Chapter Text
Prowl was sick of this. His pedes ached from being stood on for too long, the pistons in his calves staggered and cramped with every step, his arms were heavy, the tips of his digits were burned– but he had to keep going if he wanted to stay ahead of the orders.
The deep fryer bubbled at 400 degrees in standard cybertronian metric, oil hot and sparking spittle that kept getting on Prowl’s plating. It was an old and malfunctioning thing, needing constant upkeep and care and cleaning. Sometimes Prowl felt like he cared for it more than he cared for his own frame, and statistically speaking, judging from the amount of time he spends cleaning and fixing the blasted thing compared to the fuel he takes and the few short showers he has time for, it might as well be true.
But it had to be done if he wanted everything to be working perfectly. He already had an entire batch of rust fries sizzling away on the counter, ready to be deployed– he didn’t watch who grabbed it, what plates it was put on, he just knew that the fries were slowly disappearing, but it’s fine because he calculated his output. By the time the batch is served, he’ll have two more.
While the fryer is on, he can start chopping the jellied energon for its tar bath, throw them on the pan, get the sweet blend ready and throw it in the pot. Calculated or not, the fact that he’s the only one in the kitchen right now is killing him. Optimus was supposed to be here, the goddamn head chef , but he had something to prove to the restaurant across the street. No matter how many times Prowl reminds him that, for now, working on their sales is the best way to beat Megatron at his game, those two just have to go out and have their famed dramatics. Jazz was in the front because Bumblebee was slacking off and no one else could fill in, and the whole kitchen staff was stripped to one Prowl, and that idiot Rodimus who was trying to save time by washing the dishes five at a time, leaving crusted food in between the plates and energon streaks in the corners of the cubes.
Just thinking about it makes Prowl pull a loose cy-garette out of his subspace. He wiped his face into the apron and looked around for any source of fire– the deep fryer was a bad idea, so he opted for the stove. There was only one burner free, and Prowl quickly learnt why he omitted it. Stupid thing isn't working. Gas came out but it didn’t light. He slammed the side of the stove forcefully, the pots on top rattling.
„Rodimus,” he called out, and the dishwasher dipped in his knees, looking up at the ceiling as if he was asking Primus Please, what does he want now. He turned to Prowl, frantically wiping the inside of an energon cube with a squeaky sponge.
„What?”
Prowl lifts his cy-garette „Come light this,”
Rodimus’ shoulders dropped, maybe in relief, maybe in exasperation, perhaps a little bit of both– when Prowl gets like… like he does, he’s very difficult to deal with, every time he calls your name during rush hour, you better bet that you’re an unwilling participant in some super-speed, hyper-detailed plan to maximize the restaurant’s speed and output. But a cy-garette, yeah, a cy-garette Rodimus can light. He’s a natural, one could say.
He dropped the cube back into the sink and hauled his whole aft across the kitchen as fast as he could before Prowl got agitated enough to punch him as soon as he got there.
„Don’t you own a lighter? I mean who lights those when you’re at home?” Rodimus complained as he shook his arm, revving his motor. The exhausts at the sides of his forearm spat out fire, right in the direction of Prowl's cy-garette „Do you have another handsome bot with flame decals at home, who lights all your cy-garettes?”
That was an absurdist jibe– Rodimus knew Prowl didn’t have anything of the sort, and the insinuation that he would was supposed to make him mad. Prowl had Rodimus figured out, him and those silly little games of his.
Prowl takes a deep drag „I have a lighter. Go back to work,”
„This is killing me,” Rodimus groaned, and started moping towards the sink again „Where is everyone today?”
„Don’t know. Keep the dishes coming,”
„I have to wash them and dry them, you know,” Rodimus yelled from the other side of the room. Prowl didn’t respond anymore, slipping back into his fancy little brain, where every minute counted and he couldn’t afford to waste a second on idle chit-chat if he wanted to, eh Rodimus doesn’t get it, increase the amount of orders they finish per half hour by 30% or something else that's nonsensical and doesn’t matter?
