Loveless 2

A/N:  This chapter references "The Desertion of the Dinobots, part 1."

Chapter 2:  Walking Shadow

Just prior to first shift, Optimus Prime walked onto the command deck, nodding greetings to his officers like he always did and noting their general disposition:  Jazz, chipper as usual; Ratchet, hung-over and grumpier than usual; Wheeljack, distracted as usual; Red Alert, too hung-over to feel as paranoid as usual; and Ironhide, moving a bit slower than usual but otherwise unaffected.  What was different about this morning was that Prowl did not immediately come to his side, gifting him with his calm presence first thing in the morning.  In fact, Prowl was glowering at one of Teletraan's terminals, apparently not even registering Prime's arrival as he punched through some data.  Knowing Prowl, Optimus guessed he'd already been working for a joor.

For an instant, Prime's spark seemed to flare, then gutter in his chest, sending shoots of pain through his chassis.  He would have sacrificed the universe to be able to draw Prowl into his arms again, kiss him gently, and assure him that he loved him and all would be well.

"Damage report from our party?"  Prime didn't bother to officially call them to order since they had quieted when he entered, likely as a result of their hangovers.  

"Just one item, sir," Red Alert said.  "The twins are in the brig, and Bluestreak's been confined to medbay."

Prime wasn't surprised, but he felt a flash of concern for his badly-traumatized gunner.  "Is Bluestreak all right?"

Ratchet snorted.  "Fine, once I fix what the twins did to his paint.  Stupid fraggers got too happy with some contraption they rigged up after going into town with Spike."

"Paintball guns," Ironhide supplied helpfully, a smirk playing about his lips.

Primus, Optimus thought, getting the picture rather quickly.

"That's not the funny part, sir."  Jazz grinned.  "Blue was so mad, or should I say so over-energized an' mad, that he shouldered Sides into the floor, stole his gun, an' got 'em back."

The resulting tableau played out in Prime's head, and had he not been in so much emotional pain, he would have laughed.  "I see.  Collateral damage?"

"The rec room walls, sir."  Ironhide shook his head.  "I already told 'em they'd have to clean it all up today."

Prime nodded.  Just another line in the datafiles of three young mechs.  "You're dismissed.  Oh, and Ratchet?  Some assistance is required."

"Don't I know it," Ratchet said, walking over and gesturing for Prime to kneel.  "Bad hangover?"

"Worse than I usually have."  He had to wonder if the low-grade had been spiked and decided to order Red Alert to investigate.  Or perhaps he'd simply ask Jazz, who likely already knew the answer plus the culprit.  If someone really had spiked the low-grade, it wouldn't go well for him.  Or them.  It was no minor offense.

Ratchet accessed a panel on the side of Optimus' helm, pulled a vial and injector from his subspace, and within a few moments, a cool sensation of relief washed through Prime's processor.  "There you go."

"Walking around armed and ready, are we?" Prime asked, vaguely amused that he hadn't needed to go to medbay.

"You better believe it, sir."  Ratchet glanced toward the doorway as Cliffjumper and Gears entered, both looking like they'd rather kill a barrel of 'Cons than report for duty.  "Gonna need it, too."

Prime shook his head as he stood, glancing around the room to see where Prowl had gone.  However, Prowl was missing.  Not good, he thought, nodding his thanks to Ratchet and heading into the hallway.  As he made his way to Prowl's office, he realized his sense of dread had been building since he came on deck.  He could feel the cables in his neck and joints coiling tighter with his stress.  I need you, Prowl, he thought, his fists clenching with his pain.  Please don't shut me out.

When he reached Prowl's office door, he hit the buzzer and waited impatiently to be let in.  Prowl's "Enter" sounded utterly flat and depressed, and Prime whisked into the room as soon as the door opened.  "Prowl—"

Prowl scrambled to his feet.  "Sorry, sir!  I—"

"We need to talk," Optimus interrupted gently, not wanting Prowl to revert to his Good Solider routine.

