He could hear them in the common room, chattering and jubilant with their latest victory. And it had been a good victory--no one been seriously injured, though he was quite certain that Ratchet would be complaining about having to reset his shoulder join for days, and they had managed to capture Thundercracker while the Decepticons were in retreat.
Though captured might have been too strong a word; Thundercracker had literally fallen out of the sky and into Omega Supreme’s pincers. Even his untrained optics could tell that the Seeker’s damage hadn’t been entirely caused by the battle, and he had to wonder if Megatron would be attempting any sort of prisoner exchange.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
He looked up at his mate’s voice. “Am I?”
“Yes.” Ratchet grinned as he leaned against his office door. “You should be out here celebrating with the rest of the hooligans. Keeps everyone in line when you’re at the party.”
“Keeps everyone from having fun,” he replied. “I am well aware of my effect on the parties I attend.”
“There’s less of that than you think.” Ratchet crossed the room and circled the desk. “And Bluestreak likes it when you come. Makes the kid feel like you really care.”
“Dirty fighting, Ratchet.”
“Bluestreak is your only major, exploitable weakness,” The medic replied. Red hands reached out to grasp his. “Now come on. It’ll do you some good to get out of this office for the night.”
He allowed his mate to pull him out of the chair and onto his feet. Really, it was pointless to argue; Bluestreak was not the only one who enjoyed his presence at a victory celebration. “As you wish, Ratchet.”
“And don’t you forget it, Prowl,” The medic purred.
He pulled his mate into a kiss before letting the other mech lead him out the door.
He watched as the party hit full swing, even with him in the room. The Autobots were too exultant with victory to care about his presence. Bluestreak had even dragged him into an old Praxian victory dance--one that only he and the sniper were familiar with--much to the appreciation of the rest of the crowd.
He was glad that his former ward was so happy; Bluestreak had seen so very little of that in his existence.
Ratchet was playing the crowd, energon cube in hand. He moved from one group of mechs to the next, growing more relaxed and more animated as the party progressed. He estimated that his mate had consumed at least five cubes of high grade when the medic pulled him back onto the dance floor for a slow, sensual dance from Ratchet’s home city.
The mechs of Tyger Pax had danced the way they had lived--with passion and flair--and he listened with a smile as the other Autobots watched them with appreciative expressions and exclamations.
He wished that his mate would loosen up like this without the assistance of high grade. He was an amazing mech, gentle and caring, when his defenses were down. But the medic was always tough outside their quarters, thick skinned and unwilling to let anyone else get close to him; if they weren’t close, he couldn’t get hurt if they were gone.
But Ratchet was always hurt, no matter how tough he tried to be.
The medic pulled him into a passionate kiss after the music ended, to the delighted cheering of Bluestreak and Jazz. Prowl smiled again when thy broke apart.
“It seems that even you aren’t immune to victory parties,” Ratchet grinned.
“So it would seem,” he replied. “Thank you.”
They drifted to a pair of chairs as Blaster started up more music. Ratchet nuzzled into his side like he was made to fit there. He wrapped an arm around the medic, glad the other mech was giving him the excuse to be so affectionate in front of the others, and gave a contented sigh.
“I’m glad you came,” Ratchet said. “And I’m glad you socialized and I’m glad that you danced with Bluestreak. I think you made him the happiest mech in the room.”
He felt the pleasant buzz of the high grade finally settle into his systems as he looked at his mate. “Happier than you?”
“Possibly.” The medic chuckled. “I’d give anything to see you like that all the time.”
“I could say the same,” he said.
Ratchet‘s optics narrowed, all his aggression and false bravado coming back. “Prowl, you know I--”
“Shh.” He pressed his lip components to his mate’s. “I am not starting that argument again. I’ve let it go.”
The medic relaxed against him again. “Sorry. The high grade must be getting to me more than usual tonight.”
“It’s all right.” And it was; they were both enjoying themselves tonight. “I love you.”
Ratchet looked up at him in surprise. Neither of them were known for vocal declarations of their feelings. After a klik, he smiled. “Love you, too.”
They each took another cube of high grade when Blue brought some by. Later, Ratchet--to the laughter and delight of the rest of the party--tried to teach Jazz a old party dance from Tyger Pax later.
He watched with a contented smile on his lip components. The others would wonder what had been wrong with Ratchet in the morning, but he knew the high grade had simply allowed him to be brave enough to show his true self to everyone else for a night. He enjoyed being the one who was able to see the softer side of his mate for any length of time.
He laughed and went along when Ratchet, Bluestreak and Smokescreen pulled him from his chair to join them in a group dance. Let them all wonder about him, as well.