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Prowl sighed and nuzzled the red chassis in front of him. He let it fill his vision as the noises washed over him. He looked down and flexed his servo slowly. Curling white digits and staring at black claws, those still felt so new to him. He curled them close before flexing them again. Every movement felt like he was stepping through oil. The world was thick and slow around him, every movement took effort and everything around him raced at a pace that he didn’t want to pay attention to. He turned back to the red chassis in front of him and struggled to lift his servo to it. Once again he curled his digits, this time leaving shallow scratches on the red paint in jagged lines and curls. He felt a purr rising from his engine. There was a tap on his helm and Prowl struggled to online his optics as he turned to meet his Prime’s gaze. There was a soft and almost victorious smile on his Prime’s faceplate as he gazed down at the Praxian. The servo on his helm was gentle as it started stroking, Prowl’s engine rose in volume in response.
Optimus smiled down at the bundle of black and white in his lap. Prowl’s engine was almost loud enough to overpower the argument going on in the room, except for the fact that Starscream was involved. He continued gently pelting the purring Praxian’s helm as he tried to tune back into the discussion about something he honestly didn’t care about at the moment. No doubt Starscream was trying to increase Vos’s spending budget in some way. Again. He looked back to the room to find optics staring at his bundle hungrily. He didn’t blame them. Prowl had always been beautiful. His doorwings attracted grounders and fliers alike, his brain and Tac-net were the wet dreams of scientists and data handlers across the galaxy. But it was the select group of former Autobot and Decepticon high command, now banded together as the new Cybertronian council, that got the privilege of looking after the pretty Praxian. It had been a long journey but it was worth it for the utterly lax frame in his lap and silent helm he got to pet. Several vorns ago would’ve found the tactician ramrod straight in his seat. But one disgruntled former decepticon had thoroughly broken him in ways they still didn’t fully understand.
Stripped open his processor and broke it down to the struts really. Then taken his frame over in its absence.
Megatron and Soundwave were still angry about that part and no doubt had the mech sequestered somewhere to take out their rage when it hit. The council had been off-world and came back to find their aloof tactician turned blank, staring at the walls of a cell in Trypticon prison. The resulting reshuffling of officials and officers had done well to reform the justice system, many mechs still praised the Prime and Lord High Protector for their foresight but the council knew it had come too late.
It had taken Ratchet and Soundwave decacycles to sort through the broken data and determine that Prowl was still in there, layered under not just whatever the mech had done but his own stunted priority trees and war trauma. He could fight to the surface but seemed to not want to, safe in his own processor. He’d built himself a bubble to deal with what had happened to him, one the council had only initially fought against but begrudgingly accepted. It was alarming to see the normally controlled but still fiery mech blankly accepting being moved around like a doll. Those cycles were tense, dark shadows had graced the palace halls and council chambers. After several cycles without their usual mediator Optimus had determined that nothing would actually get done without a resolution. If Prowl didn’t want to talk then that was fine, Optimus would do the talking for him. So he’d stolen the small cop car from Ratchet’s med pay and sequestered his prize in the Primal chambers, layered in soft meshes and propped up on piles of pillows. He’d spent the time layering the mech in his lap with soft touches and whispered praises. All the thoughts he hadn’t voiced during the war about the Praxian’s beautiful frame and sharp processor. Detailed lists of all the ways the mech had made Cybertron better, rebuilt her. How the war wouldn’t have ended without Prowl. How his enemies all craved him, fell for him. How his Prime desired him more than ever.
He’d stopped briefly when Prowl started shedding tears, only long enough to shift the tactician into an even stronger hold and comm the rest of the council to inform them of the new trajectory of the recovery. The next solar cycles had left the Primal chambers as more of a revolving door of mechs coming to visit and take their turns cuddling the small Praxian.
Megatron had taken Prowl into his lap and whispered words of vengeance.
Starscream had preened his sensory wings into pristine condition.
Jazz had spent joors whispering soft words and licking up tears from Prowl’s cheeks.
Soundwave had played ancient Praxian lullabies likely unearthed from some hidden vault for just this occasion.
More than even Optimus could keep track of, all sharing words and actions of their love and devotion to their small, pretty, Praxian.
It was only when they heard a small stuttering purr start from the Praxian’s engine that they all felt the tension leave their own bodies and started shedding tears of their own.
Prowl was softer after. He would still stare off into space and often moved around by the other like a doll when they caught it but it was not combated with soft touches and praises. Meetings were spent with him wrapped in those soft meshes and pulled into big laps. Slowly but surely his voice had returned, softer but it commanded attention whenever it was heard. He slipped back into writing memos and making plans, but now it was done from the comfort and safety of Soundwave’s lap, or with Ratchet slowly feeding him decadent candied energon.
He was never alone, someone always followed him. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker now acted as shadows, for his safety in case some fool thought they could again get the council’s treasure, and against Prowl himself on the days when his processor got too much and he tried to return to his bubble. They’d bundle him and sweep him off his peds to deliver him to his Prime and Protector. Again and again, the Praxian enforcer would find himself surrounded, never allowed to sink back into the dark headspace he sometimes desired.
Instead he let himself float in the soft touches and sweet words. He leaned into roaming hands and smiled back. He drifted and would pop his head out to push through bills he knew would pass because he learned they would give him everything he asked for a moment of his attention. So yes, Prowl became soft and loved. And he drifted, letting Starscream’s voice flow over him as he struggled though the oil that felt like contentment in his head. He pressed claws into his Prime’s chassis and pulled himself up slowly to press gentle kisses into his mouth. When he finally pulled away he noticed hungry eyes from his Protector and found himself pulled into gentle kisses there. Let himself be pulled around the table to press needily into servos that held him like he would break at any moment because he already had, and they’d built him back into something he didn’t quite recognize but was learning to love himself.