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Jazz has never once regretted his relationship with Prowl, no matter how fragged-up the start of it was; but let it never be said that he wasn’t currently run a bit ragged by it.
Prowl was… well, he’s wonderful, in Jazz’s expert, Black Ops, not-at-all-biased opinion, but in the last few breems he’s been… different. Not quite a bad different, but not quite a good one, and not exactly different enough to warrant Jazz disturbing Ratchet and asking for his help. Ratchet has his servos full as it is, and he shudders to think what Prowl might say if he found out Jazz had tempted Ratchet into pulling rank just to get Prowl into the medbay.
Yeah. Jazz values his spark, thank you very much.
The point was that Prowl has been quite demanding as of late. Which is great, in Jazz’s opinion, and would have stayed just great if it had been Prowl’s usual when it came to their relationship. But it wasn’t. Prowl was stand-offish on a good day, especially around the rest of the crew, and Jazz was fine with that. He loved being able to wrap his arms around Prowl from behind, nuzzle his neck cabling and hear his cooling fans fight to turn off, and even more than that he adored being able to give Prowl a little smile from across the room and watch his doorwings tremble while he schooled his face into submission. It was how they worked, and Jazz was more than happy to keep their affection private. Mostly private, anyway.
Prowl was, at this current moment, however, utterly flummoxing him.
“I mean, Jack, it’s like- I dunno, mech, I think I might be losing my mind. Am I losing it? I don’t wanna go ask Ratchet to poke around in my processor, but I think I might be hallucinating.” Jazz glances at Wheeljack for help, almost desperate, as he tries not to stare openly at Prowl, who is behind the other mech, across the room, seated at another booth with Red Alert and Optimus Prime, and looking at Jazz over his shoulder with far more heat in his optics than Jazz would expect while Prowl is seated beside his superior officer.
Wheeljack shrugs, tapping one digit against his cube of energon. Jazz tries not to feel offended by the way the other mech’s lips clearly struggle not to quirk upwards. “Jazz, if Prowl being a bit more affectionate with you is making you so concerned, why don’t you just talk to him?”
“Because it’s Prowl,” Jazz argues, voice low. “He’s like- like- like a flight risk! If I mention something and he gets embarrassed, poof! He’s gone! I’ll never get an answer to anything ever again!”
Wheeljack levels him with a displeased, irritable look. “Jazz. You know he’s your mate, right? You can bring up whatever you like with him. I’ve seen you two talk about interface in front of me before.”
“That was last breem, Wheeljack, and it wasn’t about us interfacing, it was about Sideswipe,” Jazz defends, “Plus, Prowl has been weirdly comfortable about that stuff for the past few breems. So it’s right in the middle of evidence of Prowl being not right in the processor!” He drops his helm into his servos, groaning.
“Then you ask Ratchet,” Wheeljack responds, “Or even wait until we land on Cybertron and try to find some other medic to take a look. Come on, Jazz, it’s not like he’s struggling, what’s wrong with you? Afraid you might hafta share ‘im?”
Jazz lifts his head and growls, baring his dentae. If there was anything he hated the idea of, it was ‘sharing’ Prowl with any other Unicron-slagged mech. Prowl was his, and he was Prowl’s, and-
“Woah, mech, I was only jokin’,” Wheeljack expresses, raising a servo to placate him. “Sorry, poor taste… ahem… uh, why don’t you just talk to him, Jazz..? I’m sure it won’t be as bad as you think. If he’s being more affectionate with you, then maybe that’s a good sign. Did you ever stop and think about that?”
Jazz pauses, pursing his lips. “Er… no… but come on, Jackie, it’s like he’s got a virus or something. An interface virus. I love it as much as any other mech, but Primus, I think I might have blown a gasket last orn when he-”
“Aaaand that’s enough of that,” Wheeljack interrupts quickly, kicking Jazz underneath the table. “All I need to say is that you’re worried for literally no reason, Jazz, so you either talk to him or Ratchet, or let it go. Easy solution.”
Jazz is a General on this ship. He is a Black Ops agent, living in the grey and working in the dark. He’s offlined hundreds of ‘Cons and become a rather formidable face on this ship and in the army as a whole.
He’s pretty sure he’d rather stuff his face with synthen than go and ask Ratchet to find out why his partner suddenly wanted to frag him three times a cycle.
“Right,” he mutters, glancing behind Wheeljack to see Prowl sipping at some energon, doorwings fluttering behind him. “I’ll just… go ask Ratchet.”
The medbay was perhaps one of Jazz’s least favourite places to go purely because of the Hatchet within. He’s got nothing against Ratchet - except maybe that one time when he had a wrench tossed at his helm just for asking an innocent question - but Primus, did the medic make for a pretty damn intimidating crewmate on a good day.
Jazz pushes the alert button at the front of the medbay doors, shifting on his pedes. If Ratchet is busy, he’ll just turn around and head back down the bridge. Maybe it had been stupid to head this way anyway. If Prowl was in any danger, Jazz would have known by now, and if he wasn’t in any danger there was no use alerting Ratchet. Yeah, this was- this was stupid, he should-
The medbay doors slide open and Ratchet stands right there, both servos holding onto his belt armour. “Right. Out with it.”
“Uhhh,” Jazz says intelligently, “I was just leaving.”
Ratchet rolls his optics so hard it looks like it hurts. “Don’t waste my time, I can hear your spark thudding from here. What is it? Did Sideswipe and Sunstreaker get stuck somewhere? You got a virus? If you’ve tracked something through this ship after a mission, Jazz, I swear I will reformat you-”
“No, none of that!” Jazz interrupts rather unwisely, shaking his head. “Uh, no. Nothing so urgent. I just… I wanted to come and ask you about Prowl.”
Ratchet’s demeanour changes, and Jazz only notices because of how clued-in he is to others, being a special ops agent. Ratchet was always difficult to read, but every mech had tells; Ratchet’s shifting digits on his armour was enough to spell out unease. “Yeah? What about ‘im?”
Jazz glances across the bridge. It was empty right now, but any mech could just walk by and hear what he had to say. He was already running a risk coming to Ratchet at all; Prowl would probably throw an impressive fit if he knew what Jazz was doing, let alone if he heard it from some other mech who had happened to eavesdrop. “Let’s go inside the medbay. Is it free?”
Ratchet grunts, turning and walking inside. Jazz follows. “My office sure is.”
Jazz passes through the medbay and nods to First Aid, who looks both surprised to see him and suspicious about his presence. He supposes that’s fair. Jazz isn’t known for his eagerness to head to the medbay, and First Aid, as far as he knew, took it a bit personally when they first met. He’s a sweet bot. Jazz has no idea how Ratchet handles working side-by-side with him. Or rather, vice versa.
