A/N: The alternate title for this chapter is WAKE UP PROWL. Well, moreso than the previous one… but don't let the name fool you too much. That said, pay attention to the dream: some pretty hardcore symbols/themes in there.

Otherwise, YAY SARI! Give the 'encounter' a chance—it's not meant to be creepy, but to teach Prowl something. Eeeeverything is to teach Prowl something.

AHHAHAAAA. As of last Friday, HUMANIZED FICS ARE CANON FOR TFA. Sorry, that required all caps. I don't feel like SUCH a fanwanker now. Muahhaha. MUAHAHA.

...Heeeeeeeeee.

Intimacy

It was Wednesday. Middle of the next week. A neutral enough day, if only it weren't separated from a sordid, rain-wet 4am debacle by nothing more than a blurry string of hours, all hand-marked by a very, very tired ninjacop.

Prowl had been in a relative daze for three days, dealing with the myriad of tensions between he and his housemates… each had something to say about his 'fit' and were taking their sweet time saying it. Otherwise, thrashing to maintain his sense of normalcy, he was still attempting to keep up his rigorous training schedule—one, mind, that required a good deal of soulful concentration and peaceful willpower, both of which he was very short on as his preoccupation spread like a disease, rotting the trained muscle all the way to the neatly-trimmed tips of his fingers. He was confused, short on sleep and prone to distraction. And so, Wednesday evening, when wandering past the main room with an uncharacteristic slouch, he heard whispering and stopped.

The commons was cavernous and dark, lit only with red and yellow blurs: glass-canned explosions from the TV. Bumblebee and his girlfriend were lounging in the Technicolor glow, skinny high-school limbs haphazardly intertwined. A leg looped there, an arm tucked there, heads together.

The girl was an odd one, taller than height-sensitive Bee by a few inches and quick becoming a staple denizen of their Project. 'Sari' was often to be found doing homework at their kitchen table or avoiding homework on their couch. A little female presence was appreciated: she helped Bulkhead with his often fumbling attempts at art, actually sat through Ratchet's stories with a smile and got along with their local Prime far better than her boyfriend of four months. She had the odd habit of blushing whenever she saw Prowl, perhaps due to his overwhelming 'ninja coolness' factor, but he was fond enough of her, even if he, with his signature opaque-sunglasses dispassion, initially labeled their match too artificial to last.

Given the circumstances of dumb infatuation and short-spent hormones so often found in teenagers, he was more than certain that Sari, the vibrantly colored, home-schooled daughter of the lauded (and loaded) Isaac Sumdac, would soon grow bored or irritated with Bumblebee's abrasive, scruffy yellow conduct and move back to her other admirers, stacked a city wide and a skyscraper tall and in far better financial states than their youngest housemate. From what he'd seen of the little beauty, however, Prowl was surprised in more than one way: she actually cared for him.

She loved what he loved: B movies, explosions, legal car racing. She could beat Bumblebee at Ultimate Fighter with one hand tied behind her back. They laughed at the same things and plunged into the same immature debates with equal fervor; though Prowl did not know it, she had also threatened to break up with Bee after he stole the officer's motorcycle. They were… matched for one another—and at the moment, arguing back and forth about something on the couch, hidden hands pinching and poking.

"-ay, Bee. Not here!"

"C'mon!"

"There's—Ratchet—Bulkhead! Your cousin!"

"Half of 'em are at work. On patrol or something."

"Very comforting—also, no."

A pause, a brief (and in Sari's case, distraction-begging) turn of their heads as some vital plot-point whizzed past the screen, unnoted save for the brilliant colors. Then they were back to battling each other, each emitting little hisses and giggles.

"You know you want to."

"Oh, because you're 'just that good'?" Sari snorted, softening the jab with an indulgent kiss to his cheek. BB, ever the grinning opportunist, caught her before she could draw back, directing his blinding baby blue gaze to its best effect as he pressed their noses together.