Prowl very much looked as though he might blast a hole in the wall and escape.  The expression of horror only lasted a moment, though, then Prowl stared at his desktop, his stoic mask in place.  "Sir?"

Optimus had an overwhelming urge to gather Prowl in his arms and hug him tightly.  He wanted to rub his back, kiss his chevron, and tuck his head under his chin.  But Prowl's stiff body posture, his doorwings high on his back, told him that was an impossibility.  So where did he even begin?  "Prowl, please.  There's no reason for us to be awkward around each other."

"Of course not, sir."  Prowl lifted his gaze to stare pointedly at the wall and clasped his hands behind his back, almost as though he were being dressed down.

Prime paused, taken aback by Prowl's distant, unemotional attitude.  Prowl always held 'bots at arms' length, but today his coldness made him seem statuesque.  Prime had considered hinting at or even boldly revealing his feelings, worried that Prowl felt somehow used – that Prime had simply taken his pleasure and was now finished with him.  But as he gazed at his friend, he couldn't square the stiff, stoic SIC with the image of the Prowl gasping, moaning, and writhing beneath him, so beautiful in his pleasure.  "I hope you don't think any less of me.  I certainly think no less of you."

"Of course not, sir."

Optimus cringed behind his battle mask.  A million words came to his mind:  I cherish the night we spent together, actually; I love you and wish for something more; Prowl, please let me in . . .

None of those words reached his lips.  He'd never counted himself as a coward, but at the thought of the one he loved rejecting him and pushing him away, he lost courage.

Except Prowl already was pushing him away.

'I trust you more than anyone else.'  Optimus flinched as his processor replayed the unguarded words Prowl had spoken the previous night.  He'd seemed so sincere, but now he wouldn't even look at him.  Prime sighed, the pain feeling as though it were pushing slowly through his lines like expanding air bubbles.  Had he ruined that trust?  Said or done something during the interfacing that had wounded or scared Prowl?  He couldn't imagine it was the former – he was never cruel to his lovers and thought such actions came from pathetic 'bots with sad lives – but he could have let his true feelings slip.  He couldn't remember everything he'd said now since the memory files were such low quality.  Still, if Prowl didn't feel the same, he would be feeling very awkward this morning.

"If that's all, sir?" Prowl finally met his gaze, and Optimus detected a flash of pain there.

Pain I caused? Prime wondered in horror.  "Yes.  Carry on."  He turned and left, cursing himself as a coward and worried he'd hurt the mech he loved.

oOoOo

Jazz stared down the hallway to his left, where Optimus Prime had just disappeared.  He stared to his right, where Prowl had vanished around a corner.

Jazz decided Something Was Up.

For three orns, Prowl had gone into super-SIC mode, doing nothing but work and talking to no one outside of duty-related concerns.  Meanwhile, Optimus had grown increasingly quiet and tired-looking and had taken to staring at his SIC when Prowl wasn't looking.  Then, just a few kliks earlier, Jazz had been walking with Prowl, joking about the humans' new fighter drone the Autobots were supposed to watch during its test flight, when Optimus had rounded the corner.  Prowl had frozen in his tracks, trading stiff words with Prime about who would be accompanying him to watch the demonstration.  Prowl had refused to meet Prime's gaze and had whisked away.

Jazz had figured out long since that the two were secretly falling in love with each other, despite their being too thick-helmed to see it.  Now, obviously something had happened between them, probably while they were over-energized after the party.  And that meant Jazz needed to help if he could.

A faint hum registered on Jazz's audios, matched by a pull on his spark, and he smiled as his bondmate materialized behind his right shoulder.  "Heya, there, sweetspark."

Mirage smiled, stretching his lithe form to wrap his arms around his shoulders.  "Our commanders are all tense and moody.  Shall I hazard a guess why?"  He nuzzled Jazz's neck, sending little shivers down his spinal column.  

"I'm thinkin' ya better not.  Don't wanna start wild rumors," Jazz murmured, turning in Mirage's arms and hugging his waist.

Mirage canted his head.  "Perhaps not, but I insist they'd make an excellent couple."  A smile graced his lips.  "I suppose you have already hatched an insidious plot to meddle, though."

