Constructicon Green

by StrawberryGore

Summary:

Prowl has never been part of a family. At least anyone he's ever tried to accept has hurt him, or he's hurt them. At this point he's sure he can't be anything more than his tac-net.

The Constructicons are going to prove him wrong.

Notes:

I love constructicons/prowl. I'm unsure how romantic this is going to get, but I've tagged it as such just in case. This is also planned to have 3 chapters, but we'll see if I want to add an epilogue chapter.

Chapter 1: Scuffed Paint

“You may look black and white, but underneath — you're Constructicon green!"

The words echoed in Prowl's processor like a persistent subroutine, repeating endlessly no matter how many times he dismissed the thought process or how deeply he buried himself in his work. Green. The color of their plating, their pride, their unwavering devotion to him. The color that now supposedly belongs to him, and invisible mark upon his otherwise pristine plating, marking him as one of them whether he accepted it or not.

Prowl's doorwings twitched with irritation as he reached for another datapad from the towering stack beside his desk. The motion sent a sharp pain through his left shoulder strut, a reminder that he'd been hunched over his workstation for the better part of three cycles without proper maintenance. His fuel gauge had been flashing warnings on the side of his hud for the past few jours, but he dismissed each alert with practiced efficiency. Energon could wait. Recharge could wait. Everything could wait except the endless stream of arrest warrants, incident reports, and tactical analyses that demanded his attention. He picked up a new datapad.

The datapad's screen flickered to life, displaying yet another requisition form for construction materials. Since he was the new ‘head’ of the gestalt, most requests came to him first before being passed to proper supply channels. Prowl's optics narrowed as he scanned the details, reinforced durasteel beams, industrial-grade welding equipment, quantum-molecular mixers. All legitimate supplies for the infrastructure projects the Constructicons had been assigned to. All perfectly reasonable requests that any competent construction team would require. 

And yet, seeing their designations listed in neat rows across the screen made something coil tight in his spark chamber. Bonecrusher. Hook. Long Haul. Mixmaster. Scavenger. Five names that had become inextricably linked to his own, bound by a connection he'd never asked for and couldn't seem to sever. 

They just want to take care of you.

Hook's voice from their last conversation drifted unbidden through his memory banks, spoken with that insufferable mix of medical authority and genuine concern that made Prowl's plating crawl. Take care of him. As if he were some fragile mechanism in need of constant maintenance, rather than a tactical officer with millennia of combat experience. As if their ham-fisted attempts at nurturing could somehow compensate for the fundamental wrongness of their bond. He didn’t want forced comfort. He didn’t need their comfort.

 

Although he couldn’t deny their help had been crucial in helping rebuild Cybertron. Several settlements had already benefited from the offices and other architecture built by them. 

 

Prowl's stylus moved across the datapad's surface with mechanical precision, approving requisitions and cross-referencing inventory reports. The numbers blurred together, quantities of steel, delivery schedules, cost analyses, but the familiar rhythm of bureaucratic processing helped quiet the more volatile subroutines running in the background of his consciousness. Work was reliable. Work was controllable. Work didn't look at him with those unsettling red optics and declare him family. 

 

The soft hiss of his office door's sliding systems interrupted his concentration, followed by the distinctive heavy footsteps of someone built for industrial labor rather than stealth. Prowl didn't need to look up to know which of his unwanted gestaltmates had come calling, the measured gait and confident attitude before entering marked the visitor as Hook, right on schedule for what had become their routine welfare checks.

 

"Prowl." Hook's voice carried its usual note of professional authority, the tone of someone accustomed to giving medical orders and expecting them to be followed. "You missed the midday fuel allocation again."

 

"I've been busy." Prowl's response was clipped, his attention ostensibly focused on the datapad in his hands. In his peripheral vision, he could see Hook's tall frame in the doorway, the crane kibble on his back casting angular shadows across the floor. "Unlike some mechs, I have actual responsibilities that require my attention."

 

Hook stepped fully into the office, and Prowl could feel the slight shift in the gestalt bond, a flutter of concern mixed with familiar exasperation. The Constructicons' emotions were always there, a constant background hum in his spark that he'd learned to wall off through sheer force of will. But proximity made their feelings harder to ignore, like trying to block out a signal that was being shouted in his face. He was lucky to have learned to wall off his own emotions from them. It would only be further humiliation for them to be able to feel his frustration or anger. 

 

"Prowl," Hook tried again, moving closer to the desk. "When was the last time you recharged properly? And I mean actual recharge, not the combat naps you've been taking at your workstation."

 

"I'm fine, and perfectly capable of taking care of myself." The lie came easily, backed by years of practice at projecting competence regardless of his actual condition. Prowl finally looked up, fixing Hook with the kind of flat, strict stare that had cowed subordinates across multiple star systems. "Was there something specific you needed, or did you simply come here to waste both our time with unnecessary concerns?"

 

If Hook was intimidated by Prowl's glacial demeanor, he didn't show it. Instead, he moved to stand directly in front of the desk, his own red visor meeting Prowl's blue ones with steady determination. "The others are worried about you. We all are. You've been isolating yourself for weeks now, and it's affecting the bond. When you lock yourself away like this, it creates feedback loops that—"

 

"I didn't ask for your concern." Prowl's voice dropped to a dangerous low register, the kind of tone that usually preceded either violence or the systematic destruction of his own property. Although destroying the desk would disrupt his work, it’d take forever to reorganize the datapads. "I certainly didn't ask for your amateur psychological assessments of my mental state. If you have official business to discuss, then discuss it. Otherwise, I have work to do."

 

Hook's facial plating shifted slightly, a micro-expression that Prowl had learned to recognize as the medic's equivalent of gritting his teeth. "This is official business. You're part of a gestalt now, whether you like it or not. Your wellbeing affects all of us, and our effectiveness depends on maintaining a functional bond. When you starve yourself and refuse to recharge, it impacts our ability to-"

 

"Our? Our ability to what?" Prowl set down his datapad with deliberate care, the small motion somehow more threatening than if he'd slammed it against the desk. "To combine into that monstrosity? To unleash Devastator on whatever target you deem worthy of destruction? I seem to recall that particular collaboration ending with me having to decapitate our own gestalt form to stop it from murdering innocent civilians."

 

The words hung in the air between them like a live plasma charge, crackling with barely contained hostility. Hook's optics flickered, and through the bond, Prowl could feel a spike of something that might have been hurt or anger, possibly both. But the medic's voice remained steady when he responded.

 

"That wasn't us. That was Bombshell's control, and you know it. We would never—"

 

"Wouldn't you?" Prowl leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting from cold professionalism to something that might have been cruel amusement. "You're Decepticons. Violence and destruction are what you were built for. The fact that you've developed some misguided attachment to me doesn't change your fundamental nature."

 

Hook's hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn't rise to the bait. "We're not Decepticons anymore. We haven't been since we joined you. And that 'misguided attachment' you're so fond of dismissing? It goes both ways, Prowl. Whether you want to admit it or not, you're bound to us just as much as we're bound to you."

 

"A bond I never consented to." Prowl's voice was arctic now, each word precisely articulated and weighted with contempt. "A violation imposed on me by enemy action, not a relationship I chose to enter. The fact that you and your team have convinced yourselves otherwise doesn't make it true."

 

Something shifted in Hook's expression, a tightening around his optics that suggested Prowl's words had found their mark. But instead of backing down, the medic took a step closer to the desk, his own voice taking on a sharper edge.

 

"Fine. If that's how you want to see it, then let's discuss it in purely practical terms. You're running on fumes, Prowl. Your reaction times are down, your decision-making is compromised, and your tactical assessments are becoming increasingly erratic. From a purely professional standpoint, you're becoming a liability."

 

"Careful, Hook." Prowl's doorwings flared slightly, an involuntary response to the challenge in the medic's tone. "You're dangerously close to insubordination."

 

"Am I?" Hook's yellow optics flashed with something that might have been defiance. "Then maybe you should consider why your own bondmates feel the need to resort to insubordination to get you to take care of yourself. We're not asking you to like us, Prowl. We're not even asking you to trust us. We're asking you to stop slowly killing yourself out of spite."

 

The accusation hit closer to home than Prowl cared to admit. He could feel his internal systems registering the various stress indicators that Hook had undoubtedly already catalogued, elevated spark rate, depleted fuel reserves, accumulated micro-fractures in his armor plating from prolonged tension. But admitting weakness, even to himself, felt like surrendering ground he couldn't afford to lose.

 

"My condition is my own concern," Prowl said finally, his voice returning to its previous professional coolness. "I don't require supervision from a team of construction workers who think they understand tactics because they've read a few field manuals."

 

Hook's expression darkened, and through the bond, Prowl could feel a surge of genuine anger from the medic. "Construction workers? Is that really what you think of us? After everything we've done, everything we've built together?"

 

"What you've built," Prowl corrected, gesturing dismissively at the datapad full of requisition forms. "I merely approve your supply requests and ensure you don't violate any safety regulations. It's hardly a partnership worth celebrating."

 

"You're right," Hook said quietly, and something in his tone made Prowl look up sharply. "It's not a partnership. It's something more than that, and you know it. You can feel it just as clearly as we can, even if you won't admit it. The bond doesn't lie, Prowl. It doesn't play political games or manipulate data to support a predetermined conclusion. It simply is."

 

Prowl's hands stilled on the datapad, his processor running rapid calculations about the conversation's trajectory. This was dangerous territory, the kind of emotional minefield that could explode if he wasn't careful. But caution had never been his strong suit when it came to protecting his own psychological barriers.

 

"The bond," he said with deliberate precision, "is a byproduct of an unwanted merger. A side effect of having my consciousness forcibly integrated with a gestalt. The fact that you and your team have developed some kind of emotional dependency on that connection doesn't make it meaningful or reciprocal. The sooner you come to terms with that, the easier our partnership can be. Our professional partnership."

 

Hook stared at him for a long moment, and Prowl could feel something shifting in the gestalt bond, not anger this time, but something deeper and more complex. Disappointment, perhaps. Or maybe just exhaustion?

 

"You know what I think?" Hook said finally, his voice carrying a strange mixture of soberness and determination. "I think you're scared. I think you're so used to being alone, so used to people leaving or betraying you, that you can't handle the idea of someone actually staying. Someone actually caring about you unconditionally."

 

"Amateur psychology," Prowl dismissed, but his voice lacked its previous conviction. "I expected better from someone with your medical training." Even if it isn’t licensed, went unsaid.

 

"It's not psychology, Prowl. It's observation. You've been hurt before, we all have. The difference is that you've decided to make that hurt into armor, to use it as an excuse to keep everyone at arm's length. But we're not everyone else. We're not going to leave, and we're not going to betray you. We couldn't, even if we wanted to."

 

"Because of the bond," Prowl said flatly.

 

"Because of the bond," Hook agreed. "But also because we decided to chose this. We chose you. Not because we were forced to, not because we had no other options, but because we looked into your mind during the merger and we liked what we saw. We saw someone who was brilliant and dedicated and willing to make the hard choices that others couldn't. We saw someone worth following."

 

Prowl's doorwings twitched again, and he could feel something uncomfortable writhing in his spark chamber. "You saw someone you could manipulate. Someone isolated enough to be grateful for any show of loyalty, no matter how conditional."

 

"If that's what you need to believe." Hook's voice was tired now, the fight seeming to drain out of him. "But it doesn't change the fact that we're here. It doesn't change the fact that we're not going anywhere. And it doesn't change the fact that you're slowly destroying yourself because you can't handle the idea of accepting help."