“There,” Ratchet says as his office doors slide closed. “Privacy. Now, what’s wrong with the Commander?”
Jazz’s protoform itches with both discomfort and a bit of embarrassment. “Okay, first you have t’promise not to shoot me. Or throw something at me.” Again, he silently adds.
Ratchet’s optical ridges furrow with suspicion. “Uh huh. I’ll be the judge a’that.”
Jazz swallows. This had definitely been a mistake. Talking to Ratchet, of all mechs, about Prowl’s slagging libido? And how worrying it was? He was being such a total idiot!
“Mech, if you don’t spit it out I’m gonna wring it out of you for wasting my time!” Ratchet snaps.
“Prowl’s got some sorta interface bug!!” Jazz yelps, the words startled right out of him. “Alright?!”
Ratchet stares at him, optics wide. A few nanokliks pass before he grunts, “I need a drink.”
Jazz watches as the medic goes to the cabinet behind his desk and produces two cubes of high-grade. Grateful, Jazz takes the cube he’s offered, taking a whiff of it and resisting a cringe. Primus, Ratchet liked this stuff strong…
“Alright, Jazz, why do you think Prowl has an ‘interface bug’ and why the frag is it my problem?” Ratchet asks after taking a long drink.
Jazz sighs, swirling the contents of the cube. “Well, it started a few breems ago. Maybe three..? It’s fuzzy. Y’know Prowl, he’s our Commander - tough, all-business, makes sure everything gets done. I think Optimus would be lost without him. Slag, we all would, he’s amazing at what he does, you know? He’s-”
“The point, Jazz,” Ratchet growls, “Get to it.”
“Right,” Jazz amends, taking a sip of his high-grade. Primus, that burnt. He takes another sip. “Prowl’s been bothering me for interfacing way more than usual. Which I don’t mind, to be clear! I love it! But, uh, it’s definitely starting to grate on the fuel reserves… and he’s never been like this before, see? He’s always been real reserved about getting chummy around anyone else, but just last breem we were talkin’ about Sides getting it on and teasing him about it, and Prowl joined in! Like it was nothing! I don’t think I’ve ever seen the twins shocked into silence, and I was too surprised to even enjoy it!”
Ratchet takes another deep drink from his cube, almost polishing it all off. “Jazz, I understand this might be hard to believe, but sometimes mechs just get horny.”
“I’m not a sparkling, Ratchet, I know that,” Jazz bit back against his better judgement. Thankfully, Ratchet didn’t reach for a wrench. “But Prowl ain’t like that. He’s still himself, sure, but he’s refuelling way more because we interface so much more often, and he really likes getting to see my spark, and it’s special and lovely and all that, it really is! But…” Jazz glances away. “It’s like something’s bothering him. Like he’s uncomfortable if he doesn’t interface. Y’know..? I can’t help but wonder if something might be wrong.”
Ratchet peers at Jazz for a few sparkbeats too long to be comfortable. Jazz fights the urge to fidget, sucking on his dentae and trying not to speak.
“You say he’s refuelling more?” Ratchet asks, peering at Jazz with all the perception the medic really shouldn’t have, in his opinion.
“Yeah,” Jazz confirms, flaring his doorwings. “And, you know, I tire ‘im out after interfacing and he recharges for like, joors. It’s not normal!”
“Hmm,” Ratchet says, and pours himself another glass of high-grade.
“Mmm- Prowler, I- ahh..” Jazz shivers as he’s backed up against the washracks’ wall, his leg struts feeling a lot like jelly. “Don’t you got work to do..?”
“It can wait,” Prowl responds, voice infuriatingly steady as he nibbles his way up Jazz’s neck cabling. “I’ve got something more important right here.”
He’s lost it, Jazz thinks, processor spinning as he holds onto Prowl’s shoulder plating, the sensation of those clever, insistent lips on his cabling making him shiver. He’s lost his slagging mind, and it’s all because of my spike. I’ve broken him.
“Unless you… don’t want to,” Prowl suddenly says, leaning back a little bit as if he might have been burnt.
Jazz’s spark sank suddenly. “Oh, no, Prowl, you- no! I wanna keep going, sweetspark, sorry, I… I just got a bit lost in my processor. M’sorry.” Way to frag it up, mech! Prowl looked devastated. Jazz had never seen him look like that before.
Prowl’s doorwings flickered, once again far more expressive than Jazz had seen them before the last three breems. Usually he kept them under such tight control; once again, Jazz is sure something had made that change. “If you say so, Jazz. But I don’t want to push you.”
“Sweetspark, you aren’t pushing me anywhere I don’t wanna go,” Jazz reassures him, cupping his cheek with one servo. Prowl leans into it, nuzzling his nasal ridge into Jazz’s palm. Jazz’s spark threatens to leap from its chamber at the very sight. Primus, when did Prowl get so tender…?
“You’re sure…?” Prowl asks, a tentative sort of feeling entering his EM field. Jazz was so used to Prowl keeping his field unreadably close to his frame that he almost misses it; but the brush of emotion is unmistakable, and Jazz feels his spark leap as he pushes back with his own feelings of reassurance, field wrapping around them both.
He takes Prowl by the waist and flips them effortlessly, pressing Prowl up against the wall. Jazz’s engine rumbles when he hears Prowl let out a choked-off moan as his doorwings flare open.
“Prowler, I have never been more sure in my life.”
Prowl’s doorwings flutter prettily again, and Jazz lets his worries disappear. If he could do something right in his life, it was make his mate feel good when he wanted it. Not that it was exactly a hardship for Jazz to want it, too.
His servos at Prowl’s waist, Jazz can only stroke lovingly as he kisses his mate deep and passionate. Prowl practically lights up underneath him; he’s twisting, pawing, grabbing at Jazz’s chassis and reaching around to the back where he knows there’s a sensitive little spot at the base of Jazz’s backstrut, and a full-frame tremble rockets through him when Prowl finds it.
Jazz can only retaliate with action. He nuzzles into Prowl’s neck cabling again, leaving dents in the soft metal with his dentae, and kisses his way up to Prowl’s chevron because he loves that pointy red metal way too much. If the way Prowl’s vents click open when Jazz mouths at it is any indication, Prowl loves it, too. All Jazz does is kiss over his helm and down back to his lips, servos sliding over Prowl’s waist and up his sensitive abdomen, feeling over the interlocking metal armour, and Prowl keens. He throws his head back, knocking it against the wall, and cries out into the washracks like he can’t control his vocaliser.
