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Before Earth, distance had always just seemed to be a standard part of life. Nearly every other species in the known galaxy stayed far away from Cybertron and Cybertron itself is a lone planet, the only one in its solar system. Even on the planet’s surface its inhabitants kept mostly to themselves. Life for many was simply the endless cycle of awakening, refueling, working, recharging, and awakening again.
Keep your helm down and servos at work. Those words might as well have been engraved onto each and every bot’s spark chamber.
Don’t fraternize with those above your station and never speak to those below it unless absolutely necessary.
You are but a cog in the machine of our people. Stay in line and we thrive, to deviate is to doom us all. Looking back it was hard not to ask, how exactly does a cog that doesn’t touch any other part of a machine supposedly keep it running? Though, perhaps that was a question for another time.
What matters now is that here on the other side of the galaxy, the furthest Prowl has ever been from his home world, for the first time he could recall solitude as he’d known it was nowhere to be found. At first the change had been sudden, jarring. He’d hated it, to put it lightly. At least back when this had all started on the ship, out there in the middle of nowhere at what felt like the edge of the universe, they’d not strayed too far from the rules of their world. They’d converse while on the job, some more than others, but in the end they each went their separate ways when their shifts were done. They hadn’t truly known each other outside of their designations and whatever personality traits you could pick up on at a glance. Now, Prowl knew them each more than he’d ever known another living being. Truthfully, he knew them far better than he wanted too. Regardless, this is all to say that ever since they’d come to this planet the concept of something like peace, or at least what he’d thought peace was, wasn’t an option. For numerous reasons.
Like most nights, just a room away, Bumblebee sits on their base’s concrete couch with Sari close beside him as they play brightly colored games, at a far higher volume than necessary, that serve no purpose. Down the hall Ratchet fusses and gripes, his every word booming through the base in a way that has to strain his voice box, at Optimus for daring to help him organize their mini-medbay though notably doesn’t turn him away. Outside the sound of people, humans, talking to each other carries through the night. Laughter, shouting, whining, cheering; life was loud and messy and vibrant here, and everyone seemed to be just fine with getting swept up in it. Regardless of what they might say on the contrary. Earth seemed to have that kind of effect on its inhabitants, alien or otherwise. It took effort, a lot of it, but after a time Prowl could tune it all out.
That would only last so long, he knew from experience. There was no way to stop the world from eventually crashing back in all around him but for the moment he simply sits, his pede tucked beneath him, as he quietly watches through the gaps in his ceiling as rolling clouds move near unnoticeably across the night sky. Every so often his optics glance away, catching the way a gentle breeze plays with the leaves of the tree he shares his hab-suite with. Birds sing and cars honk out there in the distance and if he focuses hard enough, if he reaches out past the chaos with a singular goal in his processor, he could almost hear the whisper of gently rippling waves.
If he’d had it his way that would be all that he notices, but even now there was only so much he could ignore. He could pretend he didn’t hear the low and lazy murmuring hum coming from above, but it would do him no good. All his processor seemed to latch onto was the dreamy drifting cords of strings and brass and woodwinds swirling together with that painfully recognizable voice ambling along beside it a beat or two behind. It wasn’t words that were chosen to accompany the music, but rather a repetitive imitation of the instrumental. Not quite a match, and yet the smile that was oh so visible in those clumsy mimicking noises made them far more enchanting than the music itself. If Prowl were the type of bots to use such a word he’d even describe it as cute.
He wasn’t sure when he’d allowed his optics to cycle down, but before he knew it he was imagining with high definition clarity the way Bulkhead must look up on the rooftop of their base with the glow of a thousand city lights gleaming across his plating. Prowl could picture that smile, not the boisterous grin full of denta that he flashed at Bumblebee regularly or the apologetically barely there up tick of his derma that always appears when he makes a rather large though forgivable mistake, but the one that’s soft and a bit lopsided and puts a twinkle in his brightly shining optics. The one he makes when he’s painting or reading. The one he makes when he’s talking to Prowl. With a manual ex-vent, one that Prowl wished was more steady than it was, he rises from his hab-suites floor in one fluid motion.