 

"I don't need help." The words came out sharper than Prowl intended, revealing more of his internal state than he was comfortable with. "I don't need supervision, I don't need medical intervention, and I certainly don't need a team of former Decepticons hovering over me like I'm some kind of invalid."

 

Hook's optics flashed with renewed anger. "Former Decepticons? Is that what we are to you? Even after everything we've done to prove ourselves, even after we've followed your orders without question and rebuilt half of this city, how can you still not even consider us comrades?"

 

"You are what you are," Prowl said coldly. "Changing sides doesn't erase your history or your fundamental nature. It just means you've found a new cause to serve temporarily."

 

"Temporarily?" Hook's voice rose, and Prowl could feel the spike of genuine hurt that accompanied the word. "Prowl, we've been with you for stellar cycles! We've fought beside you, built beside you, we’d bled beside you. What do we have to do to prove that our loyalty isn't temporary?"

 

"You can't," Prowl said simply. "Because I know exactly what you are. I know what you were built for, what you've done in the past, and what you're capable of doing in the future. The fact that you're currently on my side doesn't change any of that."

 

Hook stared at him for a long moment, and Prowl could feel the complex mixture of emotions flowing through the bond, hurt, anger, frustration, and underneath it all, a stubborn core of affection that refused to be extinguished no matter how many verbal knives Prowl threw at it. Hook leveled him with a hard look.

 

"I think you're afraid of trusting us because you're afraid of what it might mean about you. You've spent so long defining yourself as the righteous Autobot, the moral authority, the one who makes the hard choices for the greater good. But if you accept us, if you let us be part of your life, then you have to confront the possibility that maybe you're not as different from us as you'd like to believe." Hook said finally, his voice dropping to a near whisper. 

 

The words hit Prowl like a physical blow, and for a moment, his carefully constructed emotional barriers wavered. In that instant of vulnerability, Hook must have felt something through the bond, because his expression softened slightly.

 

"Prowl," he said quietly, "we're not asking you to become someone else. We're not asking you to compromise your principles or abandon your values. We're just asking you to let us help. To let us be part of your team, part of your life, in whatever capacity you're comfortable with."

 

"And if I'm not comfortable with any capacity?" Prowl asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "If the very idea of being bound to you makes my plating crawl and my systems rebel? What then?"

 

Hook's shoulders sagged slightly, and Prowl could feel the medic's disappointment like a physical weight. "Then I suppose we'll have to find a way to live with that. But it doesn't mean we'll stop caring about you. It doesn't mean we'll stop trying to help, even if you don't want us to."

 

"Why?" The question slipped out before Prowl could stop it, revealing more curiosity than he'd intended. "Why persist with someone who clearly doesn't want your help? Why waste your time and energy on someone who will never give you what you're looking for?"

 

Hook was quiet for a long moment, and Prowl could feel him considering his words carefully. "Because," he said finally, "gestalt doesn't give up on each other. And whether you like it or not, Prowl, we are gestalt. That makes us family. The bond made us that way, but it's our choice to honor it."

 

"Family." Prowl tasted the word like it was poisonous. "You think that's what we are? A family?"

 

"I think," Hook said carefully, "that we're something. Something more than just a tactical unit, something more than just a construction crew. The bond created connections between us that go deeper than simple professional relationships. What we choose to call that connection is up to us."

 

Prowl stared at him for a long moment, processing the implications of Hook's words. Family. The concept was foreign to him, something he'd observed in others but never experienced himself. His relationships had always been professional, built on mutual respect and shared objectives rather than emotional bonds. The idea of being connected to someone on a deeper level, of being responsible for their wellbeing and they for his, was both terrifying and strangely appealing. The idea of it scared Prowl. So, all he could do to avoid it was lash out.

 

"You want to know what I see when I look at you?" Prowl said finally, his voice returning to its previous coldness. "I see five mechs who were built to be weapons, who served a cause that helped destroy Cybertron in the first place and who now claim to follow me because they've decided I'm worth their loyalty. But I also see mechs who couldn't even protect their own teammate. Who let Scrapper die because they weren't skilled enough, weren't good enough to save him. Why would I ever trust you to help me if you failed him?"

 

The words hit Hook hard, and Prowl could feel the medic's anguish spike through the bond. Hook's face went slack, his optics flickering with something that might have been grief or guilt or both.

 

"That's not fair," Hook whispered, his voice barely audible. "Scrapper's death wasn't... we… There was nothing we could do."

 

"There's always something you can do," Prowl said ruthlessly, pressing his advantage. "You just didn't do it. You failed him, just like you'll eventually fail me. The only difference is that I won't be foolish enough to depend on you when that moment comes."

 

Hook stared at him for a long moment, and Prowl could feel the complex mixture of emotions flowing through the bond, hurt, anger, grief, and underneath it all, a crushing sense of guilt that spoke to the medic's deepest fears about his own competence.

 

"You're right," Hook said finally, his voice hollow. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying. It doesn't mean I'm going to abandon you just because you're determined to push us away."

 

"Then you're a fool," Prowl said coldly. "And I have no use for fools."

 

Hook's expression hardened, and for a moment, Prowl saw a flash of the medic's old Decepticon training, the ruthless efficiency that had once made him a feared opponent on the battlefield. When Hook spoke again, his voice carried a bitter edge that cut through the air like a blade.

 

"You know what, Prowl? You're right. I am a fool. A fool for thinking you might be able to work through your own fragged up issues, and care about anything beyond your own self-important mission to save the universe through spreadsheets."

 

Hook's red visor blazed with anger and hurt. "Scrapper was our brother. Our family. And yes, I failed him. I failed him in the worst possible way, and I have to live with that every single day. But at least I cared about him. We loved him."

 

The medic's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "What have you ever tried to love, Prowl? What have you ever cared about enough to risk failure? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've spent your entire existence hiding behind duty and protocol so you never have to face the possibility of actually losing something that matters."

 

"Don't you dare-" Prowl began, but Hook cut him off with a sharp gesture.

 

"No, I'm done pretending this is about medical concern or gestalt bonds or any of the other excuses I've been making for your behavior. You want to know why I came here? Because my brothers are worried about you. Because Mixmaster's been having anxiety attacks every time you miss a fuel cycle. Because Scavenger hoards medical supplies in case you collapse. Because Bonecrusher punches walls when he feels your exhaustion through the bond. Because Long Haul works double shifts so you won't have to approve as many requisitions."

 

Hook's voice cracked slightly. "They love you, Prowl. Primus help them, they actually love you. And you just used our greatest failure, our greatest source of pain, as a weapon against us. Against me."

 

The medic turned toward the door, his movements sharp and angry. "You want to be alone? Fine. You want to slowly kill yourself rather than accept help from mechs who aren't worthy of your precious standards? Go ahead. But don't expect me to keep watching you destroy yourself."

 

Hook paused at the door, but didn't look back. "We'll be in the common area at 4 jours. Not because we think you'll join us, but because we're family, and family takes care of each other. Even when one of them is too damaged to understand what that means."

 

The door hissed shut behind him with finality, leaving Prowl alone with his datapads and the sudden, crushing silence. Through the bond, he could feel Hook's emotions as he walked away, not just hurt and disappointment, but a cold, bitter anger that felt like a door slamming shut. For the first time since the merger, Prowl felt genuinely cut off from one of his bondmates, as if Hook had pulled back from the connection entirely.

 

Prowl picked up his datapad and tried to return to his work, but the numbers seemed to blur together on the screen. Hook's words echoed in his processor, each one carrying a weight that made his spark chamber feel heavy and constricted. The medic's anger had been palpable, genuine, and utterly deserved.

 

"You just used our greatest failure, our greatest source of pain, as a weapon against us."

 

The accusation hung in the air like a toxic cloud, and Prowl found himself unable to shake the image of Hook's face, the moment when hurt had crystallized into something harder and more dangerous. He'd seen that expression before, in the optics of mechs who'd been pushed too far, who'd reached the end of their patience and found something cold and unforgiving waiting there.

 

Through the bond, he could feel the ripple effects of Hook's anger spreading to the others. Confusion from Scavenger, who couldn't understand why Hook was suddenly radiating such bitter fury. Concern from Long Haul, who knew that tone of frequency and what it meant. Bonecrusher's rising aggression, responding to the medic's pain with a desire to find something to destroy. And Mixmaster's growing anxiety, his chemical-addled processor trying to process the sudden shift in their group dynamic.

 

They were all affected by Hook's pain, all feeling the aftermath of Prowl's cruelty. And in that moment, Prowl realized with uncomfortable clarity that he'd done exactly what Hook had accused him of, he'd used their love, their loyalty, their deepest wounds as weapons against them.

 

Just like he'd always done.

 

The thought sent a chill through his systems, and Prowl found himself staring at his reflection in the datapad he’s turned off. He looked haggard and worn, yes, but there was something else there too. Something that reminded him uncomfortably of the mechs he'd spent his career hunting down and bringing to justice.

 

"What have you ever tried to love, Prowl? What have you ever cared about enough to risk failure?"

 

Hook's words echoed in his memory, and Prowl realized with dawning horror that he couldn't answer that question. Not honestly. He'd spent his entire existence hiding behind duty and protocol, just as Hook had said. He'd never risked genuine failure because he'd never genuinely cared about anything beyond his own sense of righteous purpose. Even if he had, he’d always knew that sacrifice was part of progress. That nothing he held could ever truly be his.

 

But that couldn't be entirely true, right? He'd cared about the Autobots, about the war, about the cause of justice and freedom. He'd risked everything for those ideals, sacrificed relationships and moral certainties and pieces of his own spark. 

 

And now, faced with five mechs who offered him exactly that kind of connection, his first instinct had been to hurt them before they could hurt him.

 

The realization made his fuel pump stutter, and Prowl found himself gripping the edge of his desk hard enough to leave small stress fractures in the metal. He was exactly as Hook said, too damaged to understand what family meant.

 

Through the bond, he could feel the Constructicons settling into their evening routines, but there was a heaviness to their emotions now that hadn't been there before. Hook's anger had cast a shadow over all of them.

 

His chronometer chimed softly, marking the passage of time. 4 jours. They would be gathering for their fuel session in 4 jours. Prowl had never joined them for fuel, but he he’d felt the warmth of their proximity to each other. But now instead, there would be careful conversations and worried glances, all of them trying to process what had happened and what it meant for their fragile family unit.

 

All because Prowl couldn't accept help without lashing out at the mechs offering it.

 

The bond pulsed with Hook's continued anger, a cold, bitter presence. Prowl felt genuinely cut off from one of his bondmates, and the sensation was more disturbing than he'd expected. He'd gotten used to their constant presence, their unwavering support, their stubborn refusal to abandon him no matter how badly he behaved.

 

But everyone had a breaking point. Even family.

 

Especially

family.

 

The thought sent another chill through his frame, and Prowl found himself wondering if this was how it would end. Not with grand gestures or dramatic confrontations, but with slow, steady erosion of trust and patience until even the most loyal mechs reached their limit.

 

He could feel his systems beginning to shut down non-essential processes, his fuel reserves finally reaching critical levels. His vision flickered slightly, and Prowl realized with detached clinical interest that he was probably going to collapse soon if he didn't refuel.

 

Part of him wondered if Hook would even bother to help him when that happened. The medic had always been there before, had always stepped in to monitor his health and force him to take care of himself. But that was before Prowl had weaponized Scrapper's death against him. Before he'd crossed the line.

