Firearm Safety

[heliopauseentertainments]

This happened because no one stopped me.

Rating: General
Continuity: IDW1
Relationship: Megatron/Prowl
Characters: Megatron & Prowl
Warnings: Arranged marriage
Notes: They're both aroace for the purposes of this fic.

Summary: In which Prowl decides the perfect place for a gun is the gun safe. That gun is Megatron.

Crossposting: Tumblr | AO3 | Pillowfort

Fic under cut.

Punching in the combination to the apartment’s gun safe, Prowl knew he ought not do this. While not technically illegal, it would have been highly frowned upon if anyone started asking questions. That didn’t bother him terribly much, especially given who it was exactly he had in his hand. He had already started work on a grand lie to tell if need be, but with his processor so overworked from lack of recharge, he had yet to finish it. He hadn’t gotten past the weak opener that Megatron was last seen preparing to go on a fishing trip. That wouldn’t have flown on its own. He needed more and his processor was too fried to come up with anything better.

Megatron didn’t even like fishing.

Grasped tightly by a small inhibitor claw, Megatron snoozed peacefully, unaware of what was coming.

It was his own fault for brazenly choosing to sleep in his tiny alt-mode anyway.

All Prowl had to do was pick him up out of the drawer he liked recharging in, slap the claw on, and throw him in. The universe would be far safer for it, but more importantly, Prowl wouldn’t have to hear him snoring.

How did a handgun even snore in the first place? What was there to snore with? And, worst of all, why did he sound like a broken chainsaw?

How was Prowl expected to get any sleep like this? Was this some ploy to drive him slowly insane via recharge deprivation? For the past couple of months, he’d been struggling to focus on some of his projects at the office; his optics kept fritzing out while going over reports, making reading and analysis an absolute chore.

Nevertheless, he had gotten this far. All that was left was to throw him in and close the safe. Easy. Then it would be done.

In an ideal situation, Megatron would come to his senses and change his habits—or at least see a medic about that Primus-forsaken snoring—but in a worst case scenario where he didn’t repent and slowly starved in the safe, Prowl could live with the consequences. Either way, Prowl would win: no snoring.

Besides, the blasters and other weapons in the safe were useless to someone with no hands and Megatron wouldn’t be transforming with that inhibitor claw clamped in place.

“Prowl, there’s been a change in the peace treaty negotiations.”

He could still hear Optimus’ words several months ago in his processor. The fatal words that preceded the news that he was to be given to the Decepticons via a political union. A fancy exchange of hostages. Sure, Starscream had been exchanged the other way, but he didn’t care about Starscream’s opinions and comfort. At least Optimus was a kind, caring mech… who didn’t snore.

Prowl had been handed over to Megatron before the proverbial ink had even dried. At least the bastard had kept his filthy—metaphorically, as he had noticed the warlord washed his hands regularly and surprisingly often—murderous hands to himself.

The other upside was that Prowl’s new posting in Kaon as Chief of Security did allow him to throw himself into his work, helping wrangle the rowdy Cons into a semblance of order. It was easier than he had expected, but it appeared that they had already become accustomed to a rather heavy-handed bureaucracy.

It hadn’t been that bad of a deal, all the things considered. The only real cost had been Prowl’s dignity, what little of it he had after the War, and having to live in the same apartment as Megatron. They had separate rooms, ignored one another amicably when they were both home, and he’d been allowed to come and go as he pleased. They really only had to coordinate for filing taxes and the rare shared public appearance where they awkwardly stood next to each other without actually touching. In fact, holding Megatron in his hand like this was the most physical contact they had ever had that hadn’t been part of wartime combat or an accidental brush of elbows.

It could have been much worse, a point driven home whenever Prowl saw Starscream enthusiastically hanging onto Prime’s arm for photo ops.

All in all, Prowl thought, staring down at the slumbering pistol in his hand, it hadn’t been nearly as terrible as he’d originally expected. Megatron minded his own business, spending almost all of his time at home either reading or cleaning their already well-organized apartment. Luckily, neither of them cared for small talk. The most communicating that happened was Megatron occasionally cursing about being rained on and that wasn’t even directed at Prowl. The only moments of conflict had been when Prowl had first arrived and immediately protested the expectation of intimacy, an expectation apparently unique to Prowl. Megatron had simply pointed to the room that had clearly been meant for Prowl and promptly stalked off, muttering something under his breath about “filthy-minded Autobots.”

That lack of conflict had probably been what had lulled Megatron into a false sense of security that he would be safe to sleep in an unlocked drawer, padded with cushions and gun-case foam for barrel support.

Prowl swore under his breath and slammed the safe shut, Megatron still in his hand. The pistol jerked awake with a shout in the security officer’s grasp, unable to really move beyond twitching.

“What’s happening‽ Prowl!”

Ah, yes, waking up functionally paralyzed would probably be quite shocking. Oh well, no rush on turning the warlord loose. He’d live.

“Release me this instant!”

As much as Prowl hated to admit it, Megatron hadn’t really earned “starving alone in a dark box,” at least not as far as being a conjunx was concerned. Not yet. Maybe later. They’d see how the first anniversary went. Neither of them really wanted nor needed affection, so Prowl really had no cause to say he was being treated with undue frigidity.

However, war crimes, for which, in Prowl’s expert opinion, Megatron did deserve getting tossed in the box, were problems that they had been forbidden from addressing, per the treaty. He sighed, reaching out with his free hand to lightly pat the weapon’s muzzle.

“You snore like a jackhammer,” he said, making sure that he kept a note of exhausted boredom in his voice. “It’s stopping me from recharging and beginning to affect my work.”

“Excuse me?”

“So, unless you’d like to go on a fishing trip, I’d suggest you mitigate that somehow. Sound canceling foam. Remove your vocalizer. Check your muzzle for partial blockages, I don’t know, but you’re driving me binary.”