Chapter Text
Rain pattered against the tent canvas as Prowl ducked under the flap. The hush of the camp during the night disappeared behind him, drowning the distant murmur of the watch rotation under the droplets.
The medical tent was unusually quiet. Weeks prior it was a rotation of mechs with various injuries and barked orders. Now, with the campaign against the encroaching Insecticons in its final stages, the recovery cots were empty, their covers cleaned as best as possible in the given circumstances and neatly folded. Casualties had dropped to zero while negotiations were underway, but Prowl knew as much as anyone else in camp that they needed to remain prepared for the worst despite hoping for the best. Having the medical tent empty was a good sign, but in historical context, some of the worst tragedies happened during times when the uneasy lull ended- typically explosively.
With the negotiations still in its sparkling stages, there was too much uncertainty to let their guard down. Which was why he had come here.
A table was pressed against one wall, turned into a makeshift desk as a pen scratched through the layers of reports adorning its surface. A mech sat hunched over the work, red optics squinting under the feeble light of the travel lamps and knees bent awkwardly to fit in the limited space. The medic was unusual in every way- with Commander Pax at the helm, it was more often than not Doctor Ratchet who oversaw the needs of the unit. However, the mech had been called away to the Capital, conveniently right before the unit was assembled to handle the Insecticons trying to eat away at the western borders of the Primal States. The unit was comprised of members from much smaller and oftentimes poorer territories, thus leaving a significant gap in training. And no backup medic.
The medic before him had been hired under a mercenary contract, which had upset several noble houses- none of which were affiliated in the campaign in any way other than being nosy busybodies. His nationality was that beyond the southern border from historically antagonistic lands, of which was politically and socially horrifying to any good and noble spark. He was an impressively tall construction-frame, more height than width, his green and purple plating thicker than the protective armor of some siege weapons, making some of the younger members of their campaign still accidentally think of him as a frontliner and not a medic at all. Their confusion was understandable- the medic had no qualms in bullying his way onto the field to personally rescue the injured during some of the more bloodier skirmishes and dealt no shy amount of casualties to the enemy under his own power.
Regardless of what others thought of the mech, Prowl knew better than to assume based on looks alone. Despite his overwhelming appearance and generally rough demeanor, Medic Hook was good at his job. His large hands were surprisingly nimble, he was resourceful in a way that would've made any established doctor in a fancy hospital weep, and he certainly had no problems in picking up unruly patients like squabbling sparklings and dropping them into timeout within the medical tent.
Ratchet would’ve approved in his gruff manner if he’d been there. Certainly said so in his correspondence with Commander Pax when the mech showed Prowl what he’d been chortling at while reading his correspondences. Hook wasn’t squeamish nor was he afraid of getting his servos dirty, and he knew what complaints were valid enough to voice and which ones couldn’t be fixed- which, considering the campaign’s location being in predominately wetlands, was a hidden blessing very few realized nor appreciated. Because Ratchet would’ve been complaining about the muck and slime and general swampiness of the landscape as if he were personally going to war with nature itself until they were marching back home. Hook just sighed whenever someone tromped mud through his tent as if it were an everyday occurrence.
Being a construction-frame, perhaps it was.
Prowl believed that they got along, all things considered. Prowl wasn’t an overtly social mech, and neither was Hook. But they understood each other, in a way that would undoubtedly seem like nothing at all to anyone else. Hook would come to Prowl with a request for supplies and he would comb through every shanix and logistic form to make it happen at the estimated time stated. Prowl would set an example to the unit by going to the medical tent after every skirmish, and Hook would have less idiots to physically hunt down and carry back tangled up in his cable so they couldn’t escape. On days when they were busy, when frame-deep exhaustion and dreary thoughts clung to their plating, and one would find the time to squeeze in and give the other their rations with barely a few words passed between them.
It was enough for Prowl. Enough to come and approach the medic with this.
Hook lifted his helm at the sound of the flap dropping to a close behind Prowl. The crane on his back shifted as he straightened his shoulders, turning away from his awkward contortion to fit at the table and stretched his long legs out with several cracks of his joints.
“Captain,” he acknowledged, tipping his chin just enough to be considered vaguely polite yet sufficiently insufficient if it had been directed to anyone who would remotely care about such civilities. Titles had long since been abandoned at the border, noble titles shed like unwanted cloaks while picking up military rank in its absence. Prowl himself was grateful to seize his position- the hierarchy of military was, when not festered with noble grandstanding and favoritism, built upon a foundation of capabilities. If one excelled, they deserved promotion. If they floundered, they remained until they learned to overcome their weakness. It was simple and efficient- if a noble didn’t insist on infesting it with their unwarranted considerations of superiority.
Prowl was most grateful for Commander Pax in this regard. He at least understood no amount of prestige could cure stupidity.
“Medic Hook.” Prowl nodded back, curt and small with the faintest dip of his doorwings as he normally did, but his optics flitted over Hook briefly. The lull between them was minimal, but considering it was Prowl, it seemed monumental that he hesitated, and he knew that Hook noticed. “Do you have a moment?”