Primus, but Jazz loves him.
Whether this is some virus or just Prowl throwing caution to the wind for once, Jazz doesn’t care, because he looks so slagging beautiful when he lets go.
“Love you, Prowler,” Jazz whispers, unable to doubt how his words will land for once. “Love you so much, you don’t even know… you’re perfect, you know that?”
Prowl’s only response is to dig his digits into Jazz’s plating even more, the creak of denting metal obvious in his audials. Jazz doesn’t care. He bites over Prowl’s lower lip, kissing him as deeply as he wants, and Prowl surges against him with all the delight Jazz loves. It’s just glossa and dentae for a few beats, a wrestle of control that Jazz loses more often than he wins, but Prowl relents easily this time. He gives in, parting his lips and letting Jazz in, and Jazz doesn’t waste the opportunity. He explores, pushing his glossa into Prowl’s mouth, slick and delightfully hot.
Prowl pushes at him eventually, murmuring something Jazz can’t hear, but he gets the hint just fine. The last few breems, Prowl has wanted a select few things in the same order each time they interface, and Jazz, once again, isn’t wasting the opportunity.
He’s dropped to his knee pads and nuzzling at Prowl’s heated panelling, flaring his doorwings all invitingly, when there’s a bang just behind the wall and the unmistakable sounds of pedesteps. Jazz barely has time to whip his head around before he hears;
“Ah, slag it- in HERE? Holy Primus, Sunny, get over here, they’re ‘facing in the washracks!!”
Jazz sighs, letting out a long, weathered exvent. Trust Sideswipe to barge in when uninvited, but he should have known they wouldn’t get the privacy.
He glances up at Prowl as he struggles to his pedes, warmth still suffused all over his plating. He’s always worried about Prowl’s perception when they’re seen doing anything in public - even just touching servos. This is on a whole different level. Sure, most of the crew know about their relationship, but it’s different altogether for them to see it.
Instead of being bristly or at the very least embarrassed like Jazz expects, Prowl’s face is very much not embarrassed. He’s got a little, almost cheeky smile on his face, and Jazz feels something like pride in Prowl’s field before it disappears from his senses.
He helps Prowl out of the washracks, chuckling awkwardly. “Sorry, Prowler. Shoulda remembered this was the public washracks, not my hab.”
“Pity,” Prowl rumbles, reaching over to caress Jazz’s face. “I was so looking forward to them hearing you scream while you overloaded.”
Jazz does his best not to fall over, and only half-succeeds because he smacks his helm into the wall so hard that he cracks his visor.
Jazz knows he isn’t going insane alone, at least, because it’s Ironhide that comes up to him a few cycles later and says he can’t find Jazz’s polishing cloth.
“Eh?” Jazz looks at Ironhide, quirking an optic ridge under his visor. “They should be on my office desk, Ironhide, they ain’t hard t’find.”
“M’ telling you, they’re not there,” Ironhide grouses. “I could find it if your office didn’t look like it was hit by a slagging missile.”
“No need to be so rude about it,” Jazz retorts, but he hops to his pedes to head to his office regardless. Ironhide had been heading down that corridor on the command deck, so he’d asked for him to just slip by and grab the cloth while he went past. Should’ve been an easy job if Ironhide had optics, which clearly he doesn’t, because-
“Huh,” Jazz grunts, servos on his hips. “Well, I guess he wasn’t blind.”
Jazz likes to keep his office cluttered. Well, ‘dirty’ would be the way Prowl puts it, but Jazz knows he secretly likes all the trinkets Jazz keeps. Jazz likes filling his shelves and keeping his office almost homely. It isn’t his habsuite, but he spends most of his time in his office anyway, so it may as well be home. It’s an ordered clutter, in Jazz’s opinion, because he knows where everything is and it isn’t so crowded he can’t move.
It currently looks like a solar storm has swept through the room.
His trinkets are shifted, not exactly strewn about but definitely moved and placed back haphazardly. His plush office chair is missing its pillow, his couch pillows are in fact all missing, and his drawers are still open. Cleaning cloths for his visor and frame are suspiciously absent. His favourite blanket to use when the ship’s heating breaks has also disappeared.
“The frag..?” Jazz growls, scanning the room. There’s nowhere to hide this stuff, and whoever has taken it is definitely long gone if Ironhide had seen this earlier.
>>Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, could you give me your location?<< He sends through comms, suspicion already blooming.
The answer is instant. >>Sure, Jazz-o, what’s up? Need somethin’?<< The message is followed by a location ping, way below decks.
>>Sideswipe, did either of you decide to rifle through my office? I’m going to give you one chance to answer honestly before I call up Red Alert to put you AND Sunstreaker on deck duty.<<
>>Absolutely not! We ain’t been on the command deck in ages! Trust us, you can ask for the camera footage!<<
Yes, the camera footage. Jazz forgot all about that. Although he’s tempted to ask, it could be overreacting for just a few missing items that aren’t exactly much to miss. Except maybe that nice blanket.
>>Alright, Sideswipe, I’ll believe you. But you better not be lying or it’s double shifts.<<
>>Yes, sir!<<
On any other day, being called ‘sir’ by one of the twins would set Jazz on edge. As it is today, he’s just a little tired and a lot of confused, so he lets it slide and disconnects their comm link.
If it wasn’t the twins, he can’t think of anyone else who might upturn his entire office just to steal some random items. It’s also unlike the twins to just take and not leave anything behind; their style of prank is usually explosive. This, so far, is harmless. Jazz casts a wary glance above the doorway. Yeah, harmless.
>>Hey, Prowler.<< He sends another comm, feeling warmth suffuse his frame as he thinks of his mate.
>>Yes, Jazz?<<
Jazz smiles, the stern, familiar voice all-too calming to his senses. >>You got some time to say hi to little ol’ me?<<
The pause on the other end is noticeably long. Jazz frowns. >>Prowler?<<
>>Apologies, Jazz. I am preoccupied with work.<<
The line disconnects from Prowl’s side, and Jazz makes a confused noise. Right. So Prowl doesn’t want to talk. It’s almost him being his usual self, if Jazz is honest, but there was an undercurrent of an emotion he hadn’t expected to ever feel from Prowler over comms - embarrassment. Nothing prompted it, at least from what Jazz could tell; he didn’t mention anything other than just saying hello. Unless…
“Ah,” Jazz realises, turning on his pedes to head down the command deck.
Prowl’s habsuite is absolutely covered in soft things from top to fragging bottom.