It was in rare moments like this, when his discipline seemed to fail, that his processor tended to wander. It was a ‘what-if’ scenario that seemed to be clouding up his HUD more frequently as of late, but he couldn’t help but to linger on the fact that if things had all gone according to plan, back on Cybertron Prowl and Bulkhead never would have met. One, a speedster whose frame type indicated he was created with the sole purpose of serving in the military or law enforcement only to participate in high speed pursuits and spy work. The other, a bottom of the rung labor bot whose hefty frame was made perfectly versatile enough to tow around any number of farming implements. They’d been leagues apart. However, Prowl had failed to rise to the occasion while Bulkhead had frankly not taken ‘no’ for an answer.
Prowl was punished and Bulkhead had gotten what he’d wanted, if only because it was something no one else could fathomable want. There is an Earth saying one involving birds and a stone and from what Prowl could remember he was fairly sure it worked quite well in this context, at least from the council's point of view. It was almost funny how their lives have become so interwoven with one another for being two bots who were intended to go their entire lives apart. But now, together, here on Earth, they were simply just Prowl and Bulkhead and nothing more. Suddenly that insurmountable distance built between them since creation vanished.
Prowl could have gone his entire functioning without knowing that Bulkhead has a habit of sticking out the tip of his glossa past his derma when he’s trying to focus or that he has a fond nostalgia for star lit nights left over from his rural life on Luna-One. That information, along with all the other little details and quirks Prowl had noticed along the way, stays tucked away safely categorized along with all the other prioritized information in his memory bank.
The klick of Prowl’s heel strut echoes through the empty halls. He hadn't bothered to conceal his steps while lost in thought. He wasn’t one to procrastinate, he didn’t like putting off what needs to be done and yet here he was. Pacing. An entire Earth month had passed since he knew that Bulkhead meant more to him then, well, just about anyone else had ever before. Longer than that even has this feeling been burning up the casing of his spark chamber namelessly. As Prowl reaches the end of the hall, a dead end, he turns effortlessly before gliding back over the steps he’d just taken. He holds his wrist in the palm of his other servo behind his back strut as he walks on, slow yet steady.
Why then, with all this known, did he carry on pretending as though that distance still stretches out infinitely between them? A number of reasons, bullet pointed in a crisp orderly manner, appeared in his HUD in nearly a klick. The same reasons he’d held onto a month ago that kept him from making a fool of himself when Bulkhead had excitedly presented him with a painted collection of birds, each being one Prowl himself had pointed out and named a week prior when he’d invited Bulkhead to go to the park with him. In short, the risk far out weighed the gain.
To confess, to force this burden onto Bulkhead, onto his friend, felt wrong. Prowl’s never been good at relationships, in any manner of the word, he’d be the first to say it. He’d never put himself out there, never went beyond what he could control, keeping all at arms length as he got by. It was safer that way, he was more productive that way. He could have everything just the way he wanted it, the peace, the quiet. He could go solar cycles without uttering a single word.
Because of that he hadn’t known how much he actually likes explaining things, to unload all the tidbits of information and facts cluttering up his processor onto another who actually, truly, listens. He hadn’t known the comfort of having another sit beside you, to be lost in your own world and them in theirs and yet grounded by the slight touch of their arm or leg brushing against yours as you work separately and yet together. The thought of losing that, of going back to how it all was before, made him feel cold in a way he couldn’t put into words. With that thought he stopped walking, straightened out his back strut, and moved beyond the hall. He followed the sound music, letting it guide him.
Bulkhead was an original, one of one, and Prowl couldn’t care less how many bots out there in the universe share his frame type, because he was the one whose optics squint closed every time he laughs, who can’t go one day without knocking something over, who talks loud and dreams big. He’s the only one Prowl wants beside him.
At first that realization had scared him. He’d been so sure he would just wade through the rest of his existence quietly. No finite plans besides making it through one day to reach the next. Just himself and the universe, alone together. Now all he can think about was space bridges at the edge of the unknown, gardens filled with flowers in full bloom, paintings of life through the optics of a softer spark, and how to make sure none of that slips from his grasp. And if that meant staying quiet then so be it. As the volume of the music grew so too did the confidence in his steps. It didn’t take long before he laid optics on the building’s sole and rarely used industrial stairwell. Without hesitation he crept his way up towards the roof.
The wide expanse of Bulkhead’s back strut was recognizable to him the instant he saw it. It was the first thing his optics locked onto as he’d reached the threshold leading out into the night. The larger bot stood there at the edge of the roof, unbothered by the rush of emotions in Prowl’s spark, still humming away as he dipped his broom-turned-brush into an oil drum of paint. Then, in one practiced sweeping motion he easily returned it to his canvas. At his pede, though out of crushing distance, Prowl recognized what was Sari’s wireless C/D player in all its sticker-covered glory.