“I can spare,” Hook agreed, gesturing to an empty chair propped against the wall on the far end of the table-turned-desk. “Sounds serious. Does someone need to get discharged again?”
It had happened earlier in the campaign. A recruit was struggling to keep up with the demands of the unit. They were a liability, but Prowl had dug a little into their history to know they had joined in order to help keep their creators and much younger siblings afloat financially. A dishonorable discharge for failing to meet expectations would cut off any sort of support for their family, but keeping them would most definitely bring them to an early grave. Prowl had brought it up to the Commander, and then discussed it with Hook. A more thorough medical exam pointed to a natural defect in their frame that, after the next skirmish that the mech had been kept behind the lines running supplies, had been medically discharged instead, which came with a small supplementary income and a written recommendation from Commander Pax.
Last he’d heard, the mech had moved his family into the Commander’s territory, much to the Commander's delight.
“Not this time.” Prowl adjusted the chair so he could sit facing towards Hook, folding his servos in his lap. “It is of a more… personal request.”
“Personal?” One of Hook’s optical ridges rose as he leaned back, the small chair creaking dangerously under his weight. “And you’re coming to me for this?”
“Yes.” Prowl found himself hesitating once more, brief but noticeable. He had ran the numbers and weighed the risks, and everything pointed favorably as this being the best option. But Prowl knew his calculations tended to fail at the intrinsic aspect of a plan, the knee-jerk reaction that came from instinct and spark of a sentient being. But he couldn’t calculate the reaction, only the possibility of one. And he understood Hook enough that even if it ended poorly, Hook wouldn’t gossip. “Would you prefer the short version, or the long one?”
“There’s a long version?” Hook whistled as he stretched his arms up and behind his helm, causing several more pops and cracks along his spinal column and neck cabling. “This is either going to be amazingly catastrophic or horrifyingly simplistic, coming from you. Alright, hit me with the short version first.”
“I need you to marry me.”
Hook, expectedly, froze, his arms locked behind his head as he stared uncomprehendingly at Prowl. For several long seconds he just stared, not laughing as if Prowl had made an excellent joke. Not saying Prowl was being ridiculous. He simply stared. Then his optics jerked down, then up, taking Prowl in as a whole.
“What?”
Prowl’s digits creaked a little as he applied pressure to his already clasped servos. He had the explanation prepared long before he decided to approach, and so the words came off his glossa easily.
“I am a minor tertiary noble branched from a non insignificant noble house,” he told the mech plainly. “Through my actions under Commander Pax during this campaign, I was granted a title, which is enough to get the greater house interested in using me in their politics. Which includes them sending me a missive telling me to abandon the campaign and return to get wedded off to someone I have never met and have no inclination to. I cannot get married if I am already married. A terrible oversight. Mail gets delayed often, especially for couriers trying to navigate this terrain.”
Hook’s arms had dropped during his speech, red optics boring into Prowl. He didn’t appear angry, but his mouth was downturned into a scowl that Prowl had long since recognized as him thinking seriously. No mockery or disgust- Prowl could work with this.
“Your first thought was to ask me?” Hook gestured towards himself with a large servo. “You do realize who you’re talking to, right?”
Prowl’s optics scanned over the medic. The scratches along his leg plating from wading through dense shrubs, the scarring along the corner of his mouth from someone trying to claw his face off in delirium, the crooked nasal ridge. The very prominent construction-frame and drawling accent of a Decepticon Empire native.
Hook was the complete opposite of what was considered fashionably handsome and desirable among the noble society. Anyone with the common sensibilities of civilized life would faint at the prospect of marrying such a brute. But Prowl had no interest in the games of the wealthy and the entitled. Hook was smart and worked hard, which made him significantly less irritating than the entirety of noble society. Even with this being a marriage only on paper, it was, to Prowl, a beneficial one. For both of them. Prowl would be politically unavailable, and Hook could, if desired, use Prowl’s title to access opportunities outside of the Empire.
And also it would piss off so many people. A small but deserved bonus, in Prowl’s opinion.
“I know who I am speaking to,” Prowl stated. “It is precisely why I am speaking to you now.”
“But-” Hook was, uncharacteristically, floundering. He was typically quick on the uptake with sharp wit or barked orders, but Prowl had ripped the rug out right from under him, as the saying goes. “Marriage? Me?”
“A marriage isn’t a conjunxual bond,” Prowl pointed out, trying to help in the only way he knew how- factually. “At most it is contractual. We do not need to be married indefinitely, only until the campaign is over at least. I have already developed a draft, if you wish to read it.”
He unclasped his servos to reach into his subspace, pulling out the form and holding it out to the crane-bot to take. Hook took it, his servos surprisingly steady as his piercing red gaze dropped to read.
It was perhaps one of the shortest marriage contracts in history. Prowl wrote it to be as simple as possible, leaving out the usual jargon on technicalities and wordplays that typically festered in the catalogue of pages. It contained only three rules.
One: they would not interfere with each other’s life or work unless the interference was to prevent casualty to themselves or to others.
