Base. Evening.

After the mission.

The main hall still smells of overheated metal and fresh welds—Ratchet has finished patching up Bulkhead, and Bumblebee is loudly recounting how he "single-handedly" distracted three Decepticons (though everyone knows that wasn't exactly true).

You're standing by the desk with the holographic projection of the report. Your shoulder is slightly scraped, but you hold yourself confidently. Your optics are calm. Too calm, even.

Prowl stands across from you. His posture is straight. His hands are behind his back. His gaze is focused.

"The moment Megatron activated the backup drone," he says calmly, "you should have taken three steps to the left. That would have reduced the risk of being hit by 27 percent."

You blink slowly.

Pause.

"Oh, really?" he asks, his voice completely serious. "And I thought standing right under flying debris was part of my strategic plan."

Bumblebee snorts.

Bulkhead chuckles so loudly he almost drops the crate.

Prowl doesn't blink.

"I'm serious."

"Me too," you nod. "My plan was 'let's see what happens.'"

Silence.

Ratchet rolls his optics. Optimus pretends to study the report. Bumblebee is already starting to laugh quietly.

Prowl tilts his head slightly.

"That's not funny."

You tilt your head back innocently.

"No? I thought you'd appreciate the creative approach."

He exhales slowly through the vent.

A few minutes later.

The team disperses.

You're almost alone. You're still at the table, he's nearby, a step away.

"Your behavior on the mission was risky," he says quietly. Without the public sternness. But still calm.

You turn to face him fully.

"My behavior was spectacular."

"Pretty doesn't equal effectiveness."

"Sometimes it does," you shrug. "Especially when you're being watched by an overly serious tactical officer."

His optics narrow slightly.

"You're deliberately provoking me."

"No," you flutter your eyelashes innocently. "I simply exist."

Pause.

"And that's enough."

He freezes.

You see it. That micro-glitch in his self-control. And then your smile widens.

"What?" you ask calmly. "You look like I just said something inappropriate."

"You did."

"When?"

"Right now."

"More specifically, officer."

He takes a step closer.

"You have a very... peculiar sense of humor."

You fold your arms across your chest.

"Did you mean brilliant?"

"No."

"Beautiful?"

"No."

"Charming?"

Pause.

He's silent. You squint.

"Oh. Silence. So, yes."

He leans toward you slightly. His voice is lower. Quieter.

Your humor is putting unnecessary strain on my processors. You chuckle softly.

"Poor Prowl. Overheating from sarcasm?"

"From you."

There. That came too quickly.

He realized it a split second too late. You too.

Silence.