 

The common area of the Constructicon’s habsuite was probably quiet now, filled with the kind of tense silence that followed a family fight. They’d be trying to maintain their routines while processing the sudden shift in their dynamic. They'd be worried about Hook, worried about Prowl, worried about what this meant for their future as a gestalt unit.

 

And Prowl was here, alone with his datapads and his pride and the growing certainty that he'd finally pushed too far.

 

Maybe that was for the best. Maybe it was better to be alone, to avoid the messy complications of emotional connections and the inevitable pain that came with caring about someone. Maybe Hook was right, and he was too damaged to understand what family meant.

 

But as Prowl sat in his empty office, surrounded by the work he'd used to avoid confronting his own isolation, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just lost something irreplaceable. Something that might have been worth fighting for, if he'd been brave enough to try.

 

The bond pulsed again, carrying echoes of disappointment and hurt and the bitter aftertaste of words that couldn't be taken back. And for the first time in his life, Prowl found himself wondering if being right was worth being alone.

Chapter 2: Some Waxing

Summary:

Prowl has dinner with the Constructicons and has a chat with Long Haul about his future with the gestalt.

Notes:

Sorry this took so long! I've been working on the next chapter of Signal Lost as well. I hope you guys enjoy this!

Also I have a tumblr! If you ever want to suggest some story ideas you want to see me do or just want to ask questions about transformer, I love to talk to you guys!

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strawberry--gore

I've got a little swerve pfp

Four jours. That's what Hook had said before storming out of his office, the words delivered with surgical precision: "We fuel together four jours from now." Not an invitation, a declaration. A challenge wrapped in the mundane courtesy.

 

Prowl had been contemplating it for the entire duration, the prospect gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. He had reports to file, duty rosters to approve, three different requisition forms that required his authorization. The logical thing would be to ignore the invite like usual. But logic warred with something more complex, a stubborn refusal to be seen as weak, as guilty, as anything other than completely justified in his actions after his confrontation with Hook.

 

By showing up, he would make a statement. His presence would declare what words could not: that he felt no guilt about what he'd said to Hook, that he stood by his assessment of their failure to save Scrapper, that he remained unshaken by the crane's psychological attacks. It was a tactical decision, nothing more.

 

At least, that's what he told himself as he saved his work and stood, joints protesting from cycles of immobility. The memory of Hook's bitter words echoed in his processor: too damaged to understand what family means . Perhaps it was time to prove that he understood perfectly well, and simply chose to reject what was being offered. He slowly made his way to their habsuite.

 

Through their gestalt bond, he could sense the others. Mixmaster's excitement, bright and chemical-sharp. Scavenger's eager hoarding instincts, already cataloging what treats he might squirrel away from the meal. Long Haul's steady contentment, a deep rumble like satisfied machinery. Bonecrusher's destructive joy at the prospect of confrontation, violent and genuine in equal measure.

 

And Hook's presence, cold and professional, maintaining careful distance while orchestrating this gathering with precision.

 

Prowl reached the door to the Contruscticon’s habsuite and knocked swifty. It was Scavenger who let him in. His excavator tail tucked close to his body to help hide his excitement. Prowl spared a quick glance around the room. The Constructicons' shared habsuite was a study in organized chaos. Scavenger's hoarded treasures lined every available surface, spare bolts, discarded circuit boards, a collection of human coins that gleamed dully in the overhead lighting. Long Haul's construction manuals were stacked in precise towers that somehow managed to look both orderly and precarious. Mixmaster's chemistry equipment occupied one corner, beakers and compounds arranged with the kind of careful precision that spoke to both genius and probably some mild paranoia. Bonecrusher's "artistic" sculptures, twisted metal formed into shapes that hurt to look at directly, decorated the walls like beautiful, terrible warnings. And Hook's medical supplies, Prowl noticed, were arranged with military precision near what appeared to be an improvised field surgery station. Everything clean, sterile, ready for emergency use.

 

"Prowl!" Scavenger's voice pitched high with excitement as the tactician entered. The excavator immediately abandoned his position at the door and scurried closer, practically vibrating with excitment. "You came! Look what I found today— " He thrust a small, crystalline object toward Prowl's face. "It's a human decorative item! A 'paperweight,' their databases call it. Completely functionless but aesthetically pleasing!"

 

"Fascinating," Prowl replied dryly, though he found himself oddly touched by Scavenger's enthusiasm. The smallest Constructicon beamed at what he apparently interpreted as genuine interest.

 

"Sit, sit!" Bonecrusher boomed from the table, gesturing broadly with one massive arm. The bulldozer had arranged himself at one end of the rectangular surface, directly across from where Hook sat in surgical silence. "Between me and Long Haul. Best seats in the house."

 

Prowl hesitated for a klik, tactical subroutines automatically calculating sight lines and exit strategies. The offered position would put his back to the wall, defensible, but also place him directly in Hook's line of sight. The crane's red visor tracked his movement with predatory precision, expression carefully neutral in a way that somehow managed to convey volumes about his current emotional state.

 

Long Haul shifted slightly as Prowl settled between him and Bonecrusher, making room without comment. The dump truck's massive frame radiated warmth and steady contentment through their bond, a stabilizing presence that Prowl found unexpectedly soothing. On his other side, Bonecrusher's destructive glee manifested as a constant low-level vibration, like sitting next to an idling engine.

 

Mixmaster emerged from what passed for their kitchen area, carrying a tray laden with energon cubes of varying grades and purification levels. The cement mixer's usual manic energy seemed subdued, his movements careful and precise as he distributed the fuel. When he placed Prowl's cube, mid-grade, exactly the mixture Prowl preferred though he'd never specifically requested it, their optics met briefly.

 

"Thanks," Prowl said quietly.

 

Mixmaster's face lit up like a solar flare. "Welcome! Always welcome! Chemistry is about precision, yes? Right mixture, right temperature, right company," He gestured enthusiastically, nearly knocking over Scavenger's collection of small metal objects. "Perfect reaction!"

 

"Indeed," Hook said coolly from across the table. His tone was professionally polite, the sort reserved for difficult patients or incompetent colleagues. "Though some reactions prove more... explosive than anticipated."

 

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Prowl's doorwings angled sharply upward, defensive plating sliding into position with an audible click. Through their bond, he felt the other Constructicons' immediate discomfort.

 

"I'm not sure I follow your meaning," Prowl replied, voice level and controlled.

 

Hook's smile was surgical in its precision. "Oh, I think you do. I was simply observing that social interaction requires a certain... delicacy of approach. Some processors handle the complexity better than others."

 

Long Haul's massive hand settled on Prowl's shoulder, a gentle warning. "Hook," the dump truck rumbled, "maybe we could—"

 

"What?" Hook's voice remained perfectly pleasant. "I'm simply making conversation. Surely our esteemed leader can handle a bit of social discourse? Or is the tactical complexity too much for his... specialized programming?"

 

Prowl's energon cube cracked slightly under the pressure of his grip. Every instinct screamed at him to respond with cutting precision, to deploy the verbal weapons he'd honed over millennia of political maneuvering and psychological warfare. Hook was offering him an opening, practically begging for retaliation.

 

Don't , whispered something that might have been his conscience, or possibly just the memory of Hook's wounded expression cycles ago. Don't make this worse .

 

"I'm perfectly capable of handling social interaction," Prowl said instead, voice tight with barely controlled irritation. "When it's conducted in good faith."

 

"Good faith," Hook mused, tapping one elegant finger against his cube. "Interesting concept. Rather like trust, isn't it? Both require a certain... vulnerability. An openness to the possibility of being hurt." His visor glittered with pain and some malice. "Some of us are definitely better at vulnerability than others."

 

"Some of us," Prowl replied, doorwings flicking in sharp, agitated motions, "have learned that vulnerability is a luxury that leaders can't afford."

 

"Leaders," Hook repeated, the word dripping with subtle disdain. "How convenient, having such an important position to hide behind. Though I suppose it makes it easier to avoid examining one's own behavioral patterns."

 

Scavenger made a small, distressed sound and began obsessively rearranging his cubes on the table, stacking and un stacking them. Mixmaster's anxiety was bleeding through the bond now, sharp and acidic. Bonecrusher looked between Prowl and Hook with the fascinated attention of a spectator at a gladiatorial match.

 

"Perhaps," Long Haul interjected carefully, "we could discuss something else? The construction project at—"

 

"No, no," Hook said, waving dismissively. "This is far too fascinating. I'm learning so much about leadership philosophy. Tell me, Prowl, do you actually believe that isolation makes you stronger? Or is it simply easier than admitting you might need something from others?"

 

The energon cube shattered completely in Prowl's grip, mid-grade fuel splashing across the table surface. Scavenger flinched and sent his cubes scattering on the floor, and the small mech dove after them with a wail of distress.

 

"I don't need anything from anyone," Prowl said, his voice dropping to the deadly quiet register that usually preceded either strategic brilliance or catastrophic violence. "Least of all psychological analysis from a medic with delusions of competence."

 

The silence that followed was absolute. Even Bonecrusher's constant vibration stilled, the bulldozer frozen in anticipation of the explosion to come.

 

Hook's expression didn't change, but something flickered deep in his optics, hurt, quickly buried under layers of professional composure.

 

"I see," he said quietly. "Well, that certainly clarifies things." He paused, servo wrapped around his energon cube with careful precision. "I don't suppose you'd care to apologize for what you said before? About Scrapper? About how we failed him?"

 

The question hung in the air like a live explosive, primed and waiting. Prowl felt the attention of every mech in the room focus on him with laser intensity. Through their bond, he sensed the complex tangle of their emotions, hope and fear and desperate longing all wound together into something that tasted like family and felt like home and terrified him more than any Decepticon weapon ever had.

 

Say you're sorry , urged that same small voice. Fix this. They're offering you another chance.

 

But Prowl's pride was a living thing, wounded and snarling, and it reared up in his chest like a caged beast. The words stuck in his vocal processors, bitter and impossible. To apologize would be to admit weakness, to acknowledge that he'd been wrong, to admit that he was flawed.

 

"No," he said finally, the word falling like a blade between them. "I have nothing to apologize for."

 

The effect was immediate and devastating. Hook's face went carefully blank, professional mask sliding into place. Through the bond, Prowl felt the other Constructicons' reactions like physical blows, Scavenger's wounded confusion, Mixmaster's sharp spike of anxiety, Long Haul's deep disappointment, Bonecrusher's frustrated rage. And underneath it all, Hook's cold, surgical anger, spreading through their connection like poison.

 

The rage hit him like a system overload, white-hot and immediate. Every carefully constructed wall he'd built around his emotions cracked, the crane's ability to find exactly the right words to strip away his defenses. The walls felt too close, and five pairs of red visors were staring at him with expressions he couldn't parse, disappointment, hurt, even pity.

 

Pity. The thought sent another spike of fury through his systems.

 

He snarled, surging to his feet with enough force to send his chair skittering backward. But as he rose, his arm swept outward in a violent arc, catching the edge of the table and sending it crashing over.

 

The sound was tremendous, metal against metal, the crash of shattering energon cubes, the tinkle of Scavenger's precious collections scattering like shrapnel across the floor. The table itself flipped completely, heavy metal surface slamming down with a sound like thunder, energon pooling in spreading puddles of blue and pink and gold from additives.

 

For a moment, the silence was absolute. Five mechs stared at him from the wreckage of their interrupted meal, expressions ranging from shock to hurt to a little bit of fear. Scavenger made a small, wounded sound and dropped back to his knees, frantically trying to gather the scattered remains. Mixmaster's anxiety spiked so sharply through the bond that it felt like acid in Prowl's processor.