Two: they did not owe each other anything unless willfully given. Not wealth, not access, not loyalty, nor even their own frames.
Three: the marriage contract would be dissolved upon mutual agreement at any time.
Rule one and two were made because Prowl knew how marriage contracts usually worked. They tended to ensnare, to trap people in unloving and unbalanced relationships, made to benefit only a single person or house. He had seen scientists lose their life’s work because their marriage made it so that their spouse took the credit. He had seen bots disappear into a noble’s house, never to be seen in public again and trapped inside a luxurious cage. He knew of the people who married into a family only to strip them of their wealth and then leave them penniless.
Prowl in turn refused to trap Hook or himself into threadbare obligations. They would live their lives and respect each other’s jobs and positions. What they provided to each other would be done by their own merit and desire, and not because they were forced to. And lastly, the marriage could be broken easily, at any time they wanted. That could be at the end of the campaign. It could be longer, if Hook wished.
Prowl knew not to expect more than the minimum. Having the marriage in place until the campaign was wrapped up would provide security until Prowl could fully focus on dealing with his house. However, having the marriage extend for longer would provide coverage beyond the original scope, which would be nice to have, but not required.
He could handle the social and political mess after the campaign, regardless of what Hook decided. If he decided.
“You want me. To marry you. You really want this.” Hook lowered the form to look at Prowl, really look at him. His gaze wasn’t cold nor disgusted, confusion still lurking at the corners, but it was intense all the same. Prowl stared back readily. “Do you all nobles treat this like it’s a transaction?”
“It is more often remarkably worse. I did my best to simplify it.”
“I can only imagine.” Hook dropped his optics back down to the form in his servos. “Why me, specifically?”
Prowl’s doorwings flicked a little as he folded his servos once more. Otherwise he’d fear his servos would start gesturing. Or picking at the paint along his knuckles- a habit he’s struggled to completely do away with since his youth. He disliked trying to convey himself in a way that would be emotionally viable. Even to himself, he always sounded stilted and awkward.
“You were the only one I knew who wouldn’t immediately laugh,” Prowl admitted. Somberly. Quietly. “And you didn’t. Even in disbelief you take it seriously.”
“Because I know you wouldn’t go to the lengths of coming up with a contract for a bit. I’m not stupid.”
“I know you aren’t.”
Hook’s helm jerked up, but Prowl kept his optics down to the form still clutched in Hook’s servos.
“You are efficient in your job. You assist the camp and the campaign even outside your scope of work or duty despite you being a mercenary contract. We get along well enough and understand that this isn’t an obligation of duty or intent of anything beyond words to satisfy a legality.”
“And I’m a big fragging construction frame from the Empire. That’s going to piss off a lot of people.”
The faintest curl appeared in the corner of Prowl’s mouth as he looked up to meet Hook’s optic, his doorwings propping just a touch higher than its standard resting position.
“I’ve taken that into consideration.”
It was then that Hook finally snorted, amusement lacing his features. It made the previous severe visage fade away, with the corners of his optics crinkling. He looked younger this way. Broken nasal ridge, scar, and all.
“You actually want to piss off your family, huh?”
“The less desirable I am, the less uses they have of me that are beyond my control.” The faint humor faded from Prowl’s frame as he leaned just a breath closer towards Hook, looking upon him seriously. “You do not have to agree if you don’t want to. The contract is simply that. We need not to do anything together beyond sign on the line, and can be broken amicably at any time after the campaign. I simply do not have the time to cater to the whims of my house while we are actively fighting, nor do I care about keeping their sensibilities intact. If you do not want to, or you are already conjunxed or married that I am unaware of, then you don’t. I can handle what follows.”
And he could, Prowl knew. He had made contingency plans, but this one was the most secure. Hook was, from what his restricted research allowed, unattached. And he had yet to laugh him out of the tent, or throw something at him, which made him almost hopeful. Almost, because Prowl knew better. Hope only made disappointment more bitter.
Hook’s expression was, at least, considering, while taking the time to look over Prowl.
“Well,” he began slowly, optics trailing up the line of his waist and over the curve of his chassis for some reason. “Never can be said that I’d turn down the chance of pissing off a bunch of Primacy prissies. ”
He set the form down onto the table, picking up the pen he’d left neglected on top of his reports, and without further ado signed the bottom of the page.
Prowl’s doorwings shot up.
“That’s just the draft!”
“Not anymore.” Hook flipped the pen between his digits before holding it out to Prowl, who gawked at him.
“Come now, this was your idea. Getting cold pedes on me, husband?”
Prowl could feel his face flushing as he snatched the pen away, ignoring how the pitch of Hook’s laugh reverberated pleasantly across his sensors.
“If the Commander comes and cries all over you, just pat his back,” Prowl snipped as he signed the form with a flourish. “He has to certify and file it, but I will tell him to not make a big deal over it. He at least respects the privacy of it. Also don’t call me that.”
“Already trying to boss me around?” Hook’s mouth curved into a wicked smirk. “You were certainly made for married life.”
Prowl bounced the pen off Hook’s stupid, massive forehelm in retaliation.