"Insidious?  Meddle?  Me?"  Jazz leaned forward, playfully nipping at Mirage's nose.

Mirage drew away quickly, laughing.  "First you'd best figure out how they got themselves all bent out of shape, and preferably before one or the other of them loses his temper at our feisty twins or some other innocent bystander."

Jazz cringed.  "Yer not kiddin'."  Black moods did not fit their good-natured Prime, and an angry Prowl was a scary Prowl.  "Do me a favor and stay invisible as much as ya can today.  I'll need ya to rumor collect."

Mirage nodded, gave him a quick kiss, and then released him, disappearing.  Jazz pursed his lips, then headed after Prime.  He wanted his two best friends to be happy, and he'd do just about anything to see that happen.

oOoOo

Prowl stopped abruptly in the doorway of the command deck, staring at the mechs gathered there and noting Jazz talking with Optimus.  Jazz was laughing over something, and Prime was chuckling softly.  The sight shot a metal spike through Prowl's spark, and he briefly considered turning around and leaving.  He'd barely been able to talk to Prime for three orns, and he wondered if they'd ever be able to relax around each other again, much less share a private, quiet chuckle over someone's wild antics or the like.  

He said it was a mistake, Prowl's processor immediately and unnecessarily reminded him.  He felt a sharp pain as his doorwings jerked higher on his back with his stress.  After Sentinel, it had taken him a long time to develop feelings for anyone new.  Relationships seemed like nothing but vain attempts at an elusive and short-lived happiness.  Around him, mechs traded partners frequently and with apparent ease, while ancient bonded pairs went vorns without seeing each other, seemingly without caring.  In his own private world, the word "love" seemed like a dark farce, a mask put over petty jealousy and suffocating possessiveness.  And suffocation was all he could remember . . . .

But his new Prime had become his friend, then slowly something more teased at the edges of Prowl's mind.  By watching Optimus with Elita, Prowl began to feel attraction, a capacity he thought he'd lost.  Optimus was never jealous of Elita's time, never ran off her friends, didn't keep her tethered to his side, and didn't dismiss her opinions on the job.

And with the safety of Elita's presence standing between him and Optimus, Prowl had wondered if other things he'd dismissed as romantic idealism were true:  did he care about her pleasure in the berth?  Did he value her opinions in their personal lives?  He was obviously protective of her, but he never seemed to treat her as weak or inferior despite his own massive size and unparalleled strength.  

But then Prime had reported her killed, and now . . .

Now, in the darkness of his quarters at night, Prowl couldn't stop the images of their lovemaking from returning to him:  the sight of Prime's affectionate smile, the feel of his gentle hands caressing his doorwings, the smell of ozone as their bodies heated, and the sound of his voice saying 'You need to be cherished.'

'You need to be cherished'. . . .

That was a mistake?

Prowl felt himself flinch as the pain seared his tank anew.  He lifted his chin and perked up his doorwings, entering the room.  Yes, it was a mistake, he reminded himself sharply.  An inebriated one.  What Prime was or wasn't in a relationship was a moot point; it was not something Prowl was to have.

He approached Prime and Jazz and straightened his posture.  "My apologies, sir, for the interruption."

They both turned to face him, Jazz's posture relaxed and Prime's tense.  "Go ahead," Optimus said.

"Wheeljack reports that the Dinobots have returned from their training and show signs of significant improvement in all areas but one."  Prowl proffered the datapad containing the report.

"All but one?"  Prime sounded far more formal than usual, if tired, as he took the report.

"Their personalities," Prowl replied bluntly.

Jazz laughed.  "Ah, man, I'm not sure there is help for that."

Prowl was inclined to agree, but the quiet humor he normally felt during such exchanges was absent.

Prime nodded once.  "I want you to gather a full report plus a demonstration while my team is attending the test flight.  I want your assessment of just what level of improvement they've achieved.  Also, get them back on the duty roster immediately.  Unless you find a reason to suggest otherwise, it is time for them to be more fully integrated into the crew."