 

In the sudden silence, Prowl stood frozen, doorwings spread wide in aggression, ventilation systems cycling hard.

 

Monster , he thought, and wasn't sure if it was his voice or theirs. This is what you are. This is what you've always been .

 

Without another word, he turned and fled, leaving the Constructicons to clean up the mess he'd made, both literal and metaphorical. Behind him, their bond pulsed with confused hurt and desperate longing, but he closed his mind to it, sealing himself away in the cold, familiar isolation he’d created.

—

The chronometer on Prowl's desk read 0243 jours when he finally allowed himself to lean back in his chair, the metal frame creaking under the shift in weight. The latest requisition reports blurred together in his visual processors, endless streams of data that demanded his attention even as exhaustion crept through his systems like a slow poison. He'd been at this for... how long now? The cycles had begun to blur together in a haze of administrative duties and calculated avoidance.

 

Three cycles. Three cycles since Hook had stormed out of his office, leaving behind nothing but the bitter taste of words that couldn't be taken back and the hollow ache of a gestalt bond stretched thin with hurt and pride. Three cycles since that absolute disaster of a refuel. Three cycles since Prowl had weaponized their greatest failure, their deepest wound, and turned it against the very mechs who claimed to love him unconditionally. 

 

Claimed . The word sat uneasily in his processor, a discordant note in the symphony of his thoughts. Claims could be false. Claims could be manipulated. Claims could be withdrawn the moment they became inconvenient.

 

But the evidence suggested otherwise, didn't it? The cube of mid-grade energon that appeared on his desk every morning, perfectly measured to his specifications. The way someone had repaired the hairline fractures in his desk surface where his own hands had squeezed the metal during their confrontation. The subtle adjustments to his office temperature that he'd never requested but somehow matched his preferences exactly. Small gestures that spoke of attention paid, of care given without expectation of reciprocation.

 

Prowl's doorwings twitched with irritation at his own observations. He wasn't supposed to notice these things. He wasn't supposed to catalog them like evidence in a case file, weighing their significance against his own stubborn refusal to acknowledge what they represented. The Constructicons were former Decepticons, former being the operative word that he clung to with desperate determination. They were crude, violent, unpredictable mechs who had been forcibly bonded to him through circumstances beyond anyone's control.

 

They were not family.

 

The word echoed in his mind, accompanied by the memory of Hook's voice, sharp with hurt and accusation: "You're too damaged to understand what family means."

 

Prowl's engine revved involuntarily, a low growl of frustration that filled the empty office. Damaged. As if he were some broken-down piece of machinery that couldn't be repaired. As if his careful walls and calculated distance were flaws rather than necessary defenses. Hook had no right to make such judgments, no right to peer into the carefully constructed fortress of Prowl's psyche and declare it insufficient.

 

And yet…

 

The gestalt bond hummed at the edges of his consciousness, a constant reminder of the connection he'd never asked for but couldn't escape. Through it, he could sense the Constructicons' presence in the base like distant stars in his peripheral vision. They were there, always there, but muted now. Subdued in a way that made his spark chamber feel strangely hollow. Like they were attempting to dampen his access to their emotions and actions.

 

He'd gotten what he wanted, hadn't he? Space. Freedom from their overwhelming devotion and their expectations that he would somehow transform into the kind of mech who could accept love without suspicion. They were giving him exactly what he'd always claimed to need, and he should be grateful.

 

So why did it feel like a punishment?

 

Prowl forced himself to focus on the datapad in his hands, squinting at the resource allocation charts until the numbers began to make sense again. The Autobots' position was precarious, their supplies stretched thin and their political standing even thinner. Every decision he made rippled outward, affecting the lives of mechs who depended on his calculations to keep them functional and in power. This was what mattered. This was what he was good at.

 

Not family. Not bonds. Not the messy, irrational tangle of emotions that came with allowing others too close.

 

The sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor outside his office made his doorwings perk up involuntarily. His chronometer indicated it was far too late for normal traffic, which meant it was either an emergency or—

 

The footsteps passed by without stopping, and Prowl's wings drooped with what he absolutely refused to acknowledge as disappointment. He'd been half-expecting —hoping?— that one of the Constructicons might appear at his door, ready to continue their argument or demand explanations for his behavior. Instead, there was only silence and the steady hum of the base's life support systems.

 

It was better this way. Cleaner. Less complicated.

 

The lie tasted bitter on his glossa.

 

By the time he finally forced himself to leave his office, the base had settled into the deep quiet of the late shift. Low lighting cast long shadows down the corridors, and the few mechs still awake moved with the careful efficiency of those accustomed to working while others recharged. Prowl made his way through the familiar maze of hallways, his footsteps echoing softly against the metal floors.

 

He paused at the intersection that led to the Constructicons' quarters, his optics automatically scanning for any sign of movement. The corridor was empty, doors sealed tight against the night. No doubt they were all in recharge, their consciousness merged in the gestalt dreams that he'd never fully understood or participated in. During their brief time as Devastator, he'd caught glimpses of what it was like, the way their individual thoughts wove together into something larger and more complete than any of them could achieve alone.

 

It had been terrifying. It had been exhilarating. It had been everything he'd spent his existence trying to avoid.

 

Prowl turned away from their corridor and continued toward his own quarters, his pace quickening as if he could outrun his own thoughts. The solitude of his habsuite awaited him, familiar and safe and utterly predictable. He would review the day's reports, run diagnostics on his systems, and prepare for another day of carefully maintained distance.

 

It was a good plan. A logical plan.

 

It lasted exactly three steps as he rounded a corner.

 

"About time you showed up."

 

The voice, deep and gravelly with the distinctive rumble of a heavy-duty engine, made Prowl freeze mid-step. Long Haul sat against the wall beside his door, massive frame folded with surprising grace despite his bulk. The dump truck's red visor glowed in the dim corridor lighting, fixing on Prowl with an intensity that made his defensive protocols hum to life.

 

"Long Haul." Prowl's voice came out flat, carefully neutral despite the way his spark rate had increased. "It's late. Whatever you need to discuss can wait until morning."

 

"No." Long Haul pushed himself to his feet, the motion fluid despite his size. "It can't."

 

Prowl's doorwings flared slightly, an instinctive response to the challenge in the other mech's tone. Of all the Constructicons, Long Haul was the one most likely to push back against his authority, the one who refused to simply accept Prowl's word as law. It was a quality that Prowl had grudgingly learned to appreciate in their working relationship, but right now it felt like the last thing he had energy to deal with.

 

"Then speak your piece," Prowl said, making no move to unlock his door. "But make it quick."

 

Long Haul's visor brightened in anger. "You think you can just stand out here in the hall? Like I'm some kind of subordinate you can dismiss when you're done with me?"

 

"You are a subordinate," Prowl replied, his voice taking on the crisp edge of authority. "And I am not inviting you into my personal quarters."

 

"Yeah, I figured." Long Haul's tone was bitter, but not surprised. "Can't risk letting one of us too close to your precious privacy, can you?"

 

Prowl's engine revved involuntarily. "What is that supposed to mean?"

 

"You know exactly what it means." Long Haul took a step closer, his bulk overshadowing Prowl’s smaller frame. "You think keeping us at arm's length is going to make this whole thing go away? Think if you're cold enough and cruel enough, we'll just give up and leave you alone?"

 

"That would be ideal, yes."

 

The words came out more harshly than Prowl had intended, and he saw Long Haul's visor flare with hurt before hardening into anger. The gestalt bond, already strained from days of careful distance, twisted with the force of Long Haul's emotions. It knocked Prowl off balance with its intensity.

 

"You're an idiot," Long Haul said simply. "A brilliant, calculating idiot who thinks he can logic his way out of everything."

 

"I prefer 'pragmatic.'"

 

"I prefer 'scared.'"

 

The word made Prowl bristle in annoyance, making his doorwings snap tight against his back. "I am not—"

 

"You are." Long Haul's voice dropped to a rumble that seemed to vibrate through Prowl’s tightly clenched plating. "You're scared of us. Scared of what it means that we looked into your head and liked what we found there."

 

Prowl's tac-net flickered as he fought to maintain his composure, attempting to calculate the outcome of this confrontation. "You saw what Bombshell wanted you to see. A mind under outside control, compromised and manipulated. If you found that appealing, it says more about your own dysfunction than mine."

 

"That’s slag and you know it." Long Haul's response was immediate and uncompromising. "Bombshell didn't make you order Ratbat's assassination. Bombshell didn't make you play games with people's lives like they were pieces on a board. Bombshell didn't make you into the mech who would do whatever it took to win, no matter who got hurt in the process."

 

"Those actions were necessary for the betterment of Cybertron!"

 

"And they were you." Long Haul took another step forward, close enough now that Prowl could feel the heat radiating from his systems. "The real you. The you that we saw when our minds touched. The you that Hook likes to patch up even if you make it insanely difficult for him. The you that Mixmaster admires for having the courage to make the hard choices. The you that Scavenger hoards little gifts for because he wants you to like him. The you that Bonecrusher respects because you're not afraid to break things when they need breaking."

 

Prowl's venting hitched, his systems struggling to process the sudden influx of emotions coursing through their shared bond. "You don't know what you're talking about."

 

"Don't I?" Long Haul's visor was burning now, bright enough to cast a red glow onto Prowl’s face. "You think we're stupid because we're construction mechs. Think we can't see past your fancy words and your cold logic. But we know you, Prowl. We know you better than your precious Autobot friends ever did."

 

"They're not—" Prowl started, then stopped. The words felt hollow even as he formed them. His "precious Autobot friends" who had never noticed when he was under mind control. Who had been so ready to believe the worst of him that they'd accepted his actions under Bombshell's influence as perfectly normal behavior. Who would cast him out along with the Decepticons if the political winds shifted.

 

"They're not what?" Long Haul prompted, his voice deceptively gentle. "Your friends? Your allies? They sure don’t act like your family."

"The Constructicons are not my family either." Prowl said, the words coming out with desperate emphasis. "We were forced together by circumstances beyond our control. That doesn't make us—"

 

"It makes us everything you've got left."

 

The simple statement hit Prowl like a hammer, driving the air from his ventilation systems in a sharp gasp. Long Haul's visor never wavered from his face, reading every micro-expression with the attention of a mech who had learned to navigate the moods like unstable explosives.

 

"That's not—" Prowl started to protest, his voice taking on the sharp edge of defensive authority. "This forced bond doesn't make us anything. We're not family, we're not—"

 

"Shut up." Long Haul's patience finally snapped, and before Prowl could react, massive hands seized him by the shoulders and slammed him back against the corridor wall. The impact rattled through Prowl's frame, his doorwings scraping against the metal surface with a harsh screech. "You're going to listen to me for once instead of hiding behind your precious logic and your excuses."

 

Prowl's optics flared wide, his tac-net screaming warnings at him about danger and potential damage as Long Haul's bulk pinned him in place. "Release me immediately, or I'll—"

 

"You'll what?" Long Haul's voice was a dangerous rumble, his face close enough that Prowl could feel the heat radiating from his optical sensors. "File a report? Throw me in the brig? Face it, Prowl, you need us more than we need you, and we both know it."

 

The words hit harder than the physical impact, stripping away Prowl's authority and leaving him feeling suddenly, terrifyingly vulnerable. He struggled against Long Haul's grip, but the dump truck's strength was overwhelming, holding him in place with casual ease.