"Please?" he whined, bottom lip inching out.

"Alright. Alright," she finally huffed, cupping his round, grinning face with a tolerant smirk. "Maybe a little. But if we get caught, I'm flaying you alive."

"Small price to pay."

"Good thing, considering you're broke."

"Ouch." Sari snickered as the unemployed youngster pulled her to his skinny chest, mock-glaring at him as he waggled a finger, reminding her: "That's okay, 'cos I have y--mff!"

Prowl's passing observation had outlived its credit, to be sure. Unfortunately, he never woke up, compartmentalized his observations of pre-make-out banter and passed on to more dignified activities: struck still by some force he could not name, he stayed where he was, quiet against the wall in the fringes of that glow. There was no voyeuristic thrill as the two teens fit together and twined and locked at their smallest, most delicate pink components: fingertips, lips. Eyelashes and brushed noses and soft breaths. They kissed, mouths parting then realigning. Against every sane, practical, politically correct value Prowl held more dear than his own blood, the physical exchange—a slow, shifting synergy—captivated him with its simple honesty.

It was a language all its own. Clothing rustled as Bumblebee reached up her side and inched forward, but Sari's dark hand coaxed him back down to her hip, fingers tangling with his as a sweet, shy mollification for the denied step: the boy smiled against her mouth and whispered something. She giggled, kissing him so hard he sputtered. There were several snorts, more laughter and a punch or two… then quiet touch again. These interruptions were natural, real, only adding to the cadence of two people. Bumblebee was a completely different creature in this girl's grip, an earnest, careful boy with fingers that tested before they touched. There was both giving and receiving with no exact demands: a flow of energy and adoration. Intense care, if not love. Comfort. Acceptance.

Prowl wasn't aware of the passage of time: the color palate changed, fading to serene purples and blues every so often as the simple act continued. When combined with the dreamy atmosphere, it was somewhat hypnotizing, bringing him to a soft place outside his own stiff, brittle body… so the young officer jumped just as high as the guilty party on the couch when someone cleared their throat loudly and pointedly enough to rival a gunshot. Prowl, heart pounding, looked down to see Ratchet at his side, arms crossed, glowering as the kids scrambled away from each other.

"Out," the old medic growled, staring straight at them without looking up at the ninja.

Bumblebee cursed stupidly. Sari, big red eyes landing specifically on Prowl (standing with an unreadable expression, thin mouth bent into a habitual frown), made a half-anguished, half-angry noise and sprinted out of the room. Bumblebee jumped up and followed, trotting at her heels as though knowing he was in for it. The teen waited until he was out of the room before yelling something back at Ratchet; something accusatory and snotty, surely, and therefore inferable enough.

"F'I wanted to see somethin' like that, I'd go online. My history channel special's on: strange enough, same time as last week," Ratchet snarled, waiting until he heard a door slam before moving. Heaving a rough sigh, he picked his thick-legged way toward his favorite couch and flopped down, turning over a cushion or two as he sullenly dug for the remote. "Stupid kid."

He liked Sari far too much to comment against her, but the boy she had chosen to date (who habitually drank the last of the milk from the carton and left the cardboard corpse in the fridge as a 'reminder' to pick up more) was still fair game. Knocked rudely out of his haze, Prowl took a few steps forward, then hung back—wondering what there was to say even as he knew he should say something. Ratchet had come in behind him; seen him watching, perhaps, and for how long? Irresponsible as Bumblebee was, did he himself respect no one's privacy? Prowl cleared his throat.

"Um. Ratchet, I—" he fumbled stiffly, hands fanned.

"Did I ask?" the old medic grunted, sending him a strangely appraising glance before settling in, turning on his '1990's Artillery' special and cranking the volume up to suit his old ears.

And that was that. Ratchet wasn't one for gossip or other's issues. It should have absolved Prowl of any guilt or possible pervert suspicions, but it didn't. Once more knocked astray from the path he tried to hard to follow, Prowl found it in himself to nod as though he understood and leave.

