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Prowl was no stranger to perilous situations. Throughout a long career both in Autobot High Command, and as an enforcer before that, he had learnt to endure. He had been abandoned, ambushed, tortured, imprisoned, experimented on, brainwashed-
He could handle boredom.
The Decepticon jets currently holding him hostage however…
"How is this 'premium'?" Skywarp complained, lifting another paint container and sneering at the colour- burnt orange. "Looks like what Scavenger purged up when he had that infection..."
Prowl inhaled steadily through his olfactory.
Skywarp tossed the paint container away, but its impact with the ground caused the lid to fly off. Hideous paint splattered. Starscream shrieked like he’d been shot when a speck of it landed a metre from his pede.
“Careful you moron! Look at what you did!”
“Chill out, Screamer, it woulda been an improvement.”
Prowl ex-vented slowly through his mouth.
“I’ll show you improvement-!” Starscream snatched up a paint container of his own. Prowl shuttered his optics and only heard the impact of it smashing against the wall. Skywarp yelped and cursed. There was a mad scramble of movement, which was probably Starscream giving chase. Something banged, then crashed.
Prowl kept his optics shuttered. He inhaled through his olfactory.
He had been caught three hours ago. Three hours. Of this.
Caught in the retreat, he had been shoved around whilst various Decepticons argued over whose problem he was meant to be. It had been an act borne of opportunity, not plan, and no one was willing to ‘babysit a fragging Autobot’ and miss out on getting to gloat about it to the enemy.
Prowl had suggested they simply let him go if they couldn’t be bothered to guard him.
Which had led to a rather sadistic Megatron handing him over to an indignant command trine.
“Good luck, Autobot,” Megatron had purred fiendishly, leaving him cuffed and helpless kneeling on the floor of the car bodyshop they were hiding him in, whilst he took the remainder of his faction to boast about his capture. (And probably negotiate a few cubes for his return).
Not too many, Prowl hoped. But he couldn’t concern himself with Optimus’s lacklustre negotiation skills at present. He had higher concerns.
Like Starscream. Who had -as the other Decepticons had left- levelled with him a look that promised much suffering.
So far the only real suffering appeared to be that of the Command Trine.
Once the clatter of scuffling seekers had died down, Prowl unshuttered his optics again, estimating there would be a maximum of five minutes before their next fight broke out. (They were worse than Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.)
In front of him, Thundercracker was bent over and staring out through the bodyshop’s dirt-speckled window, while Skywarp was now sat on the hood of a glossy, freshly painted car, dejectedly scrubbing at yellow paint that had been splattered across the side of his face.
Prowl turned his helm subtly. Starscream was behind him, now studying the bodyshop’s paint selection with great interest.
“Ugh,” he growled, poking at a tin of bright pink. “Elita…”
“They carry any purple?” Skywarp sprung off the car to join him. Starscream veered away from the still wet yellow marring his trine-mate’s face. “I could use a touch up.”
“If anyone’s getting a touch up it’s me!” Starscream announced loudly, shouldering Skywarp aside and now rifling through the shelves.
Prowl rolled his optics and faced forwards again as the seeker’s found their desired colours and crooned excitedly. Thundercracker straightened up from the window, his optics darting between Prowl’s stiff but stoic poise and whatever his trine were doing.
“Shouldn’t we be keeping an optic on… you know?” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Him.”
“You need to get a life, TC,” Skywarp advised. “Look, they’ve got blue.”
Thundercracker seemed to war with himself. He looked to Prowl again.
Prowl resolutely ignored him. Any distraction was welcome if it kept his captor’s attention off of him. The stasis cuffs they had him in were of an older and often faulty design. And he knew how to break their circuit.
Thundercracker relented with a slump, and Skywarp took that as invitation to grab armfuls of paint off the shelves and hurry them over to Thundercracker.
Prowl had to sit and watch the three of them awkwardly negotiate who was touching-up what and where. He learned Thundercracker had the steadiest hand by virtue of Starscream snatching a small detailing brush from Skywarp before he could get near his wings and thrusting it at the hesitant blue seeker instead.
Watching them reminded Prowl of the documentary films Hound would often watch, where birds would preen and apes groomed one another. The seekers seemed to be playing up to every stereotype that existed for their frame type.