 

"You want to know what family means?" Long Haul continued, his voice gaining strength as he pressed his advantage. "It means Mixmaster having anxiety attacks when you miss fuel cycles. It means Scavenger hoarding medical supplies in case you get hurt. It means Bonecrusher channeling his destructive urges into holomatter art because he knows it bothers you when he tears things apart for fun. It means Hook working double shifts at the hospital to build connections that might help you politically and because he can’t face you after what you said."

 

Each word was a precisely aimed shot, punching through Prowl's defenses. The gestalt bond thrummed with the truth of Long Haul's statements, confirming what Prowl had been trying so hard to ignore.

 

"It means us," Long Haul said, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "All of us. Even when you're being a complete aft. Even when you use our failures against us. Even when you make it clear that you'd rather be anywhere else than connected to us."

 

Prowl's vocalizer glitched, producing only static for several long moments. When he finally found his voice again, it came out smaller than he intended. "You don't understand the position this puts me in."

 

"What position?"

 

"I'm an Autobot. A law enforcement officer. I have standards to maintain, protocols to follow. I can't just—" Prowl's doorwings fluttered in agitation, scraping against the wall behind him. "I can't just accept being bonded to former Decepticons as if it's normal. As if it doesn't compromise everything I've worked for."

 

Long Haul was quiet for a long moment, his visor searching Prowl's face with an intensity that made him want to look away. When he spoke again, his voice carried a weight that seemed to press against Prowl's spark chamber.

 

"You think we care about your reputation? About what other mechs think of you for being stuck with us?"

 

"Don't you?"

 

"No." The answer was immediate and absolute. "We care about you. Not the Autobot officer. Not the tactician. Not the enforcer. You. The mech who stands at his window at night staring at the stars because he's too wound up to recharge. The mech who keeps spare datapads in his desk drawer because he's afraid of running out of work. The mech who checks the security feeds sixteen times a night because he can't trust anyone else to keep watch."

 

Prowl's optical sensors widened, his struggles against Long Haul's grip becoming more desperate. "How do you—"

 

"The short story is gestalt bond," Long Haul said simply, his hold never loosening. "You can't hide from us, Prowl. We feel what you feel. We know what you need even when you won't admit it to yourself."

 

"That's— " Prowl struggled for words, his careful composure cracking under the weight of Long Haul's revelations and the vulnerability of his position. "That's an invasion of privacy."

 

"It's family."

 

"It's not!" The words burst out of Prowl with more force than he'd intended, his voice echoing off the corridor walls as he fought against the hands holding him. "It's not family! Family is something you choose, something you build over time with mechs who share your values and your goals. Family is…"

 

Prowl’s voice trailed off. Unsure of how to finish the sentence.

 

"What?" Long Haul's voice was dangerously quiet now, his grip tightening just enough to make the pressure on Prowl’s back somewhat painful. "What is family, Prowl? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've never had one."

 

The accusation made something crack inside Prowl, making his systems stutter even as he continued to struggle against Long Haul's hold. "That's not true."

 

"It is." Long Haul pressed closer, his weight pinning Prowl completely against the wall. "You've spent your whole existence keeping everyone at arm's length. Building walls and calling them boundaries. Playing games with people's lives because you're too scared to let them matter to you."

 

"I'm not scared," Prowl protested, but his voice came out smaller than intended, muffled by their proximity.

 

"Then why won't you let us in?" Long Haul's voice dropped to a whisper that weighed heavy between them. "Why won't you let us take care of you? Why won't you accept that we want to be here?"

 

"Because I don't understand it!" The admission tore itself from Prowl's vocal processors before he could stop it, his struggles finally stilling as the words echoed between them. "I don't understand why you would want to be bonded to me. I don't understand why you would choose to stay when you could walk away. I don't understand why you would care about someone who—" Prowl bit his own glossa to stop himself.

 

"Who what?" Long Haul's grip gentled slightly, though he didn't release Prowl entirely.

 

Prowl's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, his processor struggling to form words for concepts he'd never allowed himself to examine too closely. Long Haul waited with the patience of a mech accustomed to dealing with volatile situations, his visor trained on Prowl's face.

 

"Someone who ruins everything he touches," Prowl finally whispered, his voice barely audible in the space between them. "Someone who makes the hard choices that everyone else is too weak to make. Someone who— "

 

"Someone who's been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for so long he's forgotten what it feels like to share the load." Long Haul's voice was gentle now, his grip loosening enough that Prowl could pull away if he wanted to. But something kept him pinned there, caught between the wall and the solid presence of the mech who refused to let him run.

 

Prowl hated the way Long Haul’s words were stripping away layers of carefully constructed defenses to expose the raw truth beneath. His doorwings trembled against the wall as he struggled to process the implications of this conversation.

 

"We've seen into your head," Long Haul continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "We've seen the calculations you make, the prices you pay, the guilt you carry. We've seen how you sacrifice pieces of yourself for the greater good and never ask for anything in return."

 

"That's what leadership requires," Prowl said weakly, his voice lacking its usual conviction.

 

"That's what martyrdom requires," Long Haul corrected, finally releasing Prowl's shoulders but not stepping back. "Leadership requires trust. It requires letting other mechs help carry the burden. It requires accepting that you don't have to do everything alone."

 

"I've tried that," Prowl protested. "I've tried working with others, trusting others. It always ends the same way."

 

"Yeah? How's that?"

 

"With me having to clean up the mess when they fail."

 

Long Haul was quiet for a long moment, his visor studying Prowl's face with an expression that might have been pity. "Has it occurred to you that maybe they fail because you never give them the chance to succeed?"

 

"I’m not following."

 

"It means you set them up for failure from the beginning. You make contingencies for their mistakes before they even make them. You never trust them enough to let them prove themselves."

 

Prowl's doorwings fluttered in agitation. "Contingency planning is basic tactical procedure—"

 

"Contingency planning is getting ahead of your fear," Long Haul interrupted. "Fear that if you let someone else take responsibility, they'll let you down. Fear that if you're not controlling every variable, everything will fall apart. Fear that if admitting you need help makes you weak."

 

"It does make me weak," Prowl said, the words coming out barely above a whisper. "The moment I start depending on others, I give them the power to destroy everything I've worked for."

 

"Or the power to help you build something better."

 

The suggestion hung in the air between them, heavy with possibility and terrifying in its implications. Prowl's optics darted away from Long Haul's face, unable to maintain the intensity of his gaze.

 

"You don't understand," Prowl said finally. "You don't understand what it's like to be responsible for so many lives. To know that every decision you make could mean the difference between victory and defeat. To carry the weight of it all on your backstrut."

 

"Of what? being the only one willing to make the hard choices?" Long Haul's voice was getting sharper now, frustration bleeding through his careful patience. "You think you're Atlas, holding up the world all by yourself. But you know what? The world was spinning just fine before you came along, and it'll keep spinning after you're gone."

 

"You can’t be sure that’s true."

 

"It is." Long Haul took another step closer, close enough now that Prowl could feel the vibration of his engine through the floor plates. "You've convinced yourself that you're indispensable. That without your careful calculations and your moral compromises, everything will collapse. But that's just another wall you've built to keep people at a distance."

 

"I don't build walls," Prowl protested, but even as he said it, he could hear the lie in his own voice.

 

"You build nothing but walls," Long Haul countered. "Walls made of pragmatism and calculated risk. Walls made of the belief that you're too important to need anyone else."

 

Each accusation hit home with devastating accuracy, and Prowl felt his carefully constructed defenses crumbling under the assault. "Stop."

 

"Why? Because it's true?" Long Haul's visor was burning bright now. "Because you can't stand to hear someone call you out on your scrap?"

 

"Because it's irrelevant!" Prowl's voice cracked as he fought to maintain his composure. "Because even if everything you're saying is true, it doesn't change the fact that I am an Autobot officer and you are former Decepticons. It doesn't change the fact that this bond was forced on us against our will. It doesn't change the fact that we are not—"

 

"Family," Long Haul finished for him, sarcasm edged into his voice. "Right. We're not family. We're just the mechs who know you better than anyone else alive. We're just the mechs who've seen into your head and decided we want to stay. We're just the mechs who would follow you into the Pit itself if you asked."

 

"That's not—"

 

"That's exactly what family is," Long Haul said, his voice dropping to a whisper shout. "Family isn't about sharing energon or having the same creator. It's about choosing to stand together even when it's hard. It's about accepting each other's flaws and failures and deciding to stay anyway."

 

"We choose you," Long Haul continued, his voice gentle now in a way that made Prowl's spark chamber ache. "Every day, we choose you. Not because we have to. Not because we're programmed to. But because we want to. Because we've seen what you're capable of when you're not carrying the weight of the world alone."

 

"You don't know what you're asking," Prowl whispered.

 

"I know exactly what I'm asking," Long Haul replied. "I'm asking you to trust us. I'm asking you to let us help. I'm asking you to accept that maybe, just maybe, you don't have to do everything alone."

 

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with possibility and terrifying in their simplicity. Prowl's optics darted away from Long Haul's face, unable to maintain the intensity of his gaze.

 

"I can't," he said finally, the words coming out barely above a whisper. "I can't risk it."

 

"Risk what?"

 

"Risk caring about you." The admission tore itself from Prowl's vocalizer, almost as painful as ripping off a limb. "Risk giving you the power to destroy everything I've worked for."

 

Long Haul was quiet for a long moment, his optical sensors studying Prowl's face with an expression that might have been understanding. "You think we’d destroy everything you’ve built? Everything we’ve built together?"

 

"It makes me vulnerable," Prowl corrected. "It gives you leverage over me. It compromises my ability to make objective decisions."

 

"Or it gives you something to fight for besides duty and responsibility."

 

The suggestion made Prowl shiver in revulsion, his doorwings trembling with the force of it. He'd spent so long defining himself by his service to the Autobot cause, by his willingness to sacrifice everything for the betterment of Cybertron. The idea of fighting for something personal, something that mattered to him not because it was right but because it was his, was both terrifying and exhilarating. Long Haul studied his reaction before speaking again.

 

"Maybe Hook was right," Long Haul said quietly. "Maybe you are too damaged to understand what family means. But that doesn't mean you can't learn."

 

"And what if I don't want to learn?" Prowl asked, his voice smaller than he intended. "What if I'm too set in my ways to change?"

 

"Then you'll spend the rest of your existence alone," Long Haul replied simply. "And we'll spend ours knowing that we tried."

 

The words carried a finality that made Prowl's spark chamber clench with panic. "You're saying you'll give up on me?"

 

"I'm saying we'll respect your choice," Long Haul corrected. "If you really want us gone, if you really can't stand being bonded to us, then we'll leave you alone. But you have to be sure. You have to be absolutely certain that's what you want."

 

"I..." Prowl's vocal processors failed him, producing only static as he struggled to form words for the tangle of emotions coursing through his systems. The thought of losing the gestalt bond, of cutting himself off from the constant awareness of the Constructicons' presence, should have been a relief. Instead, it felt like the threat of amputation.

 

"You don't have to decide right now," Long Haul said gently. "But you do have to decide. Because this limbo you're putting us all in? It's not fair to any of us."

 

"Life isn't fair," Prowl weakly argued.

 

"No," Long Haul agreed. "It's not. But that doesn't mean we can't make the best of what we've got."

 

The corridor fell silent except for the hum of the base's support systems and the quiet cycling of their respective engines. Prowl's optics remained fixed on the floor plates, unable to meet Long Haul's gaze as he processed the weight of their conversation.