Prowl didn’t make a sound as he walked, his optics focused now on Bulkhead’s art, if only to make himself stop staring at the bot in question. It wasn’t hard to see the city within the paint, even if it wasn’t a perfect match for the skyline he stood before. He’d taken liberties here and there; rounding out the harsh edges of the skyscrapers, leaving out certain details for a more vague look. Chief among the differences however was how vibrant the colors were. The city, from Prowl’s view, was far harsher. More grey, more one note. He supposed that’s what Sari had meant about feelings and art, how it wasn’t always so much about realism as it was about perspective. Prowl, as he glanced between the city and its painted replica, found that he liked Bulkhead’s perspective more. Only once he’d made it halthway over to the other bot did Prowl purposefully begin to let the sound of his pede click against the roof top. He’d managed to fight down his want to say something, anything until he saw Bulkhead pause, knowing now he wouldn’t accidentally frighten him.
“It’s lovely.” His words came out light and airily, more in awe than he’d meant them to. Prowl only hoped Bulkhead couldn’t see how pathetic he felt as the larger bot turned his helm to face him. For a moment a look of surprise crossed Bulkhead's faceplate, but it left as quickly as it came. Replaced by a grin so large it made his optics flare a bit brighter.
“You think so?” It was a genuine question but also one Prowl had to keep himself from sighing at. When had Bulkhead ever known him to give out false flattery?
“I do.” He reassured him nonetheless. Bulkhead wasted no time turning to set his brush aside, a giddy sort of glee bleeding into his quick flurry of motion, before taking a step back with his servos placed firmly on his hips. Here they stood side by side, both staring at the painting though the feeling of their fields brushing against each other in equal parts gave away the truth to where their focuses lay. A tidal wave of gratitude, joy, and affection on Bulkhead’s side filled the space between them but dared only to push into the easy stream of content and fascination from Prowl’s as was deemed appropriate between friends.
"It's different." They seemed to turn their helms towards each other at the same time, their gaze meeting, and Prowl couldn't fight the small smile that took over his once fairly neutral expression. He’d just now noticed a bit of dried paint smeared below the other bot’s right optic.
"Ha, yeah. I was having a bit of, uh, art-block? I think that's the word. Well, anyway Sari told me I should try branching out. We went through a ton more pictures of paintings and sculptures but I really liked this Braque guy. I mean I saw his stuff and I just couldn't unsee it, you know?" Bulkhead raised a servo to rub at the back of his intake, glancing between Prowl and the painting. Prowl could only imagine the way he was comparing the two in his processor, the art of a master and his own first attempt. The right words didn't seem to spring up in Prowl's processor, not like they would have for Optimus or even Sari. So, he settled for doing what he does best, asking questions.
"Is there a name for this style?" If there was one thing he knew about humans, it was their love to label. They all seemed enamored by the idea of situating everything into neat little boxes with distinct and proper names. One of the few habits that they actually shared with Cybertronians.
"Fauvism." That question seemed to perk Bulkhead up. He responded quickly and cheerfully, he even began to stand a bit straighter. Surprise had briefly flashed across his field almost as though he hadn't expected Prowl to ask. He didn't have time to linger on that though, not when Bulkhead was swiftly leaning down to nearly match his height. A playful look over took that uncertainty from before as he came a bit closer, raising one of his large and steady servos to block the side of his faceplate from the view of no one in particular, and began to ‘stage-whisper’.
"But don’t ask what it means 'cause I dont really know. It's...French? I think? Whatever 'French' is." Prowl couldn’t help but indulge, nodding along as he too leaned in as though he and Bulkhead were sharing some secret only the two of them could know about. As though they were in their own little world. Oh, how easy would it be to let tunnel vision let everything else fall away. Reality only seemed to come back into focus once Bulkhead shrugged, laughing a bit at his own confusion as he straightened back up. Prowl reset his optics, shifting his weight before smoothing his expression out once more for a more respectfully natural look. Questions, he was supposed to be asking questions.