There are piles of blankets on the ground. There are pillows propped up against shelves. His berth is practically a nest of both, with Jazz’s favourite fluffy blanket right in the fragging centre, manoeuvred to be like a big wide bowl with a big Prowl-sized dip in the middle. Jazz’s cleaning cloths, all fragging eight of the ones he owns, are lined up neatly on the desk in a row of undetermined sorting.
“Right,” he murmurs, absolutely lost. “Okay.”
Prowl has given him the access codes to his habsuite only recently. Jazz is grateful he’s trusted with them, but he certainly didn’t imagine the first time he used them without Prowl present would be for this. It’s like he’s discovered some sort of secret without understanding what exactly it is - why would Prowl, Commander-in-chief and Second only to Optimus Prime, need to steal blankets? And by the looks of it, he’s stolen pillows and blankets from the common hall, too. They’re everywhere!
>>Uh, Bossbot?<< Jazz comms, deciding to bite the metaphorical bullet, >>Do you have a free moment?<<
Optimus Prime is always busy, but he answers in a few nanokliks. >>Yes, Jazz, I can make a moment for you. Is something wrong?<<
>>Meet me at Prowl’s hab, please. While he’s still in his office, preferably.<<
Jazz walks inside tentatively, scanning the room from top to bottom. Blankets and pillows absolutely everywhere. He doesn’t want to move anything, because clearly Prowl has done this for a reason. Whatever that reason is, it’s absolutely beyond Jazz’s processor, because Prowl is hardly the type to like soft things at all. He’s always told Jazz that his blankets and pillows are unnecessary, that Prowl himself likes things minimalistic and clean and bland. Now there’s… this. Whether Prowl has had some sudden change of spark or has been knocked too hard in the processor, Jazz can’t say, but he’s worried it may be the latter.
“Jazz?” Optimus’s faceplates appear around the side of the hab doors, staring into the habsuite. “Is something the- oh.”
Jazz turns, servos on his hips. “Yeah. Oh. I think Prowl’s officially lost it.”
Optimus, to his credit, doesn’t laugh or jump to any conclusions. He just walks inside, ducking under the doorway, and looks around. He sees the same thing Jazz sees, which is some sort of consolation, because he’d thought he might be reading too deeply into Prowl’s changed behaviour; but this confirms he isn’t hallucinating, at least.
“So whaddya think?” Jazz finally asks when he can’t take the silence. “It’s weird, right? Prowl’s being weird. I mean, he took these from the common hall! And these are my cleaning cloths! All of them!! I thought I had this one on me!”
Optimus gives the desk and the cloths lined up on it a quick scan. “Hmm. Jazz, I must be honest, although this is a bit of a strange change of behaviour from Commander Prowl, it’s nothing I would be all too worried about. It hardly seems dangerous.”
Primus, is Jazz the only one who finds this even a little bit worrying? He feels like he’s missing something very important. Like there’s something he’s staring right in the face and it’s taunting him because he can’t see it. It’s almost like how he feels when Mirage is making a face at him from where he can’t see it, except this makes him nervous, not annoyed. It’s some sort of eighth sense or something along those lines, because Jazz can’t shake the fact that something is wrong.
“Jazz.” Optimus places a servo on his shoulder, offering a kind smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Talk to Prowl if it’s worrying you. I’m sure if you approach the subject gently, then he will be more than amicable to your concerns.”
“Yeah…” Jazz murmurs, doorwings wiggling restlessly. “I’ll try that. Thanks, Bossbot. You’re the best!”
It’s half-hearted, and by the look in his optics, Optimus knows it. But he doesn’t push. He pauses, nods, and then turns away to head out the door.
Jazz should do the same, he knows, so he makes his getaway before Prowl can come back and catch him in here. Once again, he feels like he’s missing something; some glaring fact that would put all the pieces together and finally make a full picture. Whatever it is he’s missing, it’s lost once he closes the habsuite doors, and Jazz can’t dwell on it. He has a job to do.
With the countless joors Jazz has spent ruminating on various ways to get Prowl into the medbay without spooking him, it’s no wonder that he doesn’t actually have to bring it up at all. That’s usually how his luck goes. He’s worried himself ragged about Prowl’s behaviour, which has continued to change throughout the last few cycles, and he’s just about ready to take this by the horns - or rather, the sharp red chevron - when the subject is broached for him.
“Uhg,” Prowl grunts from behind him.
Jazz frowns, tilting his head to glance just over his shoulder, where the Praxian is seated. They’re in the command room, reviewing the ship’s flight paths, functions, and fuel levels before their next vortex jump, and Jazz basically forgets what they were doing. “Prowler? You alright?”
Prowl’s doorwings are flat-out, unmoving, which was his usual before the last few cycles, but now it just looks uncomfortable. “Fine, Jazz. Just some discomfort.”
He’s been running himself ragged. Jazz knows Prowl works harder than pretty much everyone, being Second-in-Command and damn good at his job as Commander, and he doesn’t like taking breaks. He’s been sore around the neck cabling from leaning over. He’s been struggling to rest unless they have a good frag and Jazz tires him out enough. Jazz even caught him looking a bit pale the other cycle, but he didn’t dare bring it up in front of the other officers. Prowl’s pride has always been his defining trait, and Jazz has never once undermined it; but right then he almost wishes he did, because Prowl’s health has seemed a little rocky. As much as his new penchant for stealing blankets and washcloths is amusing, his sickly complexion and restless recharge cycles are not.
“...Alright,” Jazz murmurs, turning back to his desk. The screen in front of him showing the ship’s flight path means nothing to him; all he can think about is Prowl’s discomfort and obvious confusion. Something feels wrong. Jazz can’t feel his mate’s field, that cautious control of his keeping a distance between them, and he wishes he could just-
A soft clink. Prowl’s moved, metal-on-metal.
Jazz turns a little bit in his chair, looking. Prowl’s got a servo on his chest plating, digits tapping the centre. His doorwings are quivering, up-down, up-down. Jazz feels sick.
Prowl, in all his infuriatingly calm glory, says; “My spark feels weird.”
Jazz nearly falls out of his chair. “Your WHAT?!”
Thank Primus for Ratchet, because the moment Jazz drags Prowl through the medbay doors, he’s there to hook Prowl up to a scanner without a word of query. Maybe it’s because Jazz looks so urgent, or maybe it’s because Prowl actually isn’t complaining, but Ratchet doesn’t ask. He just gestures to a medbay berth and rolls over a scanning machine of some sort.
“Primus, Prowl, why didn’t you say it was this bad?” Jazz fusses, helping his mate onto the medberth. “If your spark was hurting, you needed to go to Ratchet!”