 

"Hook is hurt," Long Haul said finally, his voice carrying a note of warning. "What you said about Scrapper... that was below the belt, even for you."

 

"I know," Prowl admitted, the words coming out barely above a whisper. "I know it was cruel."

 

"Then you know what you need to do."

 

"You think I need to apologize."

 

"And you need to mean it," Long Haul corrected. "Hook's not stupid. He'll know if you're just going through the motions to make the problem go away."

 

Prowl's doorwings twitched with agitation. "How do you even suggest I go about apologizing for something like this?"

 

"You start by admitting you were wrong," Long Haul said simply. "You continue by acknowledging the hurt you caused. And you finish by promising to do better."

 

"And if he doesn't forgive me?"

 

"Then you accept it and we work to make it better anyways," Long Haul replied. "Because that's what family does. They fight, they hurt each other, and then they find a way to make it right."

 

The word "family" hung in the air between them again, and this time Prowl didn't immediately contradict it. Instead, he found himself considering the possibility that Long Haul might be right. That the Constructicons' devotion might be genuine rather than some kind of elaborate manipulation.

 

"I don't know how to be part of a family," Prowl said finally, his voice small and uncertain.

 

"Yeah, that’s pretty fragging obvious," Long Haul replied. "But maybe we can figure it out together."

 

The suggestion was both terrifying and comforting. Prowl's optics finally lifted to meet Long Haul's gaze, and he saw something there that he'd been too afraid to acknowledge before. Not just loyalty or duty or even the twisted affection of damaged mechs drawn to his dysfunction.

 

Love. Simple, uncomplicated, unconditional love.

 

"I need time," Prowl said quietly. "To think about this. To process what you've said."

 

"Take all the time you need," Long Haul replied. "But don't take too long. Hook won't wait forever, but if you take too long, he might decide he's better off without you."

 

"You think he would?"

 

Long Haul's optical sensors hardened, and for a moment Prowl caught a glimpse of the soldier the dump truck had been during the war. "We all will. We'll only let you hurt us so many times before we decide you're not worth the effort. I’m not gonna let them suffer either."

 

Prowl’s doorwings snapped tight against his back. The idea of losing the Constructicons, of having them walk away and leave him alone with his carefully constructed walls and his noble solitude, was suddenly unbearable.

 

"I'll talk to Hook," he said quickly. "I'll apologize. I'll— "

 

"You'll mean it," Long Haul interrupted. "Because if you don't, if you try to manipulate him or play games with his feelings, I'll make sure you regret it."

 

"Is that a threat?"

 

Long Haul's visor never wavered from Prowl's face as he straightened to his full height, his massive frame casting long shadows down the corridor. "Yes," he said simply. "It is."

 

With that, he turned and walked away, his heavy pedesteps echoing off the walls until he disappeared around the corner. Prowl stood alone in the corridor, his spark chamber pounding with a mixture of fear and a little bit of hope.

 

For the first time in days, the silence of the hallway felt oppressive rather than comforting. The emptiness of his quarters beckoned, promising the familiar solitude that had been his companion for so long. But as he reached for his door controls, Prowl found himself hesitating.

 

Inside waited his reports and his calculations and his careful plans. Inside waited the cold hold of duty. Inside waited everything he'd convinced himself he needed to be complete.

 

But outside, somewhere in the depths of the base, the Constructicons were probably gathered in their shared quarters, their minds linked in the gestalt dreams that he'd always refused to join. They were probably talking about him, worrying about him, planning ways to help him whether he wanted their help or not.

 

They were probably being a family.

 

And for the first time in his existence, Prowl found himself wondering what it would be like to be part of something like that. To allow mechs to take up his space. Bots to return to after long work days. To have a place where he belonged not because of his rank or his skills, but because he was wanted. And to give himself to them as well.

 

The thought was terrifying. It was also the most appealing thing he'd ever imagined.

 

Prowl's hand hovered over the door controls for a long moment before he finally activated them. The soft hiss of the door opening seemed unusually loud in the quiet corridor, and he stepped inside his quarters with the strange feeling that he was crossing some kind of threshold.

 

Tomorrow, he would have to face Hook. Tomorrow, he would have to find words for an apology that might not be enough. Tomorrow, he would have to decide whether he was brave enough to lower his walls and let the Constructicons in.

 

The change was small, almost imperceptible. But as he settled at his desk to review the day's reports, Prowl allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to have someone else's input on his plans. Someone else's perspective on his calculations. Someone else's support when the weight of command became too much to bear alone.

 

The gestalt bond hummed quietly at the edges of his consciousness, carrying with it the distant awareness of four minds that had chosen to stay connected to his despite everything he'd done to push them away. They were still there, still waiting, still hoping that he would find the courage to let them in.

 

Maybe, Prowl thought as he began to work, it was time to stop running from that possibility. Maybe it was time to find out what family really meant.

 

The reports could wait. The calculations could wait. The careful plans and the greater good could wait.

 

Tomorrow, he would take the first step toward something he'd never thought he wanted and discover whether he was brave enough to accept the love that had been offered to him so freely.

Notes:

Gosh, that was a doozy.

I'm also thinking of opening writing commissions.

Hope you all enjoyed this and feel free to comment about what you like! Or stop by my tumblr and talk to me there. You guys really fuel my writing and I love hearing from you!

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Chapter 3: Polish and Shine

Notes:

Here it is! The final chapter of this series. I really hope you guys like it!

If you like my stories then please check out my tumblr! I love answering questions and requests over there. You don't have to reveal who you are! We can always make you one of the named anons.

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The morning light filtered through the reinforced windows of Prowl's office, casting long shadows across the neat stacks of datapads and tactical displays that dominated his workspace. For once, the Autobot tactician wasn't hunched over his desk, processor whirring with calculations and strategic projections. Instead, he stood at the window, watching the early shift workers make their way across the compound below.

 

Several more cycles had passed since his explosive departure from the Constructicons' habsuite, since he'd overturned their carefully prepared fuel sharing and fled like a coward. Cycles of burying himself in work, of pretending the gestalt bond didn't exist, of ignoring the small gestures of care that continued to filter through their connection despite his rejection. But it was still his conversation with Long Haul that haunted him the most. 

 

The bond hummed quietly in the back of his processor, a constant reminder of what he'd thrown away in a moment of wounded pride. He could feel them even now: Bonecrusher's restless energy as he worked on demolition duty, Mixmaster's quiet focus, Long Haul's steady presence hauling materials across the construction site. And Hook... Hook's carefully controlled disappointment that cut deeper than any blade.

 

Prowl's fingers tightened on the window frame. He told himself he was protecting them from his toxicity, that they deserved better than a mech who couldn't even manage a simple apology. But Long Haul's words from their confrontation three nights ago refused to leave him alone: "Face it, Prowl, you need us more than we need you, and we both know it."

 

The dump truck had been right, of course. Prowl had been a coward, hiding behind his pride and his fear of vulnerability. The Constructicons had seen into his mind during their bonding, they knew exactly what kind of mech he was, what he'd done, what he was capable of. And somehow, impossibly, they'd chosen to love him anyway.

 

Love. The word sat uncomfortably in his processor. When was the last time anyone had used that word in relation to him? When was the last time he'd allowed himself to even consider the possibility?

 

A soft chime from his communication array interrupted his brooding. Prowl frowned, he'd specifically blocked all non-emergency calls for the morning. Who would dare override his—

 

"Prowl." Optimus Prime's warm baritone filled the office, and Prowl felt his spark skip a beat. The Autobot leader rarely contacted him directly unless there was a crisis brewing.

 

"Prime," Prowl acknowledged, moving to his desk and activating the visual feed. Optimus's face appeared on the screen, his blue optics bright with what looked like... concern?

 

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything urgent," Optimus said, though his tone suggested he already knew Prowl's schedule was clear. "I wanted to check in with you. It’s been too long since our last chat. Your recent reports have been... unusually thorough."

 

Prowl's doorwings twitched. "Is there a problem with my work quality?"

 

"Quite the opposite." Optimus leaned back in his chair, and Prowl could see the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You've submitted more strategic analyses in the past few cycles than most officers manage in a deca-cycle. Your efficiency ratings are impressive, but I'm concerned about the hours you're logging."

 

"I'm perfectly capable of managing my workload," Prowl replied stiffly, though even as he said it, he could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing at the edges of his consciousness. When was the last time he'd properly recharged? The last time he'd taken energon that wasn't delivered directly to his desk?

 

"I'm sure you are," Optimus said gently. "But even you need rest, old friend. When was the last time you took leave?"

 

Prowl's processor stuttered. Leave? The concept seemed foreign, almost absurd. "I don't require—"

 

"Everyone requires downtime, Prowl. Even tactical officers." Optimus's expression grew more serious. "I'm not ordering you to take leave, but I am strongly encouraging it. A few cycles away from reports might do you good. Maybe even give you some time to work with your new gestalt. The Constructicons, correct?"

 

The suggestion hung in the air between them, and Prowl found himself considering it with surprising seriousness. When was the last time he'd taken time for himself? Really taken time, not just the brief recharge periods between shifts or the hurried energon breaks at his desk?

 

"I..." Prowl began, then stopped. What would he even do with time off? Where would he go? The answer came to him with uncomfortable clarity, he had nowhere to go, no one to see. His isolation was so complete that the concept of leisure time seemed almost meaningless. 

 

Almost.

 

The gestalt bond pulsed gently in his awareness, and for a moment he could feel Hook's steady presence, the medic's skilled hands working with quiet precision in the hospital ward. Could feel Scavenger's simple contentment as he sorted through his latest collection of salvaged parts. Could feel the others, solid and real and there, despite everything he'd done to push them away.

 

"Actually," Prowl said slowly, the words feeling strange on his glossa, "I believe you may be right. I could use some time to... address personal matters."

 

Optimus's eyebrows rose slightly, and his smile widened. "I'm glad to hear it. Take whatever time you need, your work will be here when you return."

 

"Thank you, Prime." Prowl hesitated, then added, "Perhaps when I return, we could... share some energon? If your schedule permits."

 

The surprise on Optimus's face was almost comical, followed quickly by genuine warmth. "I would like that very much, Prowl. It's been too long since we've had a proper conversation."

 

After ending the call, Prowl sat in his chair for several long moments, staring at the darkened screen. Had he really just requested time off? Asked Optimus to share energon like they were old friends instead of commander and subordinate?

 

The bond pulsed again, carrying with it a flicker of what felt almost like pride, tinged with fondness. Long Haul, Prowl realized. Somehow the dump truck had sensed his conversation, his tentative step toward something resembling normal social interaction.

 

Prowl stood abruptly, decision crystallizing in his processor. If he was going to do this, really do this, then he needed to do it properly. Hook deserved more than hollow words and empty gestures. He deserved a real apology, one that came from genuine understanding rather than wounded pride.

 

But first, he needed a gift. Something to help him get through the door.

 

The corridors of the Autobot compound were busier than usual as Prowl made his way toward the exit, and he found himself acutely aware of the glances and whispered comments that followed in his wake. It wasn't unusual for bots to stare, his reputation preceded him wherever he went, but something felt different today. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, less rigid and calculating than usual. Or maybe it was simply the novelty of seeing him outside his office during normal working hours.

 

He was nearly at the main entrance when a familiar voice called out behind him.

 

"Prowl! Hey, Prowl!"

 

Prowl turned to see Scavenger hurrying toward him, a thermal container clutched in one servo and his usual eager expression lighting up his face. The excavator looked slightly out of breath, as if he'd been running to catch up.