"Yes, sir."  Recognizing the dismissal in Prime's tone, Prowl nodded and stiffly made his way back into the hallway.  Instead of focusing on the Dinobots, however, he found himself immediately preoccupied with Optimus again.  His processor seemed to be looping, replaying memories repeatedly:

'You need to be cherished'. . . .

Part of Prowl felt like it would crawl from under his armor from the sheer need to be treasured.  His thoughts rammed into each other in his mind:  the feel of Prime's hot energy flowing into him as Prime declared he should be cherished, only to be contrasted with the cold sting of pain at hearing the words 'that kind of mistake.'

Speeding up his pace as though he could outrun the memories, Prowl swept down the hallway and into his office.  "I knew better," Prowl muttered to himself as he rushed into his office and began rifling through his newest stack of datapads.  He stopped on the unexpected one from Ratchet, skimming over the report of Beachcomber, Bumblebee, and Cliffjumper being admitted due to inexplicable joint malfunctions.  The report only derailed his concentration for a moment, though.

Given the disaster that my relationship with Sentinel was, he thought, angry at himself, and the problems I've seen mechs land themselves in by 'facing around, I knew better than to let something like this happen.  What was worse, things had become awkward on duty, just as he'd feared.  Prime had tried to approach him about the topic once more the previous orn, but Prowl hadn't been able to bring himself to listen.  Black waves of anxiety or regret or tension or . . . something . . . had been roiling off Prime, and that scared Prowl.  There were many things Prowl could take stoically, but 'You should be cherished' followed by 'We made a mistake' followed by shame wasn't one of them.  Prowl wasn't sure he'd survive whatever words came next.

And more than that, Prowl was trapped in his own memory banks and logic circuits to the point his processor ached with the heat and strain:  Prime had said it was okay, but it wasn't.  Other 'bots might be able to just 'face anyone who caught their fancy for the night and shake hands and be friends in the morning, but Prowl couldn't.  If he were going to uplink with someone, whether by a cable or jack or even synching of energy fields, then he was sharing himself with them.  That 'bot had shared something intimate with him, a specialness Prowl took seriously.  To say that it was 'okay' and nothing had to change seemed almost like a betrayal from the mech he trusted most.

Pausing, Prowl frowned and tried to replay the memory, something seeming off to him.  Surely, surely, Prime had not meant it that way.  The Optimus he knew was honorable and had treated him with respect even while interfacing inebriated.  He was also wise.  Surely, surely he couldn't be fool enough to say nothing would change or trite enough to dismiss it with an 'it'll be okay' . . .

The office door buzzer snapped through the silence, making Prowl jump and distracting him from his replay.  He shut down the line of thought and sat behind his desk, retrieving Ratchet's report.  "Enter," he said, triggering the door release.

Jazz stepped into the office, glanced at Prowl and his datapad, and then snorted.  "Forget it.  Ya ain't foolin' me that easily."  He walked over to the desk, and the door automatically shut behind him, leaving them in private.  "Ya look like yer workin' but yer not.  Somethin' is eatin' at ya, Prowler, and I'm not leavin' 'til I find out what."

"I do not require any assistance," Prowl said, immediately wanting to defend his – and Prime's – privacy.  However, at the sight of his best friend, his pain welled to the point of making his tanks ache.  The tension of his grief was pressing on his spark, and he felt like he'd drown if he didn't release some of it.  He also knew he needed advice since he wasn't particularly skilled at interpersonal issues.

"The slag ya don't."  Jazz flopped in the chair across from his desk.  "Look, I know you:  yer on duty, tryin' to do yer work, and ya don't want interruptions.  Ya like yer privacy and don't want to burden others with yer problems."  He leaned forward, folding his arms on the desktop.  "I'm headin' out in a joor, though, and yer obviously in a hell of pain.  So burden me."

For a moment, Prowl felt like his processor was at war with itself:  he didn't need this to get out and wanted his privacy, but he also needed advice and, frankly, a shoulder to lean on.  He pressed his fingers to his temples as his logic chips began to overheat and ache and sighed explosively, dismissing the conflict before it could freeze him up.  "I'll be fine."

