A/N: So Spoon888 is publishing this great fic called Swinging Seekers over on AO3, and this just bit me as I read that. And it just wouldn't let go. I couldn't get past the thought if how uncomfortable it would be to be the one person who's not crossed off on the list, the one who no one's formed a connection to, the one who's left out.
And then this happened.

It was a chart at first.

A massive, color-coded thing stuck up on the rec room wall, full of names, lines, small checks. He'd taken one look at it the first day, and then turned around and left again, keeping his doorwings firmly under control.

The second day, there were more colors on the thing. They were still actively filling it out.

He'd spent hours that night combing through the regulations, trying to find out if the thing was in breach of any of them. Hoping against all hope that he'd find something and despairing when he didn't.

There was no rule against decorating the rec room walls. There was no rule against making one's list of conquests public. At most, it could be considered slander, but then someone had to make an actual complaint. No one had, yet.

He kept hoping for that, too.

On the third day, he walked into the rec room to see Jazz with a neon blue marker in his hand, drawing lines from his own name to what seemed like everyone else's. The saboteur didn't notice him as he walked in, too deep in conversation with Blaster and Bumblebee to pay any attention. The line between Jazz's name and Blaster's had a number of little marks drawn across it. As he watched, Jazz ticked off several similar marks on the line between Jazz and Bumblebee.

As the days passed, the chart grew, until he could no longer ignore it. So when he got the chance, when everyone else was on duty or in recharge, Prowl walked over to examine it closer.

Whoever the unknown creators of the thing were, they had at least been thorough. Every single mech onboard the Ark was represented. And everyone had lines coming from their names.

Well, almost everyone.

He noticed his own name, near the top on the left-hand side. Optimus, above him, had a sizable number of red lines next to it. The names they led to were no surprise – Jazz, Ironhide, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Wheeljack – that one had several marks on it – and Skyfire, among others.

Jazz's name was below his own, and the space next to it was a solid field of neon blue. Upon closer examination, every single other name on the chart had a neon blue line connecting it to the saboteur's. Most of them had marks on them as well.

His own name was encapsulated in a little square of white. For a finger's width or so next to it, the space was clear.

Empty.

He looked at the other names. None of them were as empty as his. Most had five or six lines, quite a few of them had more. The Dinobots seemed to mostly keep to their own gestalt, except for the line from Grimlock to Optimus and the pale yellow one from Swoop to First Aid. First Aid's other lines were also mainly to his own gestalt, but there was one green line going to Trailbreaker. That mech had his own grey lines going to Wheeljack, to Hound, even to Mirage, as well as a handful of others.

The only mech with close to his own empty space was Perceptor. Though even his three lines – four if you counted Sideswipe and Sunstreaker as separate mechs, which most seemed to do, even though their red and gold lines were almost always intertwined – made his name look crowded in comparison.

He'd seen enough.

A few days later, there was a new addition next to the chart. This time it was a giant table of sorts, printed on a large banner and hung next to the already almost completely full chart. The crew's names were listed across rows and columns, and as Prowl walked in Jazz was hard at work filling out his own row.

"Mech, I knew I shoulda kept better tabs on this," he grumbled good-naturedly. Sideswipe chuckled next to him, his own red pen drawing in sloppy marks along the row of names. The square that marked the intersection of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker was completely filled with red ink.

"At least you can pride yourself on a complete list," the red twin joked back. "You can just mark everyone. Well, everyone normal, anyway."

Everyone normal.

Ratchet brushed past him then, giving him a nod. "Good. You're fueling."

Prowl looked down at his cube. "Yes." There really wasn't much else he could say. He found his gaze inexplicably drawn back to the marker in Jazz's dark hand, making mark after mark after mark along the row of names. Skipping the square beneath his own name.

Ratchet noticed. "Oh, that thing. It's no wonder they felt the need for a bigger table. You can barely tell the lines apart on the old one now."

"You don't mind?" Prowl queried. "It seems like a breach of privacy, for one's interfacing life to be spread out on the wall like that for everyone to see."

Ratchet turned back and gave him a feral grin. "Mind? Mech, I'm the party ambulance. It's pretty much trademarked at this point. There's nothing private about my interfacing life, and every mech around here knows it."

He nodded towards the old chart, at all the chartreuse lines going from his own name. He was almost matching Jazz, line for line.

"Besides, if someone didn't want the connection made, they would have protested. As far as I know, no one has yet." Ratchet drained his cube as he turned to leave. "I plan to fill out my own row in that table later on, when the eager ones have gotten out of the way. You should, too."