 

"I was just bringing you your mid-morning energon," Scavenger said, holding up the container. "But you weren't in your office, and I thought maybe—oh!" His optics widened as he took in Prowl's position near the exit. "Are you going out? Like, actually going out? Outside?"

 

Despite everything, Prowl felt his lip plates twitch with what might have been amusement. Scavenger's enthusiasm was infectious, even in his current state of emotional turmoil.

 

"Yes, I have an errand to run," Prowl replied, accepting the energon container with a slight nod of thanks. The warmth of it seeped through his palm, and he realized he was genuinely hungry, when was the last time he'd eaten a proper meal instead of just subsisting on the basic rations he kept in his office? He couldn’t remember if he’d actually had a chance to eat with the Constructicons before flipping their rations.

 

"That's great!" Scavenger bounced slightly on his heels, his entire frame radiating excitement. "I mean, not that there's anything wrong with staying in your office, but maybe we could hang out more? I know you're super busy with all your important tactician stuff, but—"

 

"Scavenger," Prowl interrupted gently, and the excavator immediately fell silent, looking slightly sheepish. "I'm actually glad I ran into you. I need your advice on something."

 

The transformation in Scavenger's expression was immediate and dramatic. His visor brightened visibly, his shoulders straightened, and he leaned forward with an intensity that might have been unsettling if Prowl didn't know it came from a place of genuine eagerness to help.

 

"You need my advice?" Scavenger's voice was barely above a whisper, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "Really?"

 

"Yes." Prowl found himself struggling with how to phrase his request. How did one ask for gift recommendations? When was the last time he'd given anyone a present that wasn't purely practical or strategically motivated? "I need to... apologize to Hook. For my behavior at the fuel sharing as well as our last fight. I thought perhaps a gift might help convey my sincerity."

 

Scavenger's face lit up like a star going nova. "Oh! Oh, that's so great! Hook's been really sad, you know, even though he tries to hide it, but I can tell because he gets all quiet and focused when he's upset, not the good kind of focused but the kind where he's trying not to think about stuff, and—"

 

"Scavenger," Prowl said again, though his tone remained patient. "The gift?"

 

"Right! Right, sorry." Scavenger practically vibrated with excitement as he began cataloging possibilities. "Okay, so Hook likes medical stuff obviously, maybe some better surgical tools? Oh! Or those new nano-repair protocols from Perceptor's lab, he's been wanting to get his hands on those for cycles. Or maybe some of that fancy high-grade medical energon, the kind that's supposed to speed up recovery times?"

 

Prowl nodded along, making mental notes, but something in Scavenger's rapid-fire suggestions felt too impersonal, too focused on Hook's professional interests rather than Hook himself. "What about something more... personal?"

 

Scavenger paused mid-sentence, his optics growing thoughtful. "Personal? Like... oh! Like something just for Hook, not Doctor Hook?"

 

"Exactly."

 

The excavator's expression grew more serious as he considered the question, and Prowl found himself oddly touched by the care Scavenger was putting into his answer. This wasn't just idle chatter, Scavenger genuinely wanted to help, wanted to see Hook happy.

 

"Well," Scavenger said slowly, "he's been talking about wanting to try new things lately. Not medical stuff, but like... creative stuff? He mentioned wanting to get into art a while back, said he thought it might be relaxing to paint or something, but he hasn't been able to find the time to get supplies or figure out where to start."

 

Prowl felt something click into place in his processor. Art. Of course. Hook was a perfectionist, someone who took pride in precision and beauty in his work. The idea of him wanting to explore artistic expression made perfect sense, and more than that, it showed a side of the medic that Prowl rarely got to see, the mech beneath the professional facade, the individual with hopes and dreams beyond his medical duties.

 

"Art supplies," Prowl repeated, and he could hear the certainty in his own voice. "Yes, that's perfect."

 

Scavenger beamed at him, practically glowing with pride at having provided useful information. "Really? You think so? Oh, Hook's going to be so surprised! And happy! He's going to be so happy, and—"

 

"Thank you, Scavenger," Prowl said, cutting off what promised to be another enthusiastic ramble. "This is exactly what I needed to know."

 

"Oh! Do you want me to come with you? I know where all the good art supply stores are! Well, I mean, I don't really know about art, but I know where lots of stores are because I like looking at all the different things they have, and—"

 

"No," Prowl said, though he tried to soften the rejection with a slight smile. "This is something I need to do myself."

 

Scavenger's expression fell slightly, but he nodded with understanding. "Okay, yeah, that makes sense. Apologies should be personal, right?"

 

"Right." Prowl hesitated for a moment, then reached out to give Scavenger an awkward pat on the shoulder. The gesture felt foreign, clumsy, but Scavenger's face lit up as if Prowl had just awarded him a medal. "Thank you for your help. I... appreciate it."

 

"Anytime!" Scavenger called out as Prowl turned to leave. "I mean it, anytime at all! And tell Hook I said hi! And that I hope he likes whatever you get him! And—"

 

Prowl's smile was genuine as he walked away, Scavenger's continued chatter fading behind him. There was something endearing about the excavator's unfiltered enthusiasm, his simple joy in being helpful. It was a reminder of why the Constructicons' loyalty meant so much, not because they were useful, but because they cared, genuinely and without reservation.

 

The art supply store was smaller than Prowl had expected, tucked away in a quiet corner of New Iacon's civilian district. The proprietor, an elderly Autobot with paint-stained fingers and kind optics, had been initially starstruck by Prowl's presence before settling into helpful professionalism.

 

"A beginner's set, you said?" the proprietor asked, leading Prowl through displays of brushes, paints, and canvases. "For someone with medical training?"

 

"Yes. Someone with very steady hands and an eye for precision," Prowl replied, studying the array of options with the same intensity he usually reserved for battle plans. "Quality is important, he won't appreciate substandard tools."

 

The proprietor nodded knowingly. "Ah, a perfectionist. I know the type." He began selecting items with practiced efficiency, a set of high-quality synthetic brushes in various sizes, tubes of premium acrylic paint in a carefully chosen range of colors, several prepared canvases, a portable easel, and a comprehensive beginner's guide to painting techniques.

 

"This should get him started," the proprietor said, arranging everything in an elegant wooden case. "The paints are archival quality, the brushes are some of the finest available, and that guide covers everything from basic color theory to advanced composition techniques."

 

Prowl examined each item carefully, his tactical mind automatically cataloging their potential usefulness. The brushes were indeed high quality, the paint tubes properly sealed and labeled, the canvases stretched to perfect tension. Hopefully it would be good enough for Hook.

 

"Perfect," he said, and meant it.

 

The proprietor wrapped the case in elegant paper and ribbon, chatting pleasantly about the therapeutic benefits of artistic expression. Prowl found himself listening with genuine interest, filing away information about color theory and composition that might help him understand Hook's new hobby.

 

By the time he returned to the compound, the evening shift was beginning, and Prowl realized with surprise that he'd spent the entire afternoon on his errand. It wasn’t like him to lose track of time like this. Then again it had been a while since he’d done anything other than work. When was the last time he'd done something purely for someone else's benefit, with no strategic advantage to himself?

 

The wrapped gift felt heavier in his hands as he made his way through the corridors, and it wasn't until he was standing outside the Constructicons' habsuite that he realized how nervous he was. His spark was cycling faster than normal, his doorwings held stiff with tension. What if Hook refused to see him? What if his apology wasn't enough?

 

What if they'd decided they were better off without him?

 

The bond pulsed with awareness as he approached, and he could feel the subtle shift in the gestalt's attention. They knew he was there, knew he was carrying something, but the emotional undertones were too complex for him to parse, hope mixed with wariness, affection tempered by hurt.

 

Prowl raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. Three cycles ago, he'd stood in their habsuite and declared that he had nothing to apologize for. He'd let his pride and his fear drive him to hurt the only mechs who'd shown him unconditional acceptance. How did he even begin to make amends for that?

 

One step at a time, he told himself, and knocked.

 

The door opened to reveal Bonecrusher, his massive frame filling the doorway. The bulldozer's expression was carefully neutral, but Prowl could see the wariness in his optics, the way his shoulders tensed as he took in Prowl's presence.

 

"Well, well," Bonecrusher rumbled, his voice carrying none of its usual rough humor. "Look what the cyber-cat dragged in."

 

"Bonecrusher," Prowl acknowledged with a slight nod. "I was hoping to speak with Hook."

 

"Were you now?" Bonecrusher didn't move from the doorway, his bulk effectively blocking Prowl's view of the interior. "And what makes you think he wants to speak with you?"

 

The challenge in Bonecrusher's tone was unmistakable, and Prowl felt his own defensive instincts rising. This was exactly the kind of confrontation he would normally meet with cold authority, reminding the bulldozer of his place in the hierarchy. But that approach had already caused enough damage.

 

"Nothing," Prowl said quietly. "I have no expectations. I only hope for the chance to apologize properly."

 

Something shifted in Bonecrusher's expression, surprise, or a grudging respect. After a long moment, he stepped aside.

 

"He's in the main room with the others," Bonecrusher said. "But Prowl? You hurt him again, and gestalt bond or no gestalt bond, I'll tear you apart with my bare hands."

 

"Understood," Prowl replied, and meant it. Bonecrusher's protectiveness was actually reassuring, it meant the Constructicons truly cared for each other, that Hook wouldn't be facing this alone.

 

The interior of the habsuite was warm and inviting, decorated with personal touches that spoke of a group that had truly made this place home. Prowl liked how he could see each of the members in the decor they used to decorate. It was a far cry from his own sterile living space. It was lived-in and comfortable in a way that Prowl's sterile quarters could never be.

 

The four remaining Constructicons were gathered around their usual table, evening energon cubes already distributed. Hook sat with his back to the door, his posture rigid with tension that Prowl could feel echoing through the bond. Long Haul caught Prowl's eye and nodded slightly, not quite approval, but acknowledgment of his presence. Mixmaster looked up from his cube with curious optics, while Scavenger bounced slightly in his seat with barely contained excitement.

 

"Hook," Prowl said quietly, and the medic's shoulders tightened further.

 

"I wasn't aware we were expecting company," Hook replied without turning around, his tone carefully modulated to perfect politeness. "How presumptuous of you to assume your presence would be welcome."

 

The words hit their mark, and Prowl felt his doorwings droop slightly. But beneath Hook's coldness, he could sense the hurt, the disappointment that ran deeper than mere anger. This wasn't just about the fuel sharing, this was about trust broken.

"You're right," Prowl said, moving slowly around the table until he could see Hook's face. The medic's expression was carefully controlled, but his visor held a wariness that cut straight through Prowl's spark. "I have no right to assume anything. I came to apologize, and to ask, not demand, for your forgiveness."

 

Hook's optics narrowed slightly. "How generous of you to spare some of your precious time for us lowly Constructicons."

 

The sarcasm stung, but Prowl forced himself to remain calm. This was what he deserved, what he'd earned with his pride and his cruelty.

 

"I know you have no reason to listen to me," Prowl continued, setting the wrapped gift on the table between them. "I know I have no right to ask for another chance. But I need you to know that what I did, what I said, was wrong."

 

"Was it?" Hook's voice remained dangerously level. "Because as I recall, you were quite convinced that you had 'nothing to apologize for.'"

 

Prowl flinched at his own words thrown back at him. Around the table, the other Constructicons watched in tense silence, and he could feel their mixed emotions through the bond, hope warring with protective anger, love tempered by the memory of hurt.