"And this Braque, he's the best at it?" That made Bulkhead pause and over the course of the next twenty or so klicks Prowl noted the way he attempted to speak three separate times, only to always stop himself short. The space left behind by the lack of conversation didn’t stay empty, however, not when that light orchestral melody still rang out from the C/D player. Its presence had seemingly come back with a vengeance from where it had been left mostly ignored for the better part of their conversation. The song was different now, however, filled more with airy whistles and chimes from instruments Prowl didn’t know the names of.
“Well, I don’t think he’s the best, more like he’s one of the best.” Bulkhead finally settled on saying. His shoulders slumped and he shook his helm a bit as he sighed before carrying on.
“I don’t know, maybe I just don’t get it, but it just doesn’t seem fair to use words like ‘best’ or ‘worse’ about that kinda thing. They all have their own way of doing stuff. That doesn’t mean one of ‘em is wrong for it.” From what Prowl understands about art, which in truth wasn’t much, that didn’t seem to be a popular opinion. Yet, he’d known Bulkhead would answer that way.
Now, being an artist himself he certainly had his own favorite and least favorite artist, he’d made that much clear to Prowl numerous times before. However, none of that was based on any malicious or even genuine critique. He took a rather more simplistic approach. His opinions were usually ones gained from his initial emotional reactions. In the case of Bulkhead, it was true that saying ‘I do like this’ and ‘I don’t like that’ is a lot different than insulting another’s ability.
“Then you’re saying it wouldn’t be fair to compare works when you only mean to diminish one by doing so?” A slight flush began to spread across Bulkhead’s faceplate and from where he stood Prowl could feel a hint of new found warmth radiating off the other bot’s frame. It seems he finally caught on. Prowl knew he would…eventually.
“Heh, right.” He nodded and with nothing left to say Prowl nodded back. At that point he’d expected Bulkhead to go back to his art. It wasn’t uncommon for him to work while Prowl lingered close behind. He’d ask a question here and there, put in input when asked, but he believed Bulkhead simply liked the company more than anything else.
But he didn’t move. They stayed there as the music still kept any silence from stretching out between them. A part of Prowl though he could have stayed there forever. Just the two of them. It was that very bliss that seemed to disquiet something much deeper with himself. A sense of almost dreadful familiarity began to take hold, a feeling deep inside whispering how he’s been here before, reminding him how he’d not liked the ending. It left him uneasy, suddenly filled with the need to hold onto something yet only being able to find comfort in the form of crossing his arms across his chassis. He let his digits dig a little too roughly into his plating, let it sting a little too much. It kept him grounded. That’s what he told himself. It kept his processor clear.
Vaguely he was aware that out the corner of his range of sight Bulkhead had shifted, looking at him. He knew in a strange, out-of-frame way that if he stayed here he was going to make a fool of himself. He’d put this off for so long and the window of opportunity to slip away, to calmly and gracefully say goodnight and mean it, was growing smaller with each passing klick.
He’d opened his mouth, ready to do just that but before he knew it he was speaking words he’d not intended. He couldn't stop himself. It all just seemed to tumble out and it felt like time itself had slowed to halt.
“I have to tell you-”
“Prowl, I-”
Their words collided into each other and as Prowl felt a horrible mix of dread and relief stir up inside of him. He was a coward. He’d never thought that way about himself until this very moment but it was true, he was a coward. That feeling, like a clumped up ball of short circuiting wires was firing off deep in his tank, began to subside. In a slow and uncomfortable way he began to feel like himself again.
He hoped that none of the internal lack of restraint now dying down inside him had somehow been visible to the other bot, even though he knew it wasn’t likely to have been. Still, something in the way Bulkhead seemed to squirm, unable to look him in the optic, made him begin to doubt. He could only watch mutely as Bulkhead awkwardly laughed.
“Sorry you, uh, needed to tell me something?” Prowl hadn’t even registered the hesitation that had begun to slip into the larger bot’s field until it was ripped away entirely, suddenly pulled tight to his frame. The loss left Prowl reeling and as he attempted to right himself out he couldn’t help but realize that at some point he'd done the same. His focus felt split, unable to not be aware of how hot his own frame was beginning to get or the fact that suddenly didn't know what to do with his servos. In an almost sluggish way he’d taken notice of the way Bulkhead had shifted his weight as he spoke, his voice coming out leagues quieter than it had before.
“No, no, you go first. It wasn’t that important.” It was a testament to either his training or the existence of Primus that he managed to form words into an understandable sentence. He didn’t dare say more, not when those three words he’s been fighting back all this time were so close to finally escaping passed his derma. Though a shameful sort of guilt made itself well known to him just then. Here he was, already burdening Bulkhead with his soured mood. And here he’d thought he’d had better control over himself.
