Enjoy the Silence
After a battle gone horribly wrong, Prowl feels the weight of guilt pressing down on him, and is hard pressed to find comfort within the maelstrom of his thoughts.

Just a little something to introduce myself with. I actually interrupted the writing of another piece to get this one written down, so that'll be up once I finish it. I hope you all enjoy this, and leave a review if you get the chance!

-I don't own the concept of Transformers, nor the song by Depeche Mode, that this story was named after.
-There are no warnings for this story, save for a few mentions and implications.

Sometimes, the most comfort comes from silence, and the actions preformed under it.

He'd had enough.

The talk amongst the crew he could handle or ignore. To a degree, anyways. He'd always been the subject of a certain degree of disdain for the crew, it was nothing new.

It was the guilt that had him this time. It was his fault. It was only the latest loss in a string of bad turns in the war. The Decepticons had somehow managed to hack into their secure battle communications lines, and had used it to their advantage with deadly effect. The death toll was higher than any figures he had previously calculated, and he only blamed himself.

The information that the scouts and Special Operations teams had reported to him was all correct. Even the Black Ops and deep cover agents had given him promising intel. He'd planned accordingly, and had formulated several back up plans. All the regular precautions had been taken, codes changed, comm line routing reorganized, and the command codes and lines re-encrypted. He thought they would be enough. They should have been enough. But they weren't. It was a freak disaster, in a way.

But it was the last weld in the hull for him.

Prowl had had enough.

He raised his gun slowly, knowing that the bullet he fired would find it's mark. His hand was steady, even as it's muzzle reached optic level and his finger squeezed the trigger.

The target drone's helm split in half almost perfectly.

As much as he wished he could relish in the small victory over the training drone, it did little to stifle the incessant protests in his processor about how many parts of that battle had gone wrong, how many of those failures were his fault. How he should have responded in ways that could have saved more lives. That he should have had a contingency plan already in place for a hack like that, how that should have been common sense.

How he should have by all means been among the deactivated.

He fired again and again, bullets all finding their marks without fault. He continued firing until the clip was empty, then reloaded it and continued firing, this time clutching it with both hands. He shot at the drones relentlessly, feeling the more dangerous, angry emotions rise to the surface of his processor. His spark was conflicted between wanting to continue on in his admittedly destructive behavior as a means of release, and a deep rooted desire to just stop everything and have a breakdown, to just keen in dispair and collapse.

The more violent approach won out.

He continued firing until the next clip ran out, before tossing the empty acid pellet gun to the table before him with disgust. He reached down and snatched the larger Scatter Blaster, intent on making a larger mark on his targets this time. He raised the weapon in his hands, a slight snarl overcoming his features as he lined up the sights with his intended victim.

Before he could fire however, a larger red hand placed itself on his weapon, pressing slightly until he lowered it. He felt the blaster gently pulled from his hands, not bothering to look at whoever was now next to him. He knew who they were anyways, he needn't look to confirm it. As soon as the blaster was taken from him though, a huge Plasma Cannon was pressed into his hands by a pair of larger still black ones.

This time he raised the cannon to brace against his shoulder unimpeded, and fired.

Part of his processor noticed that the two mechs took up positions on either side of him at the firing range taking up their own weapons, but he didn't pause in his firing. He was too caught up in the feel of the cannon's kickback against his shoulder, the blast of sound in his audios with every shot taken. It was therapeutic in a way. It was loud. It was powerful. It was destructive.

And Prowl was in control of every time that weapon fired.

He was in control again.

The weapons fire continued for some time, the only pauses from any of the three mechs to reload a weapon. None of them spoke; none of them glanced at each other, none of them touched. Each had their own space, a status quo, and there was no need for it to change, nor a desire for it to. There were guns in their hands, and ammo in the guns, so there was no need to disturb each other.

After a time though, Prowl stepped back, the cannon lowering from its long occupied ready position. He let it hang in his hands, feeling the weight of it slowly stretch the now tight cables in his arms and shoulders. His doorwings could still pick up the echoing vibrations of fired bullets, pinging gently off and across their surface plating. The silent sound waves bounced off of the walls and softened before reaching drooping doorwings, having an affect similar to that of white noise for audios.

Slowly, he thumbed on the safety switch, before setting the cannon carefully on the table. Meticulously, he began disassembling the firearm, cleaning it as his silent companions fired their last rounds. Then, the black and red pairs of hands found themselves also dismantling weaponry on the table on either side of his own station. Nothing was spoken, but tools were passed between them as if on unspoken ques.

Finally it was just Prowl's hands moving, securing the last piece of plating back on the cannon. He stood still for a moment, fingertips resting on the gun's surface. After a breem or so, he finally picked the gun up before depositing it back in its owner's black hands. He turned slightly to regard both mechs, who now stood next to each other.

"Thank you." He said simply, leaving the reason merely implied.

Ironhide merely grunted lightly as he placed his cannon back in his subspace. His optics though never left Prowl, constantly darting over the tactician's frame, taking in the subtle differences that would show he had completely calmed.

"It was nothing." Ratchet replied just as simply, standing with his arms crossed. His optics watched just as critically, if not more. He'd held off all medical scans, simply choosing to let the tactician's own judgment suffice when it came to his health for the moment. He'd come to Ratchet as a medic when he was good and ready; for now he was just a concerned mech.

Ironhide looked at the second in command a moment longer, before pointing behind himself with his thumb. "You ready?"

"Yes, I just need to stop at the command center first." Prowl said almost tiredly, subspacing his remaining weapons.

Eying him critically for a moment longer, Ratchet swept a hand towards the door indicating he go first.

The black and white mech led them out of the firing range and into the corridor. Ironhide and Ratchet flanked him closely, effectively taking up most of the hallway and looking for the entire world like overprotective bodyguards. They were in a way, Prowl supposed. Not that he deserved them, though. Then as if he'd heard the tactician's self-depreciating thought, Ironhide clapped a hand on his shoulder twice, before letting it drop back to his side and growled at the poor bot that happened to be passing by them.

They swept into the command center, Ironhide and Ratchet stopping shortly inside the doors as Prowl continued on to the command terminal. He ignored the whispers that started up as he walked, head and wings held high. Nodding at Jazz, the current shift's supervising officer, as he came to stand before the terminal. Inputting his officer's codes, plugged in a few commands, and left without a word.

Walking back to where the two stood, he gave Ratchet and Ironhide a nod, indicating he was done and they could leave. They turned back into the hall, the two larger mechs retaking their earlier formation, this time with the outermost making the decisions on which turns to make. After a moment, Prowl realized they were heading toward Ratchet's quarters.

It was a good thing then that he took himself off the duty roster for the next day. He doubted that he'd feel up to an early shift after tonight. Ratchet and Ironhide's special brand of therapy usually involved several cubes of high grade, and the stronger stuff was in the medic's room.

The thought was just enough to make a corner of Prowl's lip plates turn up slightly.

It was enough.

I wanted to show a mix of an almost parental, familial relationship and friendship between Ratchet, Ironhide, and Prowl; and also to try writing a group of characters that I don't often center my reading and writing around, meaning Ratchet and Ironhide. Any input on what you thought on either of those points would be welcome.
I think that I actually got the idea for this story from a prompt or plot bunny somewhere online, but I haven't been able to find it anywhere in my records. It had something to do with comforting someone and silence, so if anyone sees it, a link would be much appreciated.

-BloodySpook