Rodimus fucking hates this job. The only reprise he gets working it with Prowl is that Prowl clearly hates it too, even if he won't admit it. If Rodimus’ de-escalation mechanism wasn’t cracking jokes, he’d probably be barking out orders like he owns the place, too. But whenever he tried that, he only got blank stares. There goes little ol’ Hot Rod, they probably thought.
Groaning when Jazz shoved more plates through the window, Rodimus carelessly dunked them into the dirty solvent, all the bubbles clinging to his seams and clogging up his cool exhaust pipes.
Another order pinged, Prowl grumbled something to himself in the distance, and then the back doors slammed open with a rushed and huffing Optimus coming through.
„Where the hell were you?” Prowl immediately barked.
„It was an emergency,” Optimus explained curtly– and Prowl is no doubt going to drag his lengthier explanation out of him later, but for now all he could do was dump the freshest batch of fries out of the deep fryer, hanging the basket above the oil.
„Take over, I’m taking my break,”
„How many”–
„You can see the orders up there, Optimus,” Prowl gestured wildly at the screen above the counter, then turned away and left the kitchen in a hurry.
His break lasted five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. After such a while, it occured to Rodimus to take his. It’s not fair that that asshole is napping in the pantry while he’s scrubbing pots and pans. There’s only four orders for Optimus to take care of now, he and Jazz can handle it.
Untying the apron from around his neck and letting it hang around his hips, Rodimus hurried out of the kitchen the same direction Prowl did– not that he wished to spend more time than necessary with the mech, but if he could steal a cube from the pantry and sneak a late lunch, that would be great.
It was very unfortunate that he was right, Prowl had retreated to the pantry, even though smoking was probably a task better suited for the alley behind the building. He glared daggers at Rodimus when he intruded, but Rodimus chose to ignore it, not letting himself be deterred by the rancid aura coming off of Prowl, he grabbed one of the sealed cubes and opened it up.
„Who’s washing the dishes?” Prowl asked.
Rodimus already felt a headache coming on.
„They have enough clean dishes,”
Prowl rolled his optics. His apron sagged from his neck, his bumper visible from the side, all biolights flickering in irritation.
Rodimus chugged on the cube. It was awkward. He and Prowl don’t really hang out. He doesn’t think anyone hangs out with Prowl, really. He seems close enough with Jazz and with Optimus and everyone else tolerates him just enough to be civil. Yet he never seems to be in a hurry to get home, perhaps it's his perfectionist nature, he couldn’t leave the deep fryer without a deep clean, or, more likely, he didn’t really have anyone waiting for him.
Rodimus could relate. He wouldn’t try to bond with Prowl over it, but he can relate. One of the reasons he wouldn’t mention it is because otherwise he couldn’t make jokes at Prowl's expense.
„Sooo, anyone waiting for you at home?”
„No,” Prowl replied matter of factly, then frowned „Hot Rod, what are you doing?”
„It’s Rodimus, you know it’s Rodimus,” Rodimus snaps, then tilts his cube to Prowl „And I’m having lunch, want some?”
„That belongs to the restaurant,”
„Do you want me to starve?”
„Do you want me to answer that question?”
„I’m not insulted, because I know you hate everyone,” Rodimus graciously presses a hand to his own chest, smiling at Prowl mockingly, like a shrink that doesn’t want to outwardly tell you that you’re crazy „It’s not your fault. Maybe one day, you could cook a cure for your personality,”
Prowl’s frown deepened „Just because I’m the only who takes this seriously”–
„Exactly! Who takes a job like this so seriously? This isn’t war, you know,” Rodimus leans against the pantry shelves with an exasperated sigh, shaking his helm.
To Prowl, this might as well be war. He approached everything like it’s a battle, it was infuriating. They make these cop-bots nuts in the head and then they release them on the common populace. Why wasn’t Prowl on the force, anyways? Failed the psych eval?
Probably something more boring than that.