“Yeah, sure, if that’s what you want. I was just going to say that I, uh, had a dream about you last night.” Of all the things Prowl could have imagined him saying, that was not one of them. The instant confusion and quickly followed intrigue he felt at being caught so off guard was nearly enough to knock out whatever leftover unwelcome feelings were still desperately clinging to the back of his processor.
“Hmm?” He couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t curious. Besides, it was as good a distraction as any from his own blunder. Never let it be said Prowl didn’t know when to take an out when he saw one.
“You, well, we were back on Cybertron at Castoff’s.” The name wasn’t familiar to Prowl, though the little smile that came back to Bulkhead’s faceplate just at uttering the name obviously spoke to its importance. He only half acknowledged the notification in his HUD informing him that that information was now properly and securely backed-up.
“Castoff’s?” Relief was chief among the feelings in Prowl’s spark at the sound of Bulkhead’s real laughter, even if it only lasted for a klick and had a bit of a strained edge still lingered within it.
”Oh, right, ha, I forgot that- anyway it’s this, actually I don’t know how to describe it. Bee always called it a junk shop.” He stopped as a look of sudden excitement crossed his faceplate and before Prowl could question why, he could hear the tell-tale hiss of Bulkhead’s sub-space opening and then closing again quickly. Before he knew it the larger bot was shoving a compact sized oil canister into his servos.
“Ha, can’t believe I almost forgot I had these. But, yeah, I used to have to beg him to go with me.” Bulkhead carried on as though Prowl wasn’t still adjusting the grip of both his servos around a container that he himself could easily hold with just one. In the end, Prowl settled for just setting it down at his pede as Bulkhead took a few gulps of his own.
In the space between that and Prowl’s soon to come reply, Bulkhead wordlessly transformed his back kibble. In a flash the extra extremities swooped down forming a seat that he, with as much grace as he could muster, fell back into. It was actually a bit of a surprise to Prowl that the art and all the supplies surrounding it just a few steps away only shook a little as Bulkhead settled in. With that, Prowl wasted little time following his lead. It seemed to be the final sign to say that normalcy had returned, that all coming and going awkwardness was forgiven. All Prowl knew was that, for once in his life, he wasn’t going to look at that too deeply, least it somehow slip away.
“You went there often?” He asked as he adjusted his legs beneath himself, watching intently as Bulkhead continued to drink his oil. Prowl could picture him, a young and bright opticed recruit back in Iacon ready to soak in and snatch up any knowledge in arms reach, with almost the same amount of detailing as a real memory. It wasn’t hard to conjure up the image of Bulkhead’s lumbering frame hunched over, trying and failing not to take up too much space, tucked between cluttered shelves of who-knows-what.
Though if Prowl had to guess he was almost certain Bulkhead had spent most of his time there with his olfactory sensor stuck in some old dusty data pad. He’d probably spent hours there, writing out practice equations and converting measurements back and forth just for the fun of it. It all made for quite a pretty picture, one Prowl would have to come back to later.
“Mhm, it wasn’t far off from the base. I’d go anytime I could. Probably more than I should have.” Bulkhead took the final swig from his drink but kept hold of the empty canister. He let both his servos wrap around it gently, almost cradling it. From where Prowl sat he could no longer see it, completely covered as it was in the larger bot’s grasp. A fleeting thought crossed through his processor, wondering what it would feel like to rest his own servo in the other bot’s grasp. To see his digits dwarfed beside Bulkheads and to feel the mechanisms beneath his plating working away with every minute movement.
“Then we’ll go when we get back.” Not that Prowl was entirely sure they ever would get back. He wasn’t trying to be nihilistic, it wasn’t in his coding, but realism was. Who knows how much longer it would be before their home world finds them, that is if they're even looking for them. Maybe that train of thought should have upset him more than it did but if he were being honest he wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go back. He’d never admit that, not out loud, not to anyone. Regardless, in the meantime it couldn’t hurt to indulge this one time. Playing pretend, like they could somehow still chart a path for their futures after everything that had happened thus far. Why not? Why not, just this once, dream a little for a change?