Prowl didn't reply as the medic walked away.

Fill out his own row. Ratchet couldn't have studied the map very closely. But with that new table, it would soon be glaringly obvious to everyone just how many – or how few – marks Prowl had to enter.

His appetite was suddenly gone. He subspaced the still full cube and left the room.

It didn't take more than a few days for his prediction to come true. The new table was as full as the old chart, if more orderly set up – and Prowl could appreciate the order of it, at least, even though he didn't like anything else about it.

His own row was a glaringly white line between all the dashes of color.

Cliffjumper and Mirage were standing in front of the table, clearly putting finishing touches on their own rows. An extra mark for Mirage on Cliffjumper's row, an extra mark for Cliffjumper on Mirage's. They didn't appear to have heard him come in.

"Nice splash of color, ain't it," Cliffjumper said, grinning.

"It has a certain esthetic," Mirage replied, smirking slightly. "Of course, that white row mars it somewhat."

"Yeah." Cliffjumper looked up at the row bearing Prowl's name, near the top of the table. "Guess it's true what they say. He really is just a fancy tactical computer with a spark attached."

Prowl turned and left without his cube.

He avoided the rec room as much as possible after that, only entering to get his ration when he was sure no one else was there. Most of his time was spent in his office, which wasn't exactly a new development, but now he never left unless he felt it was necessary.

Necessary circumstances included command meetings, the bare minimum of recharge, and whenever someone came to his office without a scheduled appointment.

"I'm sorry," he told Trailbreaker. "I have somewhere I need to be. Put an appointment in my schedule, I'll make room for it."

"I don't have time right now," he replied to Sideswipe. "Put it in my schedule for a time when it suits you."

"Sorry," he told Cliffjumper bluntly. "Make arrangements for another time, and put it in my schedule."

"Yes sir," he told Optimus. "I am in the middle of a complicated calculation process right now, but I've entered it in my schedule in half an hour, I hope that will work for you."

His schedule had never been this well-ordered.

"Mech, I thought you had an open door policy," Jazz had said. "What's all this I hear about schedulin'?"

"I find it helps me manage more easily," Prowl had replied absently, putting away the report he'd finished and picking up another. "Now, was that all, Jazz? If not, would you make an appointment?"

Jazz had frowned and left.

Of course, he couldn't keep that up forever. Not when he had a general maintenance check-up scheduled with Ratchet. After he'd moved it three times, the medic had locked it in his schedule and marked it MANDATORY with large red letters.

At least Ratchet was true to form. Prowl had heard all his complaints before.

Well, most of them, anyway.

"Your fuel level is low," Ratchet remarked.

"Yes," Prowl replied. "I'm aware. It doesn't interfere with my function."

"I'll be the judge of that," Ratchet muttered. "You don't seem to be getting enough recharge, either. And there are signs of beginning dystrophy around your transformation cog." He put his scanner down. "When was the last time you used your alt mode?"

Prowl thought back for a moment. "In the battle at the nuclear reactor. The one where Megatron threw Optimus into the side of the building."

Ratchet stared. "That's… almost two months ago, Prowl. Haven't you transformed since? Pit, have you even been outside the Ark since then?"

"I haven't had the need to," Prowl replied. Truthfully, he'd avoided it. Leaving for a drive would mean he would invariably have company – most likely Jazz, trailing along behind him. And he could do without that. The mech was already popping up in his vicinity often enough that Prowl felt stalked.

Ratchet was not amused. "So you're not fueling properly, less than usual even, and you're not recharging as you should, also that less than usual. That usual was a bare minimum for you, by the way - keep this up, and your frame will start taking the remainder out of your plating! And now you're not even transforming? Prowl, what in pit is going on!?"

"There is nothing going on, Ratchet," Prowl replied, as patiently and calmly as he could. He was aware that he sounded mostly resigned. It wasn't far from accurate – being resigned was easier than the alternative. "I'm merely busy."

"The slag you are," Ratchet replied sharply. "Prowl, this isn't healthy. You're ruining yourself here. I'm putting you on increased rations and mandatory recharge. Your office will be locked to you during off-duty hours. You will also make time for a drive at least for an hour every other day."

Prowl sighed. Ratchet had that look on him that just begged for someone to object, so he could take it out of their plating. "Fine. Can I at least choose my own office hours?"

Blue optics narrowed. "…fine. But no more than two sessions a day, no more than four hours each. And at least seven hours of uninterrupted recharge."