“Believe it or not, Jazz, I don’t make a habit of ignoring sparkache,” Prowl bit back, ever the feisty mech. “It’s the first time it’s hurt like this. I wouldn’t ignore any grating danger to my health.”
Jazz has reason to doubt that, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut.
Ratchet, however, does not. “You’ve been feeling odd for far too long to be normal, and it took Jazz dragging you here to get this checked out. Somehow I doubt that.”
Prowl’s doorwings flare and twitch irritably, but he doesn’t bite back. He just watches as Ratchet plugs in with a cable, scanning his processor for any damage, and Jazz reaches out to take Prowl’s other servo. Prowl stares at the contact almost like he wasn’t expecting it, but squeezes back, welcoming it.
“Just glad you’re okay, Prowler,” Jazz manages to say, a vent of relief leaving him. “I’ve been worried the last few breems. You ain’t been yourself.”
Prowl actually looks a bit chastened at that, or perhaps embarrassed, ducking his head and avoiding Jazz’s gaze. “I was a bit… embarrassed… about consuming more fuel and feeling so tired. It’s not good for someone at my level of Command to slack off.”
“Hey, everyone needs breaks sometimes,” Jazz tries, aiming for soothing but clearly coming out worried, if Prowl’s guilty expression is any indication. “Prowl, listen to me. I don’t mind if you need to refuel every slagging joor, alright? You stealing blankets from my office doesn’t bother me either. I just want you to be okay.”
“You noticed the blankets were from your office?” Prowl asks, wincing.
Jazz smiles, all sweetness. “Prowler, babe, you turned my office upside down. I woulda noticed even if I hadn’t seen the glorified nest in your hab.”
“If you’re quite finished,” Ratchet grunts, “Congratulations are in order. Prowl’s sparked.”
Jazz wonders if he might have slipped into a dream, because Ratchet is smiling and he just said-
“Wait, I- come again?” Jazz wheezes, trying to tamp down any excitement. “What did you say?”
“I said,” Ratchet grunts, “Congratulations, you two. Prowl’s sparked.”
It’s the missing puzzle piece. Suddenly there’s a picture. It looks like Prowl with a sparkling on his hip and Jazz at the other side, maybe another one in his arms. There’s the crew around them, looking proud and delighted. There’s a home, too, all quaint and small and with a garden with crystal flowers, the ones with the sharp blue petals Prowl pretends not to like, but still has one on his habsuite shelf above his bed from one of Jazz’s missions. In the picture, they’ve got them all over their garden, and their sparklings love them, too.
“We’re having a sparkling?!” Jazz practically yells, excitement bursting through his lines. “Prowler, you beautiful, amazing, oh Prowler, did you hear that?! We’re- Prowl?”
Prowl is staring into space, utterly still. Jazz knows the way Prowl looks when he’s shocked, and he’s intimately aware of how rarely Prowl is ever caught off-guard. He’s a planner. A strategist. He doesn’t just like to know plans, he has to - and this is definitely unplanned.
Prowl tips forward and lurches to the side of the medberth.
“Slag!” Jazz yelps, lurching forward to catch him right as Ratchet yells, “He’s crashing! Catch him!”
Thankfully, Jazz does catch him, and manages to rearrange Prowl on the berth. He’s quivering ever so slightly, pawing at Jazz and grabbing him so hard he can hear metal creak.
“Hey, Prowler, it’s alright,” Jazz hums, soft music reverberating from his chassis. “Babe, you’re okay. You’re sparked! That’s great news, Prowl… isn’t it?”
It hadn’t occurred to Jazz that Prowl might not want a sparkling. They haven’t really spoken about it. In hindsight, it’s an idiotic non-decision, but Jazz has learnt to admit his faults and confront his mistakes when it comes to Prowl. He values him too much to just shove a mistake under a berth and let it fester. He wants him and Prowl to work, so he’s got to as well.
“Prowler, if you don’t wanna keep it, it’s alright, you just tell me,” Jazz says, stroking Prowl’s wrist joint with his free servo. “We can talk about it, babe, it’s your frame. I’ll support you. I love you, remember?”
Ratchet lifts one digit and opens his mouth, looking uncharacteristically wary, but Prowl beats him to it. He digs in his fingers, the metal of Jazz’s arm plating creaking with protest, and fixes Jazz with a sharp, familiarly dangerous look.
“I’m not getting rid of our sparkling,” Prowl rumbles, engine revving viciously. “I’m keeping him.”
“Yeah?” Jazz can’t help but light up, even if his arm plating is sore. “Oh, Prowl, you’re gonna be a great carrier. M’sorry I didn’t notice sooner. I should’ve been there for you, I should’ve helped-”
“You did,” Prowl murmurs, quieter, softer, and he lets go of Jazz’s arm plating. He stares at the dents he made, mournfully rubbing his digits over the marks. “You made me feel safe. I don’t know how I didn’t notice. I just thought I might have been overworking myself again, maybe craving some odd things but- it felt explainable…” Prowl’s faceplates shutter, his field crackling with conflicted emotions. “Jazz, we’re having a sparkling. I don’t know the first thing about being a carrier! We’re on a warship, Jazz, how am I going to do this?!”
“I’ll always keep you safe, Prowler, you know me. You won’t be alone,” Jazz says, engine rumbling into a soothing gear. “You’re gonna do great. You’ll be the perfect carrier and I’ll be right here to help. Trust me. And if this little guy is anything like his amazing sire, he’ll help you out too! Ya hear me little guy?” Jazz leaned over and spoke into Prowl’s closed sparkchamber. “Make it nice and easy for your carrier, alright mister?”
Prowl’s field shimmers with some relief amongst the anxiety as he lets out a static-filled chuckle. “Jazz, he’s still a sparklet. He can’t hear you.”
“Eh, principle that counts,” Jazz responds, taking Prowl’s servos in his and squeezing. “You’re gonna do just fine, Prowl. You’re gonna do great. I’ll be right here with you every slagging step of the way. I promise.”
Clearing his intake, Ratchet waves the portable scanner at them. “If you’re quite finished… spark signature’s at a good level. I’m happy. Prowl, I won’t place you on full medical leave just yet, but your work joors are gonna be limited. Jazz.”
Jazz nods and gives a mock salute. “Keep ‘im from overworking. You got it, medbot.”
Ratchet snorts. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”
Prowl’s raised doorwings and pinched expression speak to how difficult getting him to stay away from work is going to be, but Jazz thinks he can do it just fine. He’ll at least have an easier time than Ratchet.
“And I gotta ask. He?” Ratchet inquires, raising an optic ridge.