He watched expressive wings lift and fall and stiffen and flutter as they were worked with; cleaned and painted, then polished to a high shine. On his back his own door-wings twitched, neglected.
“See something you like, Autobot?” Starscream’s high voice mocked.
Prowl snapped his gaze away from shining white wings and glared, irritated at himself for getting distracted. He refused to give them the satisfaction of an answer.
But Starscream and Skywarp shared a devious look.
Prowl shuttered his optics. He had been in enough hostage situations to understand this meant he would be left unmolested no longer.
“Skywarp’s face hasn’t set,” Thundercracker pointed out when his trine-mates began to rise.
“He’s ugly anyway,” Starscream dismissed with a wave of his servo.
“Hey!” Skywarp complained.
They came to stand over Prowl, looming with their wings wide and their armour shining beautifully, expressions evil and smug. The scent of paint and polish was strong.
“Well, Autobot?” Starscream pressed. “Shall we see if they carry your colour?”
Prowl didn’t answer. Starscream was unpredictable, dangerous, and hard to read. It was better not to engage. Not to encourage.
“They definitely do,” Skywarp agreed. “Maybe we should give you a touchup? Those stunted little wings on your back look so sad and dull.”
“Guys,” Thundercracker called, sounding unsure.
“Well Autobot, what do you say?” Starscream pressed, leaning down. Close up like this he was objectively attractive; features symmetrical and balanced, his armour smooth and blemish free. It made sense that it would take so much maintenance to hide the ugliness of his rancid spark.
Prowl said nothing.
“Silence means yes,” Skywarp decided confidently, darting around Prowl to fetch the paint. “Let’s give him a new look! What colour should we do? Orange? Autobots love orange.”
Prowl repressed a shudder.
But Starscream was staring at him thoughtfully, his lips pressing into a pout.
“Leave the orange,” Starscream decided, much to Skywarp’s disappointment. “We won’t have time to do the whole frame, but we can at least fix these-“ he reached out to ping one of Prowl’s door-wings. Prowl flicked it angry, trying to shake off the sensation of being touched by him.
“Yeah, you know,” Skywarp began thoughtfully. “He’s not bad looking for an Autobot-“
“It’s just the door-wings.” Thundercracker interrupted, for some reason annoyed by Skywarp’s comment. “If he didn’t have those-“
“He’d be as ugly as every other grounder,” Starscream agreed casually, as if Prowl wasn’t right there. “What is it about you mud crawlers and wearing the most unimaginative bodywork possible? And thinking you look good?”
“Yeah, like those loser sports cars,” Skywarp agreed. “Thinking they’re all that. Especially the yellow one!”
Prowl realised they were talking about Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. No one else inspired such visceral hatred from the seekers.
“If you made an effort,” Starscream murmured, leaning close with the brush. The cool paint tickled Prowl’s sensors as it dragged along the edge of his door-wing. “You might have mechs falling over each other for your attention. Instead, it’s like you want to look all frumpy and boring…”
Prowl could vaguely remember being subjected to comments like this when he’d been back in the academy; young but driven and surrounded by vapid morons more obsessed with getting clanged than they were graduation.
He didn’t care how he looked so long as he functioned efficiently. (Neither did Jazz, and Jazz had never voiced a single complaint about his door-wings. The opposite, in fact.)
“When we’re done with you, those Autobots going to be throwing themselves at you,” Skywarp told him gleefully, grabbing his face and almost suffocating Prowl with a polishing cloth.
“Hold them up,” Starscream admonished, yanking on his door-wings so he could paint the lower edges. “No one wants sagging wings.“
Prowl scowled, but it was hidden by the polishing cloth smearing what was frankly preposterous quantities of polish across his face. If Skywarp added anymore his plating might as well be a mirror. It would be impractical and distracting. (Jazz was bad enough without the encouragement.)
Then he felt someone take hold of his stasis cuffs.
Glaring past the cloth Skywarp had in his face, he could see Thundercracker frowning at his servos. For a moment he feared the seeker had spotted the fault and realised the charge wasn’t running through the entirely of the cuffs.
Thundercracker nudged Starscream to get his attention.
Starscream pulled a face.
“Ugh, your paint’s chipping.”
Thank Primus.
“Am I supposed to care?” He demanded, relief overriding common sense. He pressed his lips together, annoyed at himself for engaging.