„I do everything to keep this place afloat. Optimus only hired you because he had to,”
„Ouch. Well sorry, for not loving a dead end job,”
„If you’re so ungrateful, why don’t you just quit?”
That struck a nerve, but Rodimus would like to believe Prowl was too emotionally dense to notice the way he stiffened „And then who’s gonna wash your dishes?”
„Someone more competent, hopefully,”
„Hey, I do my job,”
Prowl looks him up and down, an incredulous expression on his scowl „You– you’re here, not doing your job. You’re very clearly not doing your job,”
„They’ll be fine, the crowd is thinning out,” Rodimus insists „And you know no one comes here after ten, the whole street knows you’re gonna kick them out if they try to order after you’ve cleaned the deep fryer,” he scoffs „Sometimes I feel like you fuck that thing. Are you sleeping with the deep fryer, Prowl?”
Prowl gets up, puffing on his cy-garette. He gets up in Rodimus’ face „Just because you’re incapable of taking things seriously, Hot Rod, doesn’t mean other people can just throw the dishes in the sink and go…go bother others. I’ve had a long shift, don’t make it longer,”
Rodimus, instead of confronting Prowl further, chooses to do the worst thing possible. He smirks stupidly, and says: „Oh, you clearly don’t fuck anything,”
Prowl can’t believe this. Well, he can believe it, it’s Hot Rod, stupid, idiot stubborn Hot Rod, who has to be called Rodimus or else you’ll have to nurse his ego for the rest of the day.
Alright.
„But you fuck just about everything,” Prowl spat, indirectly trying to dredge up the stupid rumour that Rodimus slept with Optimus to get this job– which was honestly ridiculous, unless Rodimus was entirely stupid. If it were Prowl, he’d have bargained for a better position than that of dishwasher and closing lackey. Plus, Optimus was too honest a mech for that, or something like that anyways.
„Is that what you think about me?”
„Insulted? You?”
„Surprised. Someone fed you those rumours, or did that come from your own sick fantasies?”
Prowl turned, like he was going to leave, and then he turned back to Rodimus „I want you to stay away from me,”
„Okay, fine, fine. Come on, Prowl, I spend 10 hours a day with you, I don’t want to fucking… fight,” it hurt a lot to admit that. Rodimus preferred to let things fester, he loved it when things festered, he was a big fan of all things festering, but he was over Prowl’s animosity. He might not get along with everyone in the kitchen, but with Prowl he couldn’t not deal.
„Then what do you want? Want to talk about the weather?” Prowl said sarcastically.
„I was just– okay, sure,” Rodimus gestures at the boarded up, dark window to the pantry „It’s nice out,”
„It’s cold and raining,” Prowl deadpanned.
„You really suck, you know that?” Rodimus sighed, dragging both his hands down his face.
He just wanted things to be cool „Prowl, do you wanna get laid?”
Prowl seemed taken aback, but he was quick to react „With you?”
„Well I’m not very happy about my choices either,”
Prowl scoffed and then… Then they were making out. It was that easy. He doesn’t even know which one of them threw themself at the other first. Rodimus’ empty cube clattered to the ground, he slammed Prowl against the shelf, all the cheap ingredients rattled on top. A jar fell from the top, cushioned only by the cold hard ground. They both jumped– a loving, passionate pair might have laughed and giggled, but they were neither of those things, so they just looked at it blankly, then back to each other.
Rodimus tore the apron off of himself, but Prowl only rolled his over to the side, letting it cover his thigh whole relieving his panel. Being this up close with Prowl, Rodimus was starting to realize just how bad of an idea this really was. Prowl was a handsome mech, sure, when he wasn’t covered in collant sweat and sticky grease. He also frowned a lot, it made him look older– plus all the stress… It was Rodimus’ biggest fear that this job was going to run him down. He was born for greatness, does no one see?