"Prowler."  Jazz frowned.  "I don't wanna push ya, but I'm really worried about ya.  And Prime."

Prowl's gaze snapped to Jazz's face.  "Prime?"  Had Jazz actually deduced what had happened?  How?  Or had Prime mentioned something?  Surely not!  But Jazz and Prime were close friends, too . . .

Jazz shook his head.  "Can't ya see it?  Prime's in pain.  He hasn't said anythin', but given the clues, I can guess:  somethin' happened between you two after the party."

Leaning back in his chair, Prowl watched his friend warily.  Jazz was really, really good at these things.  In a sense, it was part of his job to be that attentive to details, but it was also part of his personality to care for and tend to others.

Jazz also might be able to help.

"We interfaced," Prowl blurted out, saying the words before his logic circuits could talk him back out of it.

To his credit, Jazz didn't so much as flinch.  "I figured ya had.  And you two were both inebriated, weren't ya?"

Although he felt an odd sort of relief at hearing Jazz had already figured it out, Prowl dropped his gaze to his lap.  "Yes."  The shame of it burned through his circuits.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Jazz said softly, getting up and walking around the desk.  He spun Prowl's chair, turning it to face him, then knelt in front of him and took his hands.  "It's gonna be all right, Prowler.  Whatever has gone wrong, we'll find a solution, okay?"

For an odd moment, Prowl found coolant standing in his optics, but he dismissed the urge to cry.  "I'm not sure I can believe that."  No, that wasn't true.  He definitely couldn't believe it.  Not when his indiscretion had destroyed his closeness to the only mech he'd allowed himself to have feelings for since Sentinel.  

"Was it bad?" Jazz asked quietly.

Prowl started faintly with surprise over the unexpected question.  "No, not at all."  A few pieces of memory flickered through his processor:  Prime stroking his back, kissing a door panel, and talking to him tenderly.  "He . . . went slowly," he managed to admit.  "Said I should be cherished."  He jerked his face away from Jazz's worried gaze and stared at the wall.  "But he regrets it."  His voice shook slightly.  "He woke up sober and said it was a mistake."

"Wha . . .?"  Jazz tugged on his hands until he faced him again.  "There ain't no way.  I mean, he might think it was a mistake to interface with ya while over-energized, especially as a first time together, but there's no way he could regret being with ya."

Prowl snorted, pulling his hands from Jazz's grasp and pushing the chair back.  He stood and stalked across his office, only to pause at his bookcase and lean against it, crossing his arms.  "You seem awfully sure of that."  He shook his head.  "He assured me things would be fine, that my duties wouldn't change and nothing would be awkward.  He said it was a mistake.  How would you characterize that except as damage control the morning after?"

"I don't know."  Jazz had stood as well and now walked across the room to grasp his upper arms gently.  "But I do know one thing:  he loves ya.  Has for a while now."

Prowl stared at him.  "You're lying."  'Dearest Prowl' his memory banks whispered to him in Prime's voice.  But, no.  That was impossible, right?

Shaking his head, Jazz squeezed his arms and gave him a small smile.  "Not at all, man.  Don't think anyone else has figured it out other than Ironhide, but it's slaggin' obvious.  He stands too close to ya, is always watchin' ya, always seems just a little happier around ya, and always freaks out just a bit when yer injured."

"He does?"  Prowl had noticed Prime stood closer to him, but the rest was news.  He experienced a moment's confusion and fear, stunned to think Ironhide knew something he didn't about his own personal life and that he, a tactician dedicated to detail, had somehow missed something Jazz deemed so obvious.  But his confusion slipped into awe that Prime might value him in such a way, and a flitter of hope pulsed in his spark.  However, it died as suddenly as it came.  "Well, obviously we destroyed that."

"I don't think so."  Jazz reached up and trapped Prowl's helm between his hands, shaking it ever-so-slightly before releasing him.  "He's in pain, which means he cares."

Prowl felt his logic circuits speeding up and let them have rein.  "He could care because of professional reasons."