 

"I was a coward," Prowl said quietly, the admission feeling like pulling shrapnel from his spark. "I was afraid, and I let that fear make me cruel. You offered me something I've never had before, a family, genuine acceptance, and instead of being grateful, I threw it back in your face because I couldn't believe I deserved it."

 

Hook's expression flickered, surprise breaking through his carefully maintained composure. "Afraid? The great Prowl, afraid?"

 

"Terrified," Prowl corrected, and the honesty of it rang through the bond, unmistakable in its sincerity. "You saw into my mind during our bonding. You know what I am, what I've done. The lies I've told, the lives I've sacrificed, the lines I've crossed. You know that even my closest allies barely tolerate me, that I've burned every bridge I've ever tried to build."

 

He paused, struggling with words that felt too small for the weight of what he was trying to convey. "And somehow, despite all of that, you chose to care about me. All of you did. It was the most terrifying thing I've ever experienced."

 

Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken emotions. Hook's expression had grown thoughtful, his anger giving way to something more complex.

 

"So you decided to prove us right?" Hook asked finally. "To show us exactly why we shouldn't care?"

 

"Yes." The word came out barely above a whisper. "I thought... I thought if I pushed you away first, it would hurt less when you inevitably left."

 

"And did it?" Long Haul's voice was quiet but not unkind. "Hurt less?"

 

Prowl's laugh was bitter and short. "No. It hurt more than I thought possible."

 

The admission hung in the air, raw and honest in a way that made Prowl feel exposed, vulnerable. But for once, he didn't try to armor himself in cold professionalism or tactical calculations. These mechs had seen into his spark already, there was no point in pretending to be anything other than what he was.

 

"The things I said about Scrapper," Prowl continued, forcing himself to meet Hook's optics. "About your failure to save him. That was unforgivable. I know it wasn't your fault. I know you would’ve done anything to save him. I said it because I wanted to hurt you, wanted to make you hate me so I wouldn't have to face my own feelings. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

 

Hook was quiet for a long moment, his optics studying Prowl's face with the intensity of a medical scanner. Around the table, the other Constructicons held their breath, waiting.

 

"You're right," Hook said finally. "What you said was unforgivable. Scrapper's death... we all carry that guilt, but it weighs heaviest on me."

 

Prowl's spark clenched with regret, but Hook held up a hand before he could speak.

 

"But," Hook continued, "I've had three cycles to think about why you said it. And I realized something, you weren't just trying to hurt me. You were trying to hurt yourself too. Self-sabotage wrapped up in cruelty."

 

The accuracy of Hook's assessment was like a blade wedged into his spark chamber. Prowl nodded slowly, unable to deny it.

 

"That doesn't excuse what you did," Hook said firmly. "But it does explain it. And explanation... explanation I can work with."

 

Hope flickered in Prowl's spark, tentative but genuine. "Does that mean...?"

 

"It means," Hook said, reaching for the wrapped gift with careful hands, "that I'm willing to listen to what you have to say. But words are easy, Prowl. Changing... that's the hard part."

 

Prowl watched as Hook unwrapped the gift, his skilled fingers working through the ribbon and paper with surgical precision. When the wooden case was revealed, Hook's optics widened slightly in surprise.

 

"Art supplies," Hook said, running his fingers over the smooth wood of the case. "How did you...?"

 

"Scavenger mentioned that you'd expressed interest in painting," Prowl said, his voice carefully neutral despite the nervous energy cycling through his systems. "I thought perhaps... if you had the proper tools..."

 

Hook opened the case, and his breath caught audibly. The brushes gleamed in their neat rows, the paint tubes were arranged by color spectrum, and the canvases sat pristine and ready. It was clearly expensive, clearly chosen with care and attention to detail.

 

"These are professional quality," Hook said softly, lifting one of the brushes to examine its fine tip. "This must have cost..."

 

"The cost is irrelevant," Prowl interrupted. "I wanted you to have the best tools available. You deserve nothing less."

 

Around the table, the other Constructicons leaned in to examine the gift, their appreciation evident in their expressions and their emotions bleeding through the bond. Even Bonecrusher looked impressed, though he tried to hide it behind his usual gruff exterior.

 

"It's beautiful," Mixmaster said with genuine admiration. "Look at the color selection, you could mix anything with these base tones."

 

"And the brushes," Long Haul added, "I can tell quality when I see it. These will last for vorns with proper care."

 

"The canvases are pre-primed," Scavenger chimed in excitedly. "You could start painting right now if you wanted to!"

 

Hook listened to his teammates' enthusiasm with a soft expression, and when he looked back at Prowl, some of the wariness had left his optics.

 

"This is incredibly thoughtful," Hook said quietly. "Thank you."

 

"I had help," Prowl admitted, glancing at Scavenger. "I couldn't have chosen something so perfect on my own."

 

Scavenger beamed at the acknowledgment, but Hook's attention remained focused on Prowl.

 

"The gift means something," Hook said carefully, "but I need to know that it's not just a gesture. I need to know that you're serious about... about this. About us."

The weight of expectation settled on Prowl's shoulders, but for once it didn't feel crushing. It felt like an opportunity, a chance to prove that he could be more than just the cold, calculating tactician everyone expected him to be.

 

"I am serious," Prowl said, and the conviction in his voice surprised even himself. "I won't lie to you and claim that this will be easy for me. I don't know how to be part of a family. I don't know how to let people care about me without trying to manipulate or control the situation. But I want to learn."

 

He paused, struggling with the next words. "I've grown to rely on our bond in ways that frighten me. When I cut myself off from it these past few cycles, I felt... empty. Incomplete. I don't want to lose that connection. I don't want to lose any of you."

 

"And if we ask you to trust us?" Hook asked. "Really trust us, not just tactically but emotionally? Can you do that?"

 

Prowl considered the question seriously, his processor running through scenarios and possibilities. Trust had always been a calculated risk for him, something to be carefully measured and portioned out based on strategic advantage. But these mechs weren't asking for tactical trust, they were asking for something deeper, more fundamental.

 

"I don't know," he said honestly. "But I'm willing to try."

 

The honesty of the admission seemed to satisfy something in Hook's expression. The medic nodded slowly, then looked around the table at his gestalt mates.

 

"I might not be totally ready to forgive you for what you said," Hook said, his voice thoughtful. "That kind of hurt doesn't heal overnight. But I am happy that we can finally start being a real gestalt."

 

The words hit Prowl like a physical blow, but not of pain, of relief so intense it nearly knocked him offline. A real gestalt. Not just a tactical alliance or a forced bond, but a genuine family.

 

"Does this mean—" Mixmaster began excitedly, then caught himself. But his enthusiasm was already infectious, spreading through the bond like wildfire.

 

"We'll have to extend the recharge berths!" Scavenger said, bouncing in his seat. "And clear out that storage alcove for your things, and maybe rearrange the common area so there's space for everyone, and—"

 

"And install a proper tactical display," Bonecrusher added with gruff approval. "Can't have our tactician working without proper equipment."

 

"Wait," Prowl said, holding up a hand to stem the tide of planning. The word came out more sharply than he'd intended, and he saw the Constructicons' expressions fall slightly. "I mean... I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I need to do this slowly."

 

The disappointment in the bond was palpable, but Prowl forced himself to continue. "I'm still not entirely comfortable with... with all of this. Moving in, sharing space... it's a big step. Perhaps we could start with something smaller? Something less... overwhelming?"

 

Long Haul studied Prowl's expression with knowing optics, then placed a large hand on Prowl's shoulder. The gesture was warm and reassuring, and Prowl found himself leaning slightly into the contact.

 

"Take all the time you need," Long Haul said firmly. "We're not going anywhere."

 

"But maybe you could join us for evening fuel regularly?" Scavenger suggested hopefully. "Like, as a start?"

 

Prowl considered the suggestion, his tac-net automatically cataloging the implications. Regular meals with the gestalt would mean less time in his office, more social interaction, more opportunities for emotional vulnerability. A few cycles ago, the prospect would have terrified him. Now…

 

"That seems reasonable," he said, and was rewarded with another surge of happiness through the bond.

 

Bonecrusher grumbled slightly under his breath, but Prowl could sense that it was more for show than genuine displeasure. The bulldozer was as eager as the others for Prowl's integration into their group, he just expressed it differently.

 

"Since we're all here now," Scavenger said brightly, "and we haven't finished our evening fuel yet, maybe Prowl could start tonight?"

 

Prowl hesitated, old instincts warring with new desires. He had reports to file, strategic analyses to complete, a dozen different tasks that demanded his attention. But when he looked around the table at the hopeful faces of his gestalt mates, the choice became surprisingly easy.

 

"I suppose I could stay for a while," he said, and the collective joy that flooded the bond was almost overwhelming in its intensity.

 

Long Haul squeezed his shoulder approvingly, then moved to fetch another chair and energon cube. Hook carefully closed his gift case, but not before running his fingers over the brushes one more time with obvious pleasure. Mixmaster launched into an enthusiastic explanation of a new chemical compound he'd been developing, while Scavenger peppered Prowl with questions about his day and his thoughts on various topics.

 

As Prowl settled into his chair, accepting the energon cube that Long Haul pressed into his hands, he felt something shift deep in his spark. The constant tension that had plagued him for cycles was beginning to ease, replaced by something he couldn't quite identify at first.

 

Warmth. That's what it was, a genuine warmth spreading through his systems that had nothing to do with the energon and everything to do with the mechs surrounding him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Prowl felt like he belonged somewhere.

 

"So," Bonecrusher said, settling back into his own chair with a satisfied grunt, "what've you been working on lately? Any interesting tactical challenges?"

 

And as Prowl began to answer, sharing details of his work that he'd never discussed with anyone outside of command meetings, he realized that this was what family felt like. Not perfect, not without complications or potential for future conflict, but real and warm and accepting.

 

The conversation flowed around the table as evening deepened into night, ranging from tactical discussions to chemical theories to Scavenger's latest salvage finds. Hook showed off his gift again, already planning his first painting project, while Mixmaster offered to help mix custom colors if needed.

 

Through it all, the gestalt bond hummed with contentment, carrying undertones of affection and belonging that made Prowl's spark sing. He found himself laughing, actually laughing, at one of Bonecrusher's gruff jokes, and sharing stories from his early military career that he'd never told anyone.

 

When he finally excused himself to return to his own quarters, it was with genuine reluctance and a promise to join them again the following evening. The Constructicons saw him to the door, Hook even offering him a brief but meaningful touch to the shoulder.

 

"Thank you," Hook said quietly, "for the gift. And for... for trying."

 

"Thank you for giving me the chance," Prowl replied, and meant it completely.

Notes:

The next chapters of "Signal Lost" should be coming out soon. The 2nd chapter is almost finished with beta readers and my 3rd chapter is already written and ready to be edited once I get the time.

Prowl is finally growing! I didn't want to move to quickly with his growth. I'll definitely be writing more ConstructiProwl fics where they're further along in the relationship (and maybe a few dark fics to satisfy my need for forced family). But I've got some plans for a RodiBlurr fic and some Swagnus fics I want to get out of my head before I explode lol.

If you like my stories then please check out my tumblr! I love answering questions and requests over there. You don't have to reveal who you are! We can always make you one of the named anons.

Tumblr
https://www.tumblr.com/blog/strawberry--gore

Notes:

I really hoped you liked this! Please tell me your thoughts below (they fuel my writing).
Your speculations and excitement are what keep my writing going.