“Ah, I wish. It closed just a few solar cycles before me and Bee got the whole space bridge posting.” He trailed off a bit at the end, melancholy having slowly replaced nostalgia. Prowl found it was oddly fascinating the way he began to find himself mourning for a place he’d never known.
“Did I like it? In the dream.” He felt a great growing need to know the answer. It may simply be a poor consolation prize but it was still something.
“Yeah, or well, I hope so. You-we, um, there was this corner in the back that had rows of shelves with data pads and you, in the dream, you stood next to me and we just read.” It was a nice fantasy, one that was easy for Prowl to adopt as one of his own. Foresight told him that that little scenario would be one his processor would examine frequently.
“That sounds nice.” Not for the first time Prowl wondered what would become of them if they ever did go back to Cybertron. The best case scenario if they ever where to be found was for them all to be sent back out to the far reaches of space to fix up space bridges again. Worst case, reassignment. It had been a one in a million chance he and Bulkhead had this posting together in the first place, one that certainly wouldn’t happen again. Besides, the blossoming friendship they’ve formed wouldn’t exactly be something looked happily upon. The council would probably jump at the opportunity to separate all of them, the further away from one another the better.
There would be no time for rendezvous at quaint hole-in-the-wall ‘junk stores’, or for star-gazing, or to discuss the newest books- no, datapads they’d read, or painting. There’d be no nature trails to trek, no spring time buds to look upon, no life beyond their own species. There was no way to know how long before this was all over, before this fantasy ended.
Primus, why has he been wasting time?
“It was.” Bulkhead sounded so fond yet his voice bordered on wistful. Prowl wasn’t sure when but at some point the music had stopped and the sounds of the city’s night life had crept in to take its place. However the only sound his audials made careful note of was that of Bulkhead tapping his digits against the canister still in his grasp. Prowl looked at him, really looked at him, and knew he couldn’t stop himself this time. There was no ’them’ back on Cybertron. He didn’t know why that was suddenly hitting him so hard now, but this new found clarity wasn’t something easily ignored.
He shouldn’t have stopped himself before. He should have done this a long time ago. His tank churned, his spark raced, and he’d never felt so close to falling apart at the seams. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so happy.
“Bulkhead, I have to tell you-”
“I know” The swift snap and crunch of the canister in Bulkhead’s grasp breaking didn’t go unnoticed by Prow. In a klick he had let the crushed up ball of scrap slip from his grasp and fall onto the rooftop beside himself. Prowl felt like his circuitry had frozen over.
“You know?” In a flash, and before Prowl could even fully process that he had, Bulkhead was standing. His optics glued back on the painting. It was halfway dried by now, and maybe it was because of that that it suddenly looked so much duller now. The sound of Prowl rising as well must have snapped Bulkhead back from wherever his processor may have wandered off too, as his helm whipped back around towards the smaller bot.
“Yeah and its-its totally fine! I mean, just being friends is great, right!” His servos frantically flailed, throwing around meaningless gestures as he seemed to suddenly find the ground much more appealing than Prowl. He took a step back and then another almost absentmindedly as he did. His smile was too wide, his optics too panicked and the laughter that followed was so obviously forced that it nearly made Prowl recoil. Sufficient to say, everything was obviously not great.
“Just friends.” He could hear himself speak, he was sure of it, quietly repeating those words as though it would give himself some sort of clarity. But it just didn't feel real. It couldn't be. Though his denial didn't change the truth.
The likelihood of being ‘let down easy’ had been an abnormally high one, he’d know that. He’d just…forgotten for a moment. He'd come to terms with that fact a while ago, he'd told himself he had over and over again. He used to run through this very scenario so many times he'd nearly lost count, having let it boot up in his HUD like a training vid. It was dawning on him now that practice was different from reality.
He'd never felt quite like this before. It hurt, he hadn't accounted for how much it would hurt. But he’d get over it. He’d have too, not doing so wasn’t an option. Not if he wanted to keep Bulkhead in his life for at least a little while longer. He could be just friends, he told himself. He wouldn’t be distant, or bitter, or off putting. He wouldn’t make this awkward or any harder for the other bot. He’d be quiet.
“-So long as you're okay with that, obviously. I just hope I don't make you too uncomfortable. But I promise I won't do anything you're not okay with, you know. My feelings, they'll pass, I mean, consider them gone already, buddy!” With each klick that passed his words sped up, jumbled and frantic and all together Bulkhead suddenly seemed meek. If you asked Prowl though, Bulkhead’s designation and the word meek should never even be in the same sentence. They just didn’t sound right together. Kind, friendly, a tad absentminded, loud at times, emotional all the time, reliable, clumsy but apologetic; yes. Meek, not so much. Prowl couldn’t help but hate himself a little for being the reason for the contrary.