Prowl presses a servo to his sparkchamber again, a little smile on his faceplates. “I can tell,” he murmurs, tapping one digit against a seam. “Just a feeling.”
Jazz can’t help it. He flings his arms around Prowl, tugging him into a hug and a deep, passionate kiss. Prowl allows it, his engine purring as loud as a jet on takeoff, and Jazz nearly melts when Prowl takes his servo, guides it upward, and settles Jazz’s digits over his sparkchamber.
If Jazz really concentrates, he thinks he can feel a soft, second energy signature, pulsing not far underneath.
“Prowl’s sparked?!”
“No way! Wait, since when?!”
“Congratulations!”
“Commander’s carrying?! Sunny, get the engex! WAIT he can’t drink it, get something else!! What’s carrier-friendly?!”
“We’re gonna have a little Jazz running around with a battle computer in his processor. We’re doomed.”
Jazz forces out a smile at their crew, glancing at Prowl beside him. His doorwings are tense, ever-so-slightly quivering, and he looks tired, but Prowl wanted to tell the crew himself. Jazz won’t take that away from him, no matter how exhausted his mate looks. It feels like instinct to want to herd him away from all the voices and clamouring servos reaching for him. Jazz refrains, grinning and bearing it. It isn’t too hard, really, because everyone’s actually happy for them and Jazz, well - Jazz couldn’t be happier with the news, either.
“Give him some room, for Pits’ sake!” Ratchet snaps, shouldering his way through the crowd. Everyone but Sideswipe and Sunstreaker have the grace to look guilty. “Crowding a new carrier, honestly… it’s like none of you ever took a single sparkmerging class. Now get back to work!”
The small crowd disperses, and Jazz casts Ratchet a grateful look. Ratchet pretends not to notice, but Jazz knows he’s smiling a little when he turns his back. For all his Hatchet reputation, the medic is actually a little bit sweet. Maybe it’s all the time he’s been spending with Wheeljack rubbing off on him. Primus knows Wheeljack is easier to talk to.
“Jazz. Prowl.” Optimus Prime bends to their height, reaching out and placing one servo on each of their shoulders. “I’m proud of you both. I know it won’t be easy. I know there may be doubts. But I for one am very, very happy to hear the news.”
Jazz grins up at Optimus, delighted. “Thanks, Bossbot. I know it ain’t the best timing an’ all, and I don’t know if everyone’s gonna be quite so thrilled, but we couldn’t be happier. Hey Prowl?”
Prowl looks a little sick, but however small his smile is, it’s genuine. “Thank you for your blessing, Optimus.”
“I only hope you ask me to be on spark-sitting duty,” Optimus says, returning to his full height and puffing out his chest. “I was quite good with sparklings before the war, you know.”
Jazz laughs. “Sure, I’ll keep that in mind. It’s great to know that we have someone we can count on.”
“You can count on every mech here,” Optimus says, his tone serious. “There isn’t a single mech on this ship who won’t help you. Remember that.”
He’s looking at Prowl when he says it, and Jazz knows why. All that hardened, independent, battle-computer energy is used to roughing it alone. Prowl doesn’t like accepting help, even from Jazz, and only recently have they been managing to make headway with that. It’s undoubtedly true that Prowl is going to want to weather most of his carriage alone.
To Jazz’s delighted surprise, Prowl just nods. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. This crew is my family. It’s about time I acted like I knew that.”
“A sparkling,” Jazz murmurs, optics wide. “I’m still wrapping my processor around it. I think I’ll make a great sire. I’ll teach him to be all sneaky, like me - he’ll probably be even better than me before he’s fully grown! He’ll have your processor, Prowl, I’m sure of it; he’ll be the most talented mech ever!”
“I’m sure you’re right, Jazz,” Prowl murmurs, arms crossed over his chest.
Jazz frowns, locking the habsuite doors and heading over to his mate. “Prowl..? You alright?”
He takes Prowl’s servos in his, coaxing him to open up, and he does, letting Jazz kiss the tops of his servos. His doorwings flicker open and closed. “I’m fine, Jazz. Just… worried, I suppose. I don’t know if I’m the best mech for the job.”
Jazz smiles a little. “Prowler, this ain’t a job, it’s carrying. You’ll do great… sure, maybe not amazing at the start, but you’ll learn to be a great carrier. No mech just knows how to be a great carrier right at the start! You think I know howta be a sire? Not at all! But I’m gonna learn! Right alongside you, okay..?”
Prowl backs up and seats himself on the edge of the massive nest of blankets and pillows, a tentative smile on his face. “I don’t know how you have so much faith in me.”
“Because I love you.” Jazz kisses Prowl’s cheek plating, then the other, dropping his servos to cup his helm. “You’ve always believed in me, Prowler. It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t believe in you, too. I know you’ll be a great carrier, and I know it’ll be hard to get there; but slag it, Prowler, we’ve got a little one on the way! I ain’t about t’dwell on the bad. I’m gonna become the best sire ever.”
Prowl chuckles, electromagnetic field blossoming with warmth. “Jazz, it isn’t a competition.”
“M’gonna be the best anyway,” Jazz confirms, kissing all over Prowl’s faceplates until he hears that telltale squeak of his doorwing joints. “I wanna do it right. We’ll do it right.”
“Mmm. We will.” Prowl nuzzles him back, all sweetness and love, and then murmurs, “I love you, Jazz.”
It’s always such a rare thing that it makes Jazz positively glow when Prowl says it. Three words, so rarely heard, making it all the more special. He’s about to say it back, just that I love you, but what comes out instead is; “Perform the Conjunx Ritus with me.”
Prowl’s optics cycle wide as Jazz pulls back, shocked at his own words.
“Er, I mean, you know, we’ve got Prime here to bless it and there’s plenty witnesses… sorry, uh, if you don’t wanna then-”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Prowl murmurs, tugging Jazz down for another kiss, this one hot and messy and full of longing. It’s perfect, it’s warm, and Prowl’s engine is rumbling into the next gear while his doorwings flutter so beautifully, and Jazz can’t resist just reaching out and grabbing.
Prowl jerks, gasping, his vents clicking open. Jazz smirks. An easy victory, and maybe it counts as playing dirty, but his Prowler loves when Jazz plays dirty. It shows, because Prowl grasps for Jazz’s hips and tugs him right into the nest of blankets, on top of him. Jazz throws his own doorwings out to stabilise and stop himself from falling over, and Prowl, smug fragger that he is, reaches for them. Jazz couldn’t have held back the moan that rips from his intake if he even wanted to try.
“So gorgeous,” Prowl whispers, and Jazz is sure he’s somehow offlined and ended up in the Well. “You’re gorgeous, Jazz.”