Once around the corner, he made a faint, melancholy noise as he leaned against the cool cement wall, wondering what in the world had kept him from simply walking on as he would have done any other normal, stable day. One hand nursed his strangely empty chest, both the void and the sternum-locked rib shield so incompatible with twining fingers and muffled chuckles and that trusting outward gush of warmth. Right as Prowl straightened to go back to his room, head hung low, he heard Ratchet shift and mutter from the main room, voice strangely sad and twice as tired under the scattered boom of long-rage missiles:

"Christ, gotta get out. Kid's gotta wake up and get out, or he's gonna hang himself with his own damn rope."

Prowl frowned and slowly rubbed his hand over his stinging eyes, allowing himself one last, lingering sigh before he shook his head and, like always, went back to work.

Message 023 received: 14:23 UST.

--what did i tellyou about the whiskey?

Delete Message 023, 14:23 UST?

Message deleted.

He wandered into the alleyway, this time.

A slow, explorative walk. Thick shadows. Thicker air, all cold. Sluggish.

Just like before, but with so much less yelling and slicing movement, Lockdown materialized from the black of the alley and caught him. Prowl knew it was the man from the overwhelming smell of cologne and mechanic trappings, and the way the bare, tattooed arms grasped him tightly against his firm chest. He struggled, but it seemed to be in thick purple water or syrup, perfunctory by default, but the older man didn't take him to the ground as before. He forced Prowl against the alley wall and pushed his black and gold helmet off. It clattered away. Prowl made an alarmed noise as the other pushed flush against him to stifle another unsteady thrash--and quivered in shock as a three-dimensional, smooth heat pressed against the seat of his khaki pants.

Lockdown's white arm banded his chest and clamped Prowl's arms to his sides, making his cheek scrape the alleyway wall. The officer gasped when the complex warmth of the other's face invaded the pale stretch of his neck; Lockdown breathed in heavily, sending a rich stripe of pinpricks down the other's neck as though he'd been licked and marked with tingling silver saliva, then reached downwards with his free real hand. Prowl bucked when he gripped between his legs, wondering crystal-clear what this had to do with the racing circuit; what this had to do with his new assignment, because patrol didn't include alleyways. The kneading contact sent something zinging through him, enough to force his mouth open; it only worsened when the hand unstrung his tightly-laced belt and dug inside, stroking and gripping through what thin material was left.

Crying out and thrashing in a sudden helter-skelter speed-up, he ordered the man to stop in the name of the law and Lockdown just laughed.

Then his well-structured accusations devolved into choked-off pleas in the form of legal procedure. He repeated the procedure for filing a report, the requirements for bringing someone to trial for petty theft—anything he could remember, all bursting out in rhythmic spurts because by then the other was pumping his fist viciously, calluses grating and scraping. His entire slender body seemed to scrunch and pulse around the assault, climax approaching quickly and messily; every inch of his cold-stung skin prickled, brittle and white atop the magma slurping through his taut muscles, pulsating in delicious time and siphoning into the cavern underneath his ribs. The flow rose toward his tight throat, filling, choking. He moaned in horror when Lockdown's mouth seized his blood-hot ear and sucked sadistically, sparking a startled gasp, a twitch, and several frightened breaths. His control starbursted upwards into the black sky.

He opened his eyes and squeezed them shut the second he did. A smear of fluid glistened on the rough alley wall. Lockdown's dirty, satisfied chuckle was there to cement his shame, vibrating in his ear and inflamed brainstem like an eight-cylinder engine.

"Graffiti."

He pointed. Made Prowl open his eyes. Lockdown slapped him on the ass.

"Defacin' public property, ninjacop. I'll get the cuffs so you can bring yourself in."

Looking down and realizing he had been cuffed all along, Prowl woke up with a gasp.