It took longer than it should have, but once those words finally registered in his processor, finally decoded as though the other bot had been speaking another language, Prowl cycled his optics. Then reset his audio receptors. Then he did it again. He didn’t mean- he couldn’t possibly-
“Bulkhead, you-” It’s as though Bulkhead hadn’t even heard him, still carrying on restlessly. He didn’t react as Prowl took a step closer, too wrapped up in working himself up further.
“You just mean a lot to me- but not in a weird way! Oh jeez, I just don't want us to stop hanging out, you know? I mean, you're amazing and you listen and…and…UGH! Why do I always have to sound so stupid!” A resounding clank followed as Bulkhead smacked the palm of his servo against his fore helm. He’d squeezed his optics shut and kept them that way even as his servo fell back towards his side. Prowl hadn’t stopped making his way closer, only pausing when he once more found himself within reach of the other bot’s side.
“Bulkhead, I need to be sure I’m understanding you right. You- you’re-” Prowl cleared his voice box, but now wasn’t the time to back down. No more uncertainty or self-pity. He had to get this right. He raised a servo, moving it to rest on Bulkhead’s arm. Not grasping it but simply just pressed against it and Bulkhead’s plating warmed under his touch. Prowl could feel the roughness of his plating, feel all the small dents and scrapes awarded from a life of hard labor that were not obviously visible to the optic. It was a small victory that Bulkhead didn’t pull away.
“You like me. More than just as a friend. You like me?” There were infinitely better ways to phrase that, Prowl was certain, but it was those words in that less than flattering order that he said in the end. It was those words that made Bulkhead begin to shake ever so slightly. So little that were he not touching him, Prowl wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell.
“Of course I like you. You know that.” Bulkhead’s words still came out rushed and now with a sharp edge. However his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. As though he was scared that if he spoke any louder that he may scare Prowl off or break whatever gentleness still existed between them. He couldn't stand how defeated Bulkhead was acting, like he was just waiting to be disappointed. Prowl couldn’t help but squeeze his arm then, though he wasn’t entirely sure if the reassurance was more for Bulkhead or himself.
“Let me court you.” Apparently he was making a habit of speaking before thinking. Though, maybe that wasn’t always such a bad thing. Bulkhead finally opened his optics and Prowl waited patiently as they roamed over his faceplate, searching for something. That flustered tension that had worked its way up into his shoulders loosened, but it wasn’t shock or joy that replaced it. Bulkhead scoffed.
“Prowl- I-, that's not funny.” Prowl, for the life of him, couldn’t understand why he’d think it was a joke. Had he not always been upfront with the other bot? He knew why, he wasn’t blind to the other’s self deprecating ways built up by more than a millennia worth of rejection. That didn’t mean he understood it. Bulkhead wasn’t perfect, not by any measure of the word, but Prowl never wanted him to be. He couldn’t see why anyone would expect differently of him, or any mech for that matter.
“I'm not a funny bot.” Except Bulkhead thought he was. Rarely, if ever, did Prowl joke. But rest assured if he did, it would Bulkhead of all bots who’d not only pick up on it but laugh. Regardless, the point still stands.
“You really mean that? You actually- I mean you really…Me?” For the first time Bulkhead seemed to actually notice he was touching him, his optics jumping between Prowl’s servo on his arm and the bot’s faceplate. That flush seemed to return to his faceplate tenfold and Prowl couldn’t help smiling as he heard the audible click of Bulkhead’s cooling fans turned on. Another moment more and he was sure smoke would start billowing out of him.
“If you'll have me.” It took Bulkhead so long to respond that briefly Prowl worried the larger bot actually had malfunctioned. Then, he nodded. It was more of a short jerk of his helm than anything else, but Prowl knew what he meant. He knew that feeling well of not being able to trust yourself to speak.
Prowl knows that if this were some cliché romance vid this would be the part that they kissed. Instead they both just stood there, looking at each other, stiff as they’d ever been. It was as if they were both waiting to wake up, like neither of them thought they would ever get this far. What does a bot even do once they get this far?
