Chapter Text
"I want you in my Cabinet."
The statement was unexpected. It was so unexpected that Prowl's tacnet stuttered upon hearing it and he had to let it reorient itself before he could speak. "I am not qualified for a position in the Prime's cabinet. Only nobles and designated specialists may hold those seats."
"I don't know any of the nobles. I know you. I trust you," insisted Ori—not Orion, Optimus now. The Lord Prime of Cybertron. Prowl still could hardly believe it. The mech who stood before him now in the tall strong frame of a Prime was the same nosey archivist who'd tailed him on cases and asked far too many questions.
"And you are qualified," Optimus continued. His new voice was slower, deeper, but it still held the earnest honesty of Orion Pax. "As an enforcer and a detective, you've solved crimes thought to be unsolvable. You've done so much good here. You can do even more good in a higher position—Minister of Finance is what I have in mind, it's too often abused by its appointee."
That was true. It was also true that Prowl DID have the capacity for that function. Numbers were his specialty, and financial systems were exactly the kind of complex puzzle he liked solving. But Optimus had failed to see the most important truth.
"Cabinet positions are subject to Senate approval. They will never allow a non-noble to take a seat in your inner circle, much less an enforcer with no experience managing finances." Prowl said it without emotion. It was not injustice, it was fact.
Optimus had never been good at facing facts. "I'll persuade them," He promised. "Your record speaks for itself. Please at least consider it?"
Internally, Prowl sighed. "If the Senate approves my appointment, I will accept the position as your Minister of Finance."
Optimus had left happy.
He was less happy when he returned a week later. Prowl had expected him sooner; he must have been very stubborn with his arguing.
"Did the Senate approve of me?" Prowl asked, already knowing the answer.
Optimus shook his head. "They… said you were not qualified."
"Mm-hmm."
"They said only nobles are permitted to hold Cabinet positions, and an enforcer was not suited to the task."
"Mm-hmm."
"I am sorry."
"Don't be. This outcome was almost guaranteed." 99.998%, to be precise. As close to guaranteed as real life ever came. Optimus had only disappointed himself, not Prowl.
The Lord Prime did not leave, however. He straightened up as if bracing himself for battle. "I have a different proposal for you."
He presented a sheaf of gold foil to Prowl, its imprinted letters glittering under the light. Prowl looked at it. And at Optimus. And back at the foil.
This… was even less expected.
"That is an invitiation to become First Consort to the Lord Prime." Prowl gave Optimus a questioning look.
"Don't misunderstand!" Optimus said hastily. "I'm not attracted to you at all—"
Were Prowl a different mech, he would have taken offense.
"—this is simply a workaround. A consort's duties, by most contracts, are to serve the Lord Prime in whatever way the Prime deems best. The Senate can't control what I ask of my consorts; If I say you serve me best by reviewing financial records and rewriting policies, they can't complain."
That… was true. The function of consort was purposely open-ended so the acting Prime could define what they wanted. Optimus could give him access to every record in the government, every bot in power. With the right kind of (puppetable) bot in the Finance seat, Prowl could hold the position in all but name and the Senate would have no legal recourse.
"They will complain anyway," Prowl said, optics dimming as his tacnet wove calculations. "Openly defying the Senate like this will only create resistance and hinder your goals in the long run."
Optimus's shoulders slumped. Briefly. Until Prowl took the golden invitaiton from his hand.
"This operation must be done discreetly. All official suggestions must come from you and appear to be your ideas alone. I must be seen as a mere companion, not a mech with actual power." Prowl paused. "And you will need to periodically feign attraction. Bots will grow suspicious otherwise. Can you manage that?"
Optimus brightened. "I can if you can."
Prowl lowered himself into an elegant bow. "I shall tender my resignation at once. And then I shall be fully at your service, Lord Prime."
The new Prime taking a former colleague as his First Consort did not surprise many. It was common for Primes and often seen as romantic, an old friend elevated by love.
Everyone who knew Prowl personally was baffled. Rumors flew, most of them unkind.
Prowl ignored them. Or rather, he catalogued them as he did every other rumor (gossip was an excellent source of information) and marked anything about his personal nature as unimportant. It did not distract him from his work.
His new chambers were large, luxurious, and most importantly quiet. No one was allowed into the consorts' wing except their personal attendants and the Prime himself. Prowl could work uninterrupted, without anyone moving his files or bothering him with trivial matters.
He had never been so productive.
"And… why do you need last vorn's economic reports?" the archivist asked.
I'm preparing to audit every noble house in Iacon for suspected tax evasion. That was the real reason, the reason for which Optimus had given Prowl the approval slip. Marked with the seal of the Prime, it gave him unambiguous permission to take any records he pleased. That slip should have been all the archivist needed, but bots often tried to butt further into business than their function allowed. So Prowl provided a decoy reason.
"The Lord Prime is visiting me tonight," he said with a coquettish flutter of his doorwings. "He likes …numbers."
The archivist asked no further questions. Not on that visit or any subsequent one. As expected.