Ratchet had gotten wise to his ways, it seemed. "Fine. Are we done?"

"Not by a long shot. But you can leave. I'll see you back in here in one week, and you better be in better shape then. Oh, and Prowl?" A red digit poked at his chest. "Stop hiding."

Not likely.

He busied himself setting up his new schedule as he walked from the medbay to his quarters. This late, he'd already spent the eight hours working that Ratchet had allowed him, so his office would be locked to him already. Ratchet worked fast.

Still. The medic hadn't won completely.

First, half an hour set aside to get his rations. Right after change to first shift, so there would be few mechs in the rec room. Picking up a full day's rations at once would mean that he didn't have to enter the rec room more than once a day.

Next, four hours in his office. He carefully moved half of his appointments to that block of time.

Then, a one-hour drive, followed by a one-hour shooting practice, then a half-hour of personal maintenance, followed by a half-hour refueling break. He threw in another hour in his quarters after that, marked them as Meditation and Do not disturb. That should make Ratchet happy.

Then the other four hours of office time, with the other half of his appointments. That was followed by a half-hour for his third and final refueling of the day.

Stretching recharge to eight hours would make Ratchet happy. And it would leave him with only two empty hours to fill at the end of the day. He carefully marked them as Private and left it at that. Hopefully that would work to Ratchet's satisfaction.

The glare he got the next time he encountered the medic, on his way out for his first drive after the new schedule had been implemented, told him he hadn't succeeded.

"I see what you're doing," the medic snarled. "You've set up yourself to be working when most everyone else is off-duty, to be out of the base when everyone else is on their break, to do your driving and practice when everyone else is on duty. That's not going to cut it, Prowl. I'm watching you, and I'll give you one week! If this doesn't work to my satisfaction - mine, not yours - I'm putting you on complete mandatory medical leave."

"Yes, Ratchet. Now if you would excuse me, I have to go for a drive."

The medic frowned at him, but let him leave.

He should have known it wouldn't be that easy to avoid his smaller black and white shadow.

Jazz didn't say anything, though. Merely stuck to his bumper for the whole drive, never falling back as much as a meter. Prowl tried very hard to ignore him. Especially when the drive was over and Jazz looked at him, nodding towards the already noisy rec room.

"Take a cube with me?"

Prowl shook his head. "I have shooting practice. I'll see you later, Jazz."

As he walked past the rec room door, he could see that dreaded banner hanging on the wall. His own row was still a garish white. The other rows were even fuller than last time he'd seen it, if that was even possible anymore. Wheeljack and Sideswipe were both busy marking it.

Prowl turned away without a second look. He could feel Jazz's optics boring into his back, as illogical as it was.

Three days into his new regime, and he had to admit that he felt better. He was less stiff, less sore, and the steady fueling and recharge had him feeling more energized. It was pleasant.

Not that it made him change his routine.

He wasn't hiding, whatever Ratchet thought. He would concede to avoiding other mechs as much as possible, but he told himself that it was for his own peace of mind. He couldn't be expected to perform admirably with them distracting him, could he?

And it wasn't like his company was missed. He'd never been a social mech.

Well, with one exception. And that exception was hounding him every chance he got.

"Mech, I never see you anymore," Jazz complained, in one of the rare moments when Prowl had let himself be intercepted. "Not even for that drive of yours. What're you doin' with all your time these days?"

Prowl silently congratulated himself on the rearranging of his schedule that had hindered Jazz from following him outside. "I'm working, Jazz."

"You've always worked, mech," Jazz countered. "That didn't mean I never saw you. What's gotten into you anyway? You're turnin' into a hermit on us."

Prowl ignored the human reference. "Nothing's changed, Jazz. If you'll excuse me."

"No." Jazz moved in to block his way. "Not until you tell me what's botherin' you."

Prowl was abruptly furious. "Nothing bothers me. I'm merely working, Jazz. That's what I'm needed for, isn't it? So move aside. That's an order."

Jazz looked at him for a moment longer, optics narrowed. Then he stepped aside.

Prowl pretended not to feel the smaller mech's scrutiny as he walked away.

On the fifth day of his regime, he unlocked his door to find Jazz already inside. He hesitated for a moment, thinking of leaving, but he hadn't left himself anywhere to go.

It would be easier to get Jazz to leave than to avoid everyone else.

"This is breaking and entering," he said softly.

"I have your code," Jazz retorted. "We need t' talk."

"I have nothing to say," Prowl replied.