Starscream just continued to tut, “Looks like you’ve been crawling through the dirt on your hands and knees- oh wait! Isn’t that what you grounders do anyway?”
Prowl glared past him, suffering the insult in silence.
“Exactly,” Starscream murmured proudly. “It’s a shame. Skywarp was right. You’re not that unfortunate looking-“
“Better than those twins,” Skywarp agreed. “This’ll show them. There’s only so such much you can do with bodywork when you’re a barebacked four-wheeler.”
Prowl blinked. He had underestimated how creatively someone could be insulted for not having wings. Or at least something that bore resemblance to them. There was also something highly hypocritical about Starscream’s prejudice as well, given what information Spec Ops had gathered about the Decepticon Air Commander and his out of hours activities with one of those grounders.
Perhaps he was playing up to it in front of his trine? Compensating for a relationship he was obviously hiding? Either way, it seemed like a good opportunity to divert the attention back off himself.
“It’s strange that you find grounders so hideous,” he murmured cooly.
“How is that strange?” Starscream paused to sneer, glaring at him. “They’re plain, boring, and dirty.”
“Isn’t Megatron a grounder?” Prowl pushed.
Starscream brows had drawn down as he went back to working. “The plainest, dirtiest, most boring grounder of all, you mean?”
“Yet all those hours you spend in his private quarters,” Prowl dropped casually. “I would have thought you’d find some opportunity to touch him up like this?”
Starscream froze. Thundercracker’s helm whipped back and forth between his trine-leader and Prowl in shock.
“Screamer!” Skywarp yelped suddenly, mouth hanging open. “You said that was one time?!”
“You’ve been-! Megatron?!” Thundercracker’s optics flashed like a pair of emergency alarms. “And you knew?!”
“He’s lying!” Starscream howled, leaping to his pedes.
“I knew he clanged him, but he said it was an accident!” Skywarp yelled to Thundercracker, also on his pedes, pointing at Starscream. “He said he was overcharged-!”
The garage door lay behind Prowl. Unlocked.
“It was once!” Starscream lied, face dark embarrassment and wings -so very expressive- falling back and hanging defensively low. “It’s a lie! I would never-“
“So that’s why you’re always having to buff out paint transfers!” Skywarp accused. “I should have known you weren’t ’sliding down handrails’!”
“How long has this been going on?” Thundercracker was demanding. He had his back to Prowl now and was looming over Starscream, who looked meek in his shadow. “He’s a grounder, Starscream!”
“This is so embarrassing,” Skywarp was pacing and shaking his helm. “If the Conehead’s learn about this-“
“They’re not going to find out!” Starscream told them, shrill and overwrought. “No one has to know!”
“The fragging Autobot knows!” Thundercracker boomed, turning around to point-
Just as the rear garage-door rolled shut behind Prowl, solidifying his escape.
It was Sideswipe and Sunstreaker that came to meet Prowl at the coordinates he had sent. They stared at him, unmoving, as he approached. Prowl ignored it, refusing to address what was distracting them.
“Uhh…?” Sideswipe stood with his mouth hanging open.
“I need to debrief with Jazz.” Prowl told them, lifting his restrained servos so they could remove the disabled stasis-cuffs.
“You look different.” Sunstreaker told him, glaring.
“My appearance is irrelevant.”
“Is it?” Sideswipe stepped back to look him up and down. “Because Megatron was gloating about you getting tortured, but you’ve just turned up looking like you had a spa day?”
“And a detail.” Sunstreaker added darkly, studying his door-wings. “Whose work is this?”
Prowl grit his denta. His door-wings twitched and lowered out of selfconsciousness.
“I was left with the Command Trine.” He explained. “They… grew bored.”
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker continued to stare.
“Stop looking my door-wings.”
Sunstreaker scoffed and turned away, while Sideswipe blustered, “I wasn’t-! Not that they’re not- but you’re you and I would never-!”
“Let’s go.” Prowl interrupted, striding straight past him, determined to get back to base and out of this situation. As soon as he was free to do so, he would be scrubbing the paint and polish off in as hot a shower as he could tolerate.
“Are you at least going to tell me who did the detailing on your door-wings?” Sunstreaker demanded, obviously annoyed.
Prowl shuttered his optics and kept walking.
And he still had to weather Jazz’s reaction…