"No, I mean he cares 'bout you."

"We were friends first."

"Not 'were,' are.  An' in his optics, more than friends.  Or so he hopes."

"Which presupposes we didn't destroy what could have been."  Prowl wasn't about to relent.  He wanted to see if Jazz could disprove his argument, to see if Jazz could convince him there was any hope.  

Jazz smirked, apparently having learned him well enough to know what he was doing.  "I'm gonna win this one.  Love doesn't give up so easily.  If he really does love ya, it'll take more than this for him to stop lovin' ya."

Prowl didn't truly have an answer for that one, but he replied anyway.  "Assuming what he feels is love, which is the whole question."  And a loaded question at that.  Love was a strange entity others spoke of and had but that was not directed at him.  His creators had loved him in a hands-off kind of way, but the only love he'd drawn to himself had been an abusive mech whose possessiveness paraded as love and a kindly but elderly mech, roughly the age of Alpha Trion and older than his own creators, who had wanted to dote on him.  The first had wounded him almost beyond reaching, and the second had been unable to really build a life with him, assuming Prowl had wanted such a thing to begin with.  And he hadn't.

"And that's why yer gonna have to talk to him."  Jazz held up a finger.  "I'll try to get a readin' on him for ya so you can prepare a battle plan.  But in the end, it's yer campaign.  Yer gonna have to be the one to talk to him."  He started toward the door.

Prowl felt a flash of fear.  "Don't say anything to him!"  He knew he wouldn't, but he felt the need to ask anyway.  "Don't say anything to anyone, even Mirage."

Jazz stopped and glanced over his shoulder.  "Of course not, man.  Yer my best friend."  He gave him a smile, then suddenly flinched and dropped his hand to his knee joint, massaging it.  "Ow.  That was weird."  He threw Prowl an I-have-no-idea look, then limped out the door.

Suddenly reminded of Ratchet's report, Prowl glanced back at his desk.  More random joint problems?  He sighed, his thoughts jumbled.  He wanted to sort out all the new information Jazz had given him, but he was on duty and needed to do his work.  What was more, it looked like something was up, and he needed to figure out what while Prime and the others were watching the drone plane's test flight.  Not to mention get a demonstration from the Dinobots.

Duty first.  Prowl rubbed the bridge of his nose and walked over to flop down in his chair.

oOoOo

Optimus felt like every joint and junction in his entire frame had been dislocated.  He swallowed a groan as he drove over a pothole, wishing for once the Ark had crashed in a spot where a nicely-maintained human city would have sprung up.  Instead, he was bouncing through a bizarre swath of barren landscape so brutally at odds with the rest of Oregon, his tires finding every single bump, hole, and ridge in the area.  Behind him, he could hear Jazz and Ironhide cursing over the potholes as well, but despite the pain his troops were in, Prime couldn't get them back to base any quicker.

Something was deeply wrong.

It was bad enough that the humans' test plane had been destroyed by the 'Cons and a power plant had been attacked.  However, what worried Prime the most was the malfunctions both sides had experienced during the fight:  Jazz hadn't been able to activate his stereo, Ironhide to retract his hand, and Mirage to enact his electro-disrupter.  Ravage had spontaneously transformed, and Starscream had crashed.  Most surprisingly, Megatron had missed at point blank range.  Both sides had limped away from the battlefield, and Prime hadn't the slightest clue what was happening to them.

And yet, somehow, when Optimus entered the Ark and saw Prowl hovering over Teletraan, his face drawn and doorwings drooping, he had a selfish moment in which all he wanted was to take care of Prowl.  Not that Prowl would let him.

"Wheeljack, Perceptor."  Prime struggled for a moment, his body stiff and unwilling to transform, then forced the sequence forward.  He slowly straightened, only to realize his trailer hadn't receded into his extended subspace.  He glanced back at it, reaching through his spark to check on Roller and verify the status of his Combat Deck.  When Roller trilled back a tired but cheerful "okay," Prime returned his attention to his scientists.  "Join Skyfire in the lab and determine what is happening to us."