Prowl pinches Rodimus' hip, chewing on the burning butt of his cy-garette „Break’s almost over,”
Rodimus yipped, bucking his hips. He felt that pinch way under his panels „Fine,”
And he was enthusiastic, he really was, it’s been a while since he’s had some action– those crazy hours he works don’t really allow for a lot of mingling. His choices are… limited. Rodimus grabs Prowl’s cy-garette, takes a drag, then crushes it under his pede, staining the already stained floor. He held in his bleh of disgust– he hates the taste of those things, he vastly prefers the electric variants. But he doesn’t want to look uncool, even if it’s just Prowl– not that Prowl found it impressive, judging from his… unimpressed glare. To distract him from the loss of his cyber-nicotine, Rodimus presses up against Prowl, kissing him with smoke still sputtering out the corners of his mouth.
They both take out their spikes. Rodimus’ pops out proud and mostly hard, slapping against Prowl’s thigh. Prowl’s comes out fairly unaroused, only erect enough to have peeked out of the sheath.
Rodimus smirked at it „Aww, need a little encouragement?”
Prowl grabbed Rodimus by his spiky helm and shoved him on his knees. Rodimus went “ouch” and “clank” and “what the hell”, squinting up at Prowl angrily from below. His kneecaps now dug into scorched cy-garette ash.
„Suck it,” Prowl said in that same tone he uses on the line-cooks when they’re slow, and Rodimus, while throwing a look of pure disbelief at him, obeyed nonetheless. Prowl sucked in a breath, shocked at the warmth, and his spike jumped, the bored pressurizing mechanism springing up lazily. The plating shells of his spike flare out, pulsing against the inside of Rodimus’ mouth.
His hand curls on top of Rodimus’ helm, fingers running through the spikes of his forehead chevron and the circular vents above the back of his neck.
Rodimus gagged, flattening his glossa under the spike’s weight. Prowl’s spike, like the rest of him, was covered in sweat, having spent the last few hours sweltering under those panels, collecting heat and grime. Prowl smelled like an overheating video game console below the apron, if said console was dunked in oil and tar and grease and covered in flavourful metal shavings.
Despite that, Rodimus just clogged his olfactory sensor and sucked sloppily, bobbing his head back and forth on Prowl’s lap, lips shiny with oral lubricant. Prowl was frowning again, but not in anger– his brow ridge, below his chevron, was curved in on his nose in concentration. He was starting to grow flushed, constantly reaching up to his mouth like he wanted to take a drag, but his cy-garette was crushed under Rodimus, so he could only cover up his lips as he panted.
He came relatively quickly, probably because he knew he had to get back to the kitchen soon. He didn’t warn Rodimus, who already naively assumed he was only doing this to get Prowl’s dick hard, and the poor mech choked on thick transfluid in his surprise.
„Fuck,” Rodimus said when he pulled back, swallowing thickly as the web of fluids connecting him to Prowl’s spike snaps and slaps against his chin „Dude, what the hell,”
„My break’s over,” Prowl mumbled, wiping his transfluid off with the apron. He started to weasel out from in between Rodimus and the shelf, and Rodimus barely recovered fast enough to grab him by the arm and pull him off the door-handle.
„Hey, you can’t just leave” Rodimus looked down at his own hard spike, still begging for attention. Prowl can’t be for real. He pressed him back against the same shelf „What the hell, Prowl, we’re not done,”
„We are done, I have to be back in the kitchen,” Prowl said, and if he could, he’d have made a show out of checking his internal chronometer, perhaps if his clock device was somewhere handy like on his wrist or in his pocket. But it wasn’t. So he just stared blankly at Rodimus, who still wasn’t letting go.
„You were just gonna leave me here?”
„You still have ten minutes of your break left. I assume someone taught you how to take care of business by yourself,”
„You really are an asshole,” Rodimus rolled his optics „Come on, you have to finish me off,”
He bucked his hips, his spike slipping under the dirty apron. He hoped Prowl would cave, but the cold mech just pushed him away, gave him a look of disbelief, and ran away from the pantry before Rodimus could’ve said anything. Primus, no wonder that guy doesn’t get laid.
Groaning, he slams himself into a shelf and wraps a hand around his spike.