"Well, I do." Jazz stood, moving to stand in front of him. "I want t' know what's going on with you. You're distant, you never show yourself anymore, Ratchet is threatenin' to put you on medical leave. Somethin's up."

"Nothing's changed," Prowl said, moving away. "I'm the same as I've always been."

"No, you're not," Jazz retorted sharply. "The Prowl I know would never act like this."

"Then maybe you don't know me that well," Prowl shot back, his voice louder than he'd intended.

"I know you better than anyone!" Jazz exclaimed, sounding affronted, and Prowl snorted.

"Yes. It doesn't mean much, does it?"

Jazz was silent for a moment. Then a dark hand came up to rest on Prowl's shoulder. "I consider you my friend, you know. I thought you saw me th'same way." The dark fingers rubbed across his plating for a moment. "Mech, you're way tense. I see why Ratchet's concerned."

Prowl shook his hand off. "There's nothing to be concerned about. I'm merely doing my job."

"Yeah, but there's more to life than that, ain't there? Why're you suddenly actin' like your job is all you are?" Jazz asked, clearly not deterred by Prowl's hostility. Those dark hands came up to rub at his tensile shoulder cables.

"It might as well be," Prowl muttered, unintentionally leaning back into the touch. "It's apparently all I enjoy."

Jazz's hands stilled. "This is about that chart, isn't it?" He ex-vented and swore softly. "Damn, I should've seen it. The timing matches and everythin'."

"That chart has nothing to do with me," Prowl replied hollowly. "I'm not on it."

"You aren't, are you?" Jazz mused. "Why not?" There was a brief pause as Jazz's hands tightened on his shoulders. "Don't tell me you don't have the necessary hardware installed?"

Prowl moved away, snarling. "Of course I do, Jazz. I'm not a slagging drone!"

Jazz raised his hands apologetically. "Never said you were."

Abruptly, all the fight went out of Prowl again, his anger evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. "You're probably the only one, then."

Jazz stepped closer, hesitantly. "If this bothers you so much," he said slowly, raising his hands to put them back on Prowl's shoulders. "Then why don't you just put a mark up there?"

"I can't lie," Prowl replied. "Whoever I put that mark next to will know it's not the truth."

"You can put it next to my name," Jazz offered. "Pit, we could even make it the truth, I don't mind." His fingers moved differently for a moment, teasing.

"I don't want your pity," Prowl said coldly, stepping away again. "And that's what it would look like to everyone who saw it, now that my line's been blank for over a week. No, Jazz." He sighed, looking away. "I think you should leave."

"Okay. That's okay. For what it's worth, though," Jazz said, moving around to look up at him, "I'm sorry."

Prowl looked away. "Just forget it. I'll see you at the command meeting tomorrow."

He didn't sit down until he heard the door close behind the saboteur.

That hadn't gone as well as he'd intended.

Ratchet was happier with him, at least.

"Well, you've avoided medical leave," he said, "narrowly. I expect to see you sticking to this amount of fuel and recharge for another two weeks, and then we'll evaluate again." He put his diagnostic tools away. "I still think you've isolated yourself too much. It wouldn't kill you to talk to the mechs under your command, you know. In fact, I know just the thing."

Prowl received a ping notifying him to a change in his schedule.

"There's a party on Saturday," Ratchet continued. "You should go. In fact, I'm making it medic's orders."

"A party? Ratchet, you know I've never enjoyed that kind of thing," Prowl said reproachfully.

"Too bad. Maybe you should start now." Ratchet shrugged. "Besides, it's Carly's birthday party. You don't want to miss that."

Prowl raised an optic ridge. "Already? She just had one."

Ratchet grinned. "Trust me, I feel the same way. Time passes so damn quickly here." He poked him in the chest again. "All the more reason to make the most of it, don't you think?"

Prowl just sighed.

He had to brace himself before he could enter the rec room. He could hear the pounding music through the open doorway long before he arrived, and the volume was loud enough to vibrate through the walls and make him tuck his doorwings in. He stayed back as Bluestreak, his doorwings equally low, was dragged in by Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. Then he walked silently inside to stand along one wall.

The first thing he noticed was that the chart was gone.

Well, probably not gone gone. But at least hidden by a giant banner that said Happy birthday, Carly in large, bright letters.

It was nice to not be reminded of his failings for once. His plating relaxed infitesimally, just enough to let him realize exactly how tense he'd been.