This is going to be one crazy Act of Intimacy for our Ritus, Jazz thinks, before bending down to kiss Prowl stupid.
He’s always been a great kisser, but Prowl has nuance. Prowl likes specific things. He likes Jazz to be gentle, then rough, then gentle again; he enjoys when Jazz sucks on his lower lip and scrapes his glossa with his dentae, making the kisses messy. Prowl isn’t a conquest. Jazz doesn’t kiss him like he’s rushing to the end of an overload - he kisses Prowl because he enjoys it even more than the overloads, because Prowl’s kisses mean the world to Jazz. This time, on top of Jazz’s favourite fluffy blanket in Prowl’s carrier nest, Jazz isn’t just kissing to show Prowl love. He’s kissing Prowl to show he loves both of them. His family. His Prowl and his sparklet, still clinging to his mate’s source of life.
“Jazz?” Prowl whispers against his lips, dragging both thumbs over his cheeks. “Oh, Jazz…”
It’s only when Prowl reaches up and unclips his visor that Jazz realises he’s been crying. Coolant runs tracks down his cheeks, and he chuckles, soft and sweet.
“Sorry, love. It’s- it’s really amazing. You’re you, Prowl, but it’s not just you. You’ve got our little one right here…” Jazz flattens one servo over Prowl’s sparkchamber, feeling the warmth there. “Oh, Prowl, I love you.”
“Come on, let’s get more comfortable,” Prowl says, and tugs Jazz up and into the nest of bedding. It’s a bit of a scramble, but they manage it, and once they’re situated, Prowl’s sparkchamber clicks and slides open.
Jazz freezes, staring down at his chest like it might shutter closed again without warning. He’s not sure what to do - carriers are always so sensitive about their sparkchambers. But, he supposes, he’s never met a carrier that was his before. Prowl trusts him. Jazz is the sire. He’s got a little one growing in there.
“You’re so bright, Prowl,” Jazz whispers, scooting over him and hovering there, staring into the chamber. Golden wisps of light caress his servos as he grips Prowl’s chest plating, optics wide and trained on the light within. “Where is he..?”
“You won’t be able to see him yet,” Prowl whispers, the moment so intimate it aches. “But I can feel him. One day, you’ll be able to see. One day soon.”
Jazz kisses him, unable to think of what to say back. Prowl doesn’t seem to mind, kissing right back with a hum of approval, taking Jazz’s servos in his own and guiding them to where he wants them most. One at his helm. The other at his hip.
“I don’t think I should have to ask you, Jazz, but I’m going to anyway,” Prowl says, “But I want you to frag me. Now, preferably.”
“You can say please, y’know, Prowler,” Jazz teases, even as his spark lurches in his chest. Primus, he’ll always love when Prowl asks for interfacing. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you, love.”
“I know,” Prowl murmurs, propping himself up on both arms so he can watch as Jazz trails one servo over a hip seam, close and intimate, and shivers as Jazz’s fingers pass over the panel between his legs. “Jazz. I’m not in a patient mood,” he warns.
Jazz shudders, charge arching through him at those words. “Sorry.” He doesn’t really mean it, and Prowl clearly knows it, but Jazz doesn’t push his luck. He taps at Prowl’s panel, warmth already hazy around it, and with a quiet snik of metal, Prowl opens his array.
He’s always been gorgeous. Jazz loves everything about Prowl’s frame, but frag, his valve might be his favourite part. Pale grey protomesh already plump and faintly tinted purple, blinking biolights along the interior valvelips that are basically a guiding landing strip to his flashing red anterior node. Jazz loves that little node.
“Jazz, if you keep staring- ah!”
Jazz pushes two digits against Prowl’s valvelips, smearing lubricant over that soft, sensitive mesh. “I’d never leave you needy, Prowler,” he purrs, all sickly-sweet niceties, “I’ve got you, love. You need someone to fill you up, dontcha? Can only be satisfied by me, cause I’m your sire. Aren’t I?”
Prowl shudders, his entire frame quivering. He grits his dentae hard enough for Jazz to hear a squeak, and he chuckles, shuffling down, second servo on Prowl’s hip plating and stroking over a seam when he whispers, “Come on, Prowl. Aren’t I?”
“Yes,” Prowl grits out, puffing out a breath of steam. “Jazz… more.”
Although he feels inclined to make Prowl wait a bit longer, Jazz thinks he knows better than to irritate a new carrier, let alone his new carrier. He ducks his head and slides his glossa over Prowl’s soaked valvelips, two digits still petting what he doesn’t reach with his mouth, and pushes them in.
Prowl arches, crying out, his entire frame shaking. Jazz pushes with his other servo, feeling over that hip seam and where metal meets joint meets hidden protoform, and keeps thrusting the two digits inside Prowl’s valve.
He’s tight, constricting heat, and Jazz wants him around his spike - but not yet. He pushes until he can feel that ribbed ceiling node inside, where grouped-up node clusters make Prowl cry out, backstrut bowing. Jazz adds to the pleasure with a suck around his anterior node, glossa sliding over wet protomesh, and he feels as Prowl jerks, clawing at the blankets, and overloads into Jazz’s mouth. Hot, sticky transfluid gushes over his faceplates, and Jazz doesn’t move, suckling on that lovely sensitive node and curling his digits to coax as much as he can from Prowl’s frame, wrought with pleasure. His field is like a safety net, crackling with arousal and pleasure and desire, and Jazz, thankfully, knows he isn’t done.
Prowl pushes him lightly, servos on his helm, and Jazz finally pulls back. He licks his lips, sucks on the digits that were inside Prowl, and revels in the shiver of arousal he feels in the air. Prowl watches him, interested and eager. Jazz puts on a show for him, lapping and sucking and giving a little moan of delight. It’s really no hardship; eating Prowl out is perhaps the best thing he’s ever learnt he was allowed to do.
“That’s one way to do the first act of Conjunx Ritus,” Prowl finally gasps out, coming down enough from his high to speak.
“Yeah, well, we’ve never been known to do things in halves,” Jazz responds, grinning. “What about your Act of Intimacy?”
He thinks he might not have made a wise decision to say that when Prowl fixes him with a look so predatory Jazz feels his tanks drop. Then he doesn’t have it in him to care because Prowl pounces, tossing Jazz onto his back in the nest.
“You’re far too chatty for my tastes,” Prowl rumbles, pressing both servos onto Jazz’s shoulders as he situates himself in his lap, straddling his hips. “Although you’re lucky I love the sound of your voice.”