“Can I…hold your servo?” Bulkhead finally broke the silence between them and in lieu of a response Prowl let his servo fall into the other bot’s grasp. Bulkhead squeezed it once before letting their digits tangle together, as well as they could have anyway, with him only having three and Prowl having five. Prowl watched the larger bot watch their servos intertwin, his optics wide and faceplate slack. He was beautiful. He was always beautiful.
“What now?” There was a fragile vulnerability in Bulkhead’s tone as he spoke. Prowl squeezed his servo back then pulled, herding them back to where it all started. His optics never left Bulkhead’s as they walked, not even as he kicked the offending ball of scrap the other bot had left behind far away from them. When he could see out of the corner of his vision the painting, now flushed from slivers of light shining from the now rising sun, he stopped.
“I’ve never, uh…” Bulkhead trailed off as he shuffled closer. His helm was ducked, brought low enough that he hardly had to look down at Prowl.
“Me either. I suppose then it would be best if we took things…slow.” Prowl held out his free servo, palm up, and huffed fondly as Bulkhead scurried to grasp it as well.
“Slow?”
“Mm, let whatever happens next happen naturally. There’s no need to rush or force anything. It’s just us.”
“Right, so, uh, we probably shouldn’t do more than this then, huh?” They were practically chassis to chassis at that point. Prowl let one of his servos slip away, not missing the way Bulkhead made an aborted attempt to chase after it. He reached up, touching the other's face plate and tried not to think too hard about the way Bulkhead automatically leaned into his touch. The larger bot's optics turned half lidded, flickering dimly.
“I didn’t say that. Though I am curious as to what ‘more’ you have in mind.” He was already off lining his optics by the time he finished speaking, he could’ve seen where this was going a mile away. Their derma pressed against one another. It was chaste, stiff, and short lived, but it left Prowl fans on full blast as his engine revved. He’d have been more embarrassed if Bulkhead’s had not done the same, albeit in a way that came across as a softer purr rather than Prowl’s desperate, but short lived, howl. Bulkhead pulled away first, but left only a short distance between their derma.
“That was-” Bulkhead's voice box glitched, filling his words with static until he paused, shaking his helm. “Nice.”
“Agreed.” He’d barely gotten the word out before Bulkhead leaned in again a bit faster and less careful than the last time. He missed Prowl’s derma, just catching the corner of them briefly before he was pulling away completely. Prowl’s servos seemed to move of their own accord attempting to follow, but he stopped himself short leaving them hovering for a moment in the now formed space between them. A part of him mourned the loss but a much larger part was too caught up in Bulkhead’s bashful smile to really care.
“I don’t know much about courting but I feel like we’re doing this all out of order.” He didn’t seem too bent out of shape about that fact. Neither of them were. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“I don’t see why not.” Prowl replied before quickly tacking on, “And if all goes smoothly with fixing up the roadways I think that will leave us with more than enough time to spend with each other off base. Just the two of us.” The air around them seemed to buzz with static, almost popping with jittery electricity.
“It’s a date!” Bulkhead practically shouted and with that, he was gone. Running off, only tripping slightly as he did before quickly righting himself, towards the stairwell. It shouldn’t have been charming, but when it came to the larger bot Prowl found it hard to find anything that wasn’t. Though, that charm certainly seemed to die down when suddenly Prowl couldn’t help but imagine Bulkhead running full force into Bumblebee who was no doubt still awake as well and telling him everything that had just transpired. Down to all the little details. Oh, he was never going to hear the end of this.
Prowl sighed as he ran his digits along his warmed derma. His processor felt as though it were on the verge of overheating, a million different thoughts all fought for priority. He wasn’t going to be able to recharge tonight, he wasn’t even going to entertain that notion. He turned on his heel, vague thoughts of mediation on his mind before he noticed what a mess Bulkhead had left behind. His supplies were left untouched and obviously forgotten. Prowl wondered how long it would take him before he remembered and came running back up.
Absent-mindedly he walked over the numerous dried paint splatters that littered the roof. He reached down, once he got closer, squatting as he hovered just beside Sari’s C/D player before gently pressing the small ‘play’ button. That music from before, those dreamy cords once more filled the air. Prowl found himself humming along as he straightened out, his optics dancing between the city before him and its matching painting. As it stood now, bathed in early morning light, the resemblance was near uncanny. He laughed, short and sweet, and began to wonder if he could convince Bulkhead to let him keep that painting.