"We're on it, sir."  Wheeljack's vocal indicators failed to flash as he spoke, but he didn't pause at the oddity.  

Prime turned to Ratchet and Hoist, only to find them already attending to the injured team.  He frowned to himself as he saw that Jazz, who had experienced trouble transforming at the power station, was stuck halfway through his sequence.  "Primus," he muttered, and being unable to restrain himself any longer, joined Prowl at Teletraan's controls.  "You seemed unsurprised when I radioed in our problem," he said as he walked up behind him.

Prowl jumped faintly, then cast a frown at one of his doorwings.  "I — we — have been experiencing strange malfunctions since you left, sir."

"Are your doorwings hurt?" Optimus asked softly, a sharp pain lancing through his tank at the thought Prowl might be both in physical and emotional pain.

For a moment, Prowl gazed up at him with the widest optics, an inexplicable look of surprise or awe crossing his face.  Then he glanced away abruptly.  "They didn't register your approach, sir – no information about air movement, no alert from the proximity sensors.  In fact, they don't seem to be registering much at all."

Optimus lifted one hand and rested it against Prowl's right doorwing, splaying his hand on the panel.  It jerked then trembled faintly under the touch.  "It's cold," he noted, disturbed by what that could mean, and noticing the quiver, he felt a surge of protectiveness and care rage through him.  His need to pull Prowl into his arms flared so strongly he nearly gasped through his intakes.  If only you would let me care for you! he thought, stricken.  If only you loved me, too.  But just please stop pushing me away.

Prowl stared over his shoulder at him.  "Sir . . ."

Mentally chastising himself for his unprofessional behavior, Prime dropped his hand.  "How many 'bots are affected?"

Prowl snapped his attention to Teletraan.  "According to Teletraan 1's sensor sweep, all of us."

"At least the Decepticons are affected as well.  I hate to consider what would happen if they weren't."  Prime turned to face the room, noticing that even the twins were lethargic, heaped in the floor by a repair berth.  He had to find out what was causing this and fix it.

He sighed, pressing his fingers to one temple as his processor began to overheat.  He couldn't seem to protect his mechs; he'd utterly failed to take care of Prowl.  And he had no idea how he was going to fix any of it.

I need you, Prowl, he wanted to say.  He glanced back at his SIC, who was frowning at Teletraan's detailed scan report.  Despite all that he had to carry alone as the Prime, his burden was eased by the unflappable mech who always stood at his side.  He needed and wanted Prowl's calm demeanor and quiet humor.  Never hysterical, completely reliable, Prowl was an unmovable force, a strength to match his strength.  Pragmatic when he was idealistic, attentive to detail while Prime focused on the big picture, Prowl was his complement.  At first, he'd thought they simply made a good command team:  one to inspire and protect the mechs, the other to attend to and guard the institution.  Then he realized the balance went far deeper:  one outgoing and charismatic, the other quiet and self-reliant.  One to intuit a problem's underlying causes and emotions, the other to organize the details of the solution.  One to strive for a greater future, the other to control the here-and-now.  And both of them decisive, resolute, responsible, and dedicated.  They covered each others' weaknesses, complemented each others' strengths, and held each other in check.

And somewhere along the way, that balance had bled from the professional to the personal as Prowl stood by him through his private griefs.

Prime reached out his hand, wanting to touch Prowl's face, doorwing, or even shoulder.  A touch of care, of affection, of love.  I need you.  The words almost formed on his lips, only to fall away.  It was neither the time nor the place.  His duty to his fellow Autobots came first.  He dropped his hand and tried to pull himself together.

Prowl glanced up, his expression neutral but his words confident.  "Perceptor will determine the cause of this, I am sure.  We will generate a solution, sir."

It was the closest to normal Prowl had been since that night, and Prime's spark flickered at the sight.  He wasn't sure 'need' was a strong enough word for what he felt.  "Yes, Prowl.  I have faith in that."  Or, rather, he had to have faith in it.  For him and everyone else.

Primus, he was tired of being alone.