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Prowl thought that the Constructicons were all annoying, clingy Morons. He was right, but that didn't change the fact that the Constructicons had one thing he didn't: inherent trust in each other.
Prowl could spend all the time in the world insisting that his job mattered more than his connections with people, but he was a cybertronian, a social species. Physical contact and emotional connection were things that could not be substituted for with endless hours of calculations and work. He'd tried.
However, despite knowing this and being aware that something had to change, when the Constructicons offered to invite him over for dinner, he still said no.
Saying yes would mean admitting to them that yes, he wanted to connect with people, he wanted to be a part of something, anything.
He knew they'd accept it. He still wasn't ready.
"He said no."
Scrapper announces, and you'd think the rest of the bots in the room had just been told they'd never see a construction site again. Disappointment, sharp and clear snaps through the bond, but it doesn't last long before logic swoops in to soothe it. Because they accounted for this, admittedly. No foundation is guaranteed to be completely free of faults, and this particular plan was..... well. The romantic equivalent of building on limestone next to a waterway. Still, knowing there was a chance their dear Prowl would turn the invite down didn't make the sting stop entirely. Sue them, it had been hard not to daydream about the alternative- something the entire gestalt was more than guilt of doing for more time than they'd admit to anyone but Prowl himself.
"So what do we do now..?"
Scavenger is the first to pipe up, trying not to let his bucket drooping behind him give away his feelings too much.
"We eat dinner without him I guess?"
Bonecrusher grumbles, and is promptly given something to grumble about when Long Haul clips him upside the helm.
"He has his reasons."
Hook is quick to remind them, and they all know it long before he does. Their Prowl always has his reasons- that's part of what they've come to love. That beautiful, sharp logic of his. There's no doubt in any of their sparks that he'd thought the offer over, run a hundred different possibilities, outcomes that could surface from a yes or a no. His choice had been made, and pushing it wasn't going to work.
"We'll have to try another idea."
Mixmaster suggests, already brewing up a few of them. Maybe they could make him something, drop it off to him? They don't have a lot in the way of Energon, sure, but he knew he could make it work!
Prowl was interrupted from his 12th resource sheet by what he could have mistaken as a large rock being thrown at his front door and the sound of a small army loudly escaping the scene. for a moment, he didn't move, but when there was no sound of hissing gas or otherwise lethal material, he stood up from his desk, ignored how the struts in his back and legs audibly cracked, and walked through his minimally furnished apartment to the front door.
Surprisingly, there was in fact not a hole going through his front door, but when he opened it he was momentarily perplexed by the presence of a container laying on it's side. He picked it up carefully, opened it there in the doorway and felt his fuel tank ping desperately at him when he realised that it wasn't some kind of chemical weapon, but a portion of soup. Homemade, mineral-rich soup.
Prowl had enough dignity left in him to at least shut his front door before he started tearing up.