He stayed there by the wall, watching. The other Autobots were dancing, or drinking, or talking and laughing loudly. He could see Ratchet and Ironhide doing something in the corner that would undoubtedly lead to fragging after a while, and just hoped they had the decency to take it elsewhere when that time arrived.

Carly herself was standing on a table set up in the middle of the dance floor. She gave him a cheerful wave, and he smiled and waved back, not minding when her attention shifted to someone else. He hadn't come here to interact with anyone, no matter Ratchet's orders.

Of course, Jazz seemed determined to disregard that.

The saboteur appeared in front of him, a pair of cubes in his hand. He held one out towards Prowl questioningly.

"I don't drink high-grade," Prowl said in response.

"Oh, I know that," Jazz replied. "This is mid-grade, my mech. With silver sprinkles."

"Silver?" Prowl took the cube, curious now. "Been a while since I had that. Thank you."

"My pleasure," Jazz grinned. He took up position next to Prowl, leaning casually against the wall. "So what d'you think of th' banner?"

"It's nice," Prowl replied, carefully considering the phrase. There was a second layer to Jazz's words, he was certain of it. "I like the colors."

"I had to pester Sunstreaker for them," Jazz grinned. "And he wouldn't let me do the paintin', either. I just got to hang it up."

"Is this your idea, then?" Prowl asked, still feeling as though he was missing something.

"Yep," Jazz said, popping the p. "I figured we were in need of a party. This seemed like the perfect occasion for some socializin'. And some new decorations."

"I… see," he said, hesitantly. "And the old ones?"

"Too bad, so sad," Jazz said loftily. "Apparently, they got lost in th' chaos. Don't expect we'll ever see them again."

And suddenly Prowl understood.

Jazz had set all this in motion to get rid of the chart. He'd done all this so that the chart and the table could be taken down without anyone questioning why.

His relief was so profound that he was grateful he was leaning against the wall.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"You're welcome," Jazz replied, equally as quietly. "I'm sorry about the whole chart thing. I don't think it occurred t' anyone how that would feel for you."

"It wasn't the chart thing in itself," Prowl admitted. "It was seeing myself apart from everyone else in such an obvious way. Hearing how people reacted to that, and the conclusions they drew. I know I'm not the most social of mechs, but I'd thought – I'd thought they considered me more highly than that. I thought they saw me as more than just my TacNet." He fought the trembling in his voice.

"That's why you hid away," Jazz said in a flash of understanding.

"Yes. If I'm nothing but my job to anyone, then I might as well be nothing but my job to everyone. Myself included."

"Well, you're more than that t' me," Jazz said gently. Dark fingers touched Prowl's for a moment before pulling back. "Want t'get out of here? We can go for a drive?"

"Can't," Prowl said, regretting it for the first time in a while. "Ratchet made my party attendance mandatory."

Jazz leaned forward, looking around him at the corner where Prowl had seen Ratchet and Ironhide earlier. He snickered. "Oh, I don' think he'll notice if you leave, mech. He's otherwise engaged."

One glance told Prowl everything he didn't need to know. It seemed that Ratchet hadn't seen reason to take anything somewhere private. Thankfully there was a wall of mechs between him and Carly, or the humans would be treated to something they never needed to know either.

"All right," he agreed. "Let's go for a drive."

The next time he entered the rec room, there was nothing on the wall at all. He heard a few grumbles about the chart and table missing as he drew his cube, but it seemed that everyone accepted the story Jazz had put out about it being lost.

Jazz had confessed to Prowl that he'd actually "lost it" into the incinerator. Prowl didn't mind that very much at all.

Gradually, slowly, normalcy reappeared. When he had his follow-up with Ratchet, the medic smiled at him.

"Good. Your stress levels have lowered. I'd like you to keep doing what you're doing, but I'm done interfering in your business for now."

"Thank you, Ratchet," he replied. "I'll see you later?"

"For refueling," Ratchet confirmed. "See you then."

That was one of the major changes in his life. Jazz had managed to get him to switch his schedule around again. Now he was refueling as part of a group, for the first time since before the Ark left Cybertron. He didn't say much, not at first, but he listened, and was included, and laughed at Wheeljack's jokes and Sideswipe's pranks, and enjoyed the gentle warmth of Jazz's leg close to his own.

There were other signs as well. Weeks of careful hinting and hesitant touches. Finally, days of insistent tactile convincing.

When he finally gave in and let Jazz's gentle fingers entice him to berth, there was no one making a big deal out of it at all. No one except him and Jazz.

Which was exactly the way he liked it.