I'm not sure what's more ridiculous. The position of your body, or the fact that it's you getting all cosy,” said Jazz one of those days, when he sneaked into Prowls quarters, a habit he apparently couldn't get rid of even after the war. They hadn't seen each other in too long a time. Prowl struggled to remember if they had actually talked after the end of the war. It was very posible they hadn't.
“Jazz. What are you doing here?” asked Prowl, as he tipped his head back. Since he was lying on his back, he was met with Jazz's upside down face. The mech was smiling.
“Came to see if rumours were true and you are indeed plotting the destruction of Cybertron. Or Decepticons at least.” His voice sounded amused and his visor flickered teasingly, but Prowl had no idea what he was talking about.
“Plotting?” he asked.
“Well...” Jazz moved closer and sat next to Prowl. He leaned over the tactician, folding his arms over his bumper and resting his chin on his servos. He looked at Prowl, his visor flashing. Jazz was the only mech to get away with something like this, getting so close without any reason. “I've heard from certain mechs at Maccadam's, that you've been behaving oddly as of recent.” He moved one of his hands up, to delicately rub at Prowl's red chevron. “Apparently you are hoarding pillows. Why?”
“Doctor's advice.” Prowl wasn't about to spill everything at once. Seeing Jazz's curious face was too enjoyable.
As was the surprise at Prowl's words. “Doctor's? It was Ratchet's idea?”
“No, Ratchet told me to go and change my career.” He flexed his cables and stretched a little under Jazz's weight. “It was Rung. He suggested I should get more comfortable.”
Jazz barked a laugh. “And are you? Comfortable, I mean.”
Prowl moved his servo to rest it on Jazz's hip and squeeze the sensitive plating there. “As a matter of fact, I am,” he said. And he really was.
“True, you do look comfortable,” said Jazz. He was about to say something more, but then he stopped, a mischievous smile blooming on his face. “Should we check if we can both be comfortable in your little nest?”
Prowl shook his head. Jazz was unbelievable. But still he was right – if he was already this relaxed, why not turn it up another notch.