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After hours of driving through the snow and hearing Sari's soft sneezes, they arrived safely back at the base. Despite their terrible cycle, Sari decided to spend the night with them, so now Prowl is left alone with his thoughts as he watches Bumblebee recharge with a bundled up Sari.
They always have some of Sari's things lying around, so it was easy for him to get blankets and pillows for the little girl.
Wary about Bumblebee's stiff servos (because of the cold), Prowl wrapped Sari in some blankets. She complained for a moment about being swaddled like a baby, but fell into recharge before she could voice her displeasure any further. Bumblebee follows her soon after; the hum of his engine seems to be enjoyable for Sari. She clings to him as she snuggles deeper under the blankets.
Prowl sighs, offlining his optics.
They were scared. Of him. Bumblebee and Sari were scared of him.
He gritted his denta at that thought—that fact—and gently bonked his helm against the floor. He couldn't make too much noise or he'd wake them up. He remembers nothing of when he was infected by the space barnacles, but he swears he can still feel some of them crawling on his plating. Maybe it's the snow between his transformation seams, but still.
His sole recollection is that of awakening in a state of profound disorientation, as if something had entered his memory banks, looked through all of his files and left them empty. Every time he tried to find some memory file about it, he couldn't find anything, because there was nothing. He probably would have even believed it was part of one of Bumblebee's terrible jokes—if it weren't for Sari sitting down to cry uncontrollably and Bumblebee starting to yell at him the klik Prowl genuinely questioned what was going on.
(Not to mention the general pain and the vaguely slimy feeling he felt in his circuits. But he didn't mention that in front of Bumblebee and Sari—they were already scared enough, there was no need to make things worse.)
Everything could have gone wrong, in so many ways. Prowl has to stop his internal battle computer from calculating all adverse outcomes that were narrowly avoided. He couldn't protect anyone, not those protoforms Master Yoketron wanted to leave in his care, nor Bumblebee or Sari, who, frankly, were basically newsparks to him. Bumblebee was sparked long after the Great War, and obviously, so was Sari.
He's a complete coward—Warpath was right to call him that when he tried to avoid being drafted during the war's waning period. He thought it was useless. They demanded his death in a conflict that predated his own existence. It was ridiculous—and the gratuitous carnage only served to substantiate this assertion.
Draft-dodging peacenik reverberates through Prowl's processor, eliciting a subtle hiss as he observes Bumblebee's murmured complaints during recharge. Typical of him, he's done this ever since he was on the repair team with them. His pronouncements are frequently incoherent, and he occasionally cries during recharge. They never told him any of this. Any Autobot who won't fight Decepticons, is no better than a 'Con himself. Prowl recalls his attempt to fight Megatron around 50 Earth years ago, where his life took another unexpected turn without him having a say in the matter.
Prowl just wanted... he wanted to have a nice evening with Bumblebee and Sari. As nice as it could have been, because they're two very annoying kids whom, unfortunately, he likes. And while Bumblebee is whiny, his present anger was valid.
His plating suffered from a grievous itching sensation, prompting him to contemplate whether the younger mech experienced a similar discomfort. Love feels sticky and warm, like the space barnacles that once clung to him—difficult to process and not consistently pleasant.
He yearned for the return of its more pleasant sensation, though.
On a torrid Saturday afternoon, Sari, free from academic obligations, resolved to introduce her Autobot friends to the quintessential park experience. Regrettably, the prevailing heat proved insurmountable, forcing them to crawl back to base.
Bulkhead activated his vents, lying faceplate down on the ground as if he could suddenly cool down more. Sari kept sighing and wiping the sweat from her face as she and Bumblebee tried to distract themselves with one of Prowl's nature books. They never read, so they must have been incredibly bored. Especially if the book was about the nature of all things. The girl was lying next to Bumblebee—about a meter away because Bumblebee's plating was scorching hot—and explaining how fast a cheetah could run. They were on the page about felines.
Prowl approaches, his arrival far from silent, the heat inducing creaking joints and a sticky frame. The pair remains oblivious, though Bumblebee's audials perk at his approach. A slight smile graces Prowl's faceplate as he observes the feline subject Sari depicted.
The domestic cat, with large eyes and, sometimes, even larger ears. It is a small carnivorous mammal, the only domesticated species of the Felidae family, valued worldwide for its companionship and its use in pest control.
“They’re agile, crepuscular hunters with sharp, retractable claws, excellent night vision, and strong, flexible bodies,” Sari says, a little sweat peeking through her eye. She blinks it away.
Prowl rests his arms on the makeshift sofa, focusing his optical sensors to decipher the text within his book. “Known for being independent yet affectionate, they communicate through meows, purrs, and body language, and they sleep long hours,” he continues, reaching out to flick Bumblebee’s audial, eliciting a responsive engine rev.
Sari snorts and turns to face Bumblebee. “Ha! You’re just like them!”
Bumblebee's engine emits a perplexed whir, his optics narrowing. “What do you even mean?!” He tries to snatch the book from Sari, forcing her to stand up and challenge him.
This, of course, ends in a race to see who gets the book. The ninjabot hides the book before it suffers serious damage, watching them run into the street and watching Bulkhead chase after them.
The heat probably softens me, he reflects, as he places the book on his habsuite’s desk.
A gentle tap on his right cheek abruptly roused Prowl from his thoughts. Upon activating his optics, he found himself gazing into Bumblebee's drowsy, yet frustrated visage.
“Go recharge, your engine's making weird noises,” The younger mech mutters, pushing Sari between them so he's forced to calm down. She squirms a little before sinking into her blankets again.
He scoffed, poised to respond, only for Bumblebee to draw him into close proximity, eliminating any intervening space. Prowl's optics widen imperceptibly beneath his visor as he observes the two casually recharging beside him after everything that had happened in the woods. Bumblebee hasn't moved his servo from his right cheek, and Prowl does nothing to change it.
Love feels kind of nice again.