Jazz might have said something stupid if Prowl didn’t grasp his spike in one servo. He isn’t sure when his panelling opened - probably somewhere between when he got his mouth on Prowl’s valve and now - but he doesn’t have it in him to care. Prowl’s digits on his spike are warm, clever, and insistent, and Prowl approaches his touches like he does his work; efficient, determined, and at every angle.
“Oh, Prowler,” Jazz gasps, bucking his hips - or trying to, but Prowl is seated on them, keeping him flat against the blankets. “F-frag, m’not gonna last…”
“Oh, you will,” Prowl rumbles dangerously, engine giving a pointed rev. “Your transfluid is for the sparklet, you won’t be wasting it.”
Yeah, Jazz thinks, processor spinning. He’s lost his mind. Jazz wouldn’t have it any other way.
Prowl tugs on his spike a few times, rubbing his thumb over the tip and dipping into the small opening there, making Jazz writhe and yell. He only lets up when prefluid is dripping down his spike, gathering in the interlocking metal and sliding over Prowl’s fingers. Jazz is begging, babbling out nonsense he forgets the moment it leaves his mouth, and Prowl looks smug as anything. He’s gorgeous. He’s perfect, is what he is, and Jazz tells him so. Prowl’s field shimmers and his face lights up, so Jazz tells him again.
“You’re perfect,” Jazz whispers, again and again, digging his servos into Prowl’s hip plating, stroking seams and pushing fingers up and underneath armour plating to get at the protoform underneath. “You’re perfect, Prowler. The perfect carrier, the perfect mate, you’ll be the perfect conjunx, babe, I love you, I love you-”
He breaks off into a wail as Prowl lifts his hips and sinks down, his quivering valve tight and hot and perfect around Jazz’s spike. He won’t last long, he knows it, and he tries to choke the words out, but Prowl hushes him and starts to roll his hips.
All Jazz knows is heat. It’s searing, it’s all-encompassing, it’s breathtaking. Prowl’s sparkchamber is still open, golden light seeping from between the cracks, brushing over Jazz’s frame and disappearing underneath his plating. He knows not to open his own sparkchamber, because another sparkbond now would be dangerous at this stage of the sparklet’s development, but Jazz is tempted. He only manages not to because Prowl twists his hips in a way that makes his processor go blank.
“M’gonna- frag!” Jazz gasps, choking on his words. “Oh, Prowler, babe, keep doing that..!”
He should be doing the work, he thinks. He reaches out for Prowl’s neglected spike, weeping prefluid, but Prowl swats his servo away with a warning rev of his engine. Jazz feels his spark tighten at the sight. Prowl is the one carrying and he’s riding Jazz, making most of the effort, exhausting himself; but when Jazz tries again and puts his servos on Prowl’s abdomen to try and flip them, Prowl snarls, engine blazing, so Jazz leaves well alone. It isn’t a loss; he’s on the edge of his release, entire frame quivering with charge, and he can feel Prowl’s arousal in their meshing fields, crackling and shivering and making Jazz dizzy.
“Come on, Jazz,” Prowl purrs, lifting and dropping down again, twisting his hips and making Jazz yell. “Overload for me, my love. My everything.”
Jazz’s vision goes white, his HUD flashing warnings he’s never even seen before, and feels Prowl’s valve tighten down on him, calipers rippling as he’s thrown into his overload at the same time.
By some blessing, Jazz doesn’t crash, and he manages to catch Prowl as he sags over him, exhausted. Coolant drips from him, overexertion palpable, and again Jazz thinks that he should have taken over. It doesn’t do anything good to dwell on it. He just kisses all over Prowl’s faceplates, rubbing one chevron point between his fingers, caressing up and down Prowl’s aching backstrut with the other servo. Prowl is purring, engine running easy and low, and Jazz has never loved anyone more.
“You really outdid yourself there, Prowler,” Jazz murmurs, chuckling a little. “I should be the one taking care of you, you know.”
“Mmm,” Prowl murmurs, sounding like disagreement, but Jazz can’t be sure.
They lay there for a while, Jazz still inside Prowl, until finally Prowl makes the decision to separate them. Jazz lets him, wincing only a little as he pulls out, sticky transfluid and copious amounts of lubricant washing over the piled-up blankets. He’ll have to give those a good wash. For now, though, Prowl looks exhausted, and Jazz isn’t going to deprive him of a good rest just so he can go and throw the blankets into the washracks.
Jazz does get up to retrieve some fuel, though - or tries to, because he’s promptly dragged right back into the nest by a very insistent carrier.
“Don’t you dare go anywhere,” Prowl practically growls in Jazz’s audial, making his spike give a valiantly interested twitch.
“Sorry, sorry,” Jazz murmurs, flustered. “I won’t. I’m here, Prowler. C’mon, you’re overdue for a good recharge. I won’t go anywhere.”
“You better not,” Prowl grumbles, settling into the blankets and kicking away the dirty section, nuzzling into a pillow. It’s adorable, is what it is, and Jazz discreetly takes a few pictures and hides those somewhere in his quick access. Prowl letting his guard down was such a special, sweet thing, and Jazz never wants to miss when it happens.
He curls around Prowl, helm-to-helm, one leg pushed between his and an arm thrown over his abdomen. Prowl’s sparkchamber is closed now, but Jazz can practically feel the thrumming, vibrating power beneath, the creation of new life occurring right in front of him. Life that is one part Prowler, one part him, and the idea is so dizzying that Jazz has to dig in his fingers to avoid feeling like he’s flying into space.
“I’ve got you, Prowler,” he whispers, their lips practically touching. Prowl hums his assent, but doesn’t give any more indication that he’s actually awake; he’s still, his venting slow, and he looks as peaceful as Jazz has ever seen him.
“I ain’t giving you up for the world,” Jazz whispers. “Not even slagging Unicron could take you from me, y’hear? I’ve got you, Prowler. You’ve got me. We’re gonna have this sparkling, we’ll win the war, and we’ll get a cute little home by that lake you told me about. We’ll have crystal flowers in our garden. We’ll have a perfect little family and invite Optimus over for fuel. Imagine what the neighbours will think, seeing a Prime show up..!”
He trails off, watching Prowl’s breathing. Slow, steady, and calm.
Jazz nuzzles him, protective instinct rushing through his lines. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Prowler. You or our bitlet. I swear.”
It doesn’t matter that Prowl can’t hear; Jazz knows that Prowl believes him already. It’s not just a promise, but a vow, etched in his energon and part of who Jazz has sworn to be; a general, a lover, a conjunx, and a sire.
He falls into recharge with one servo on Prowl’s hip and the other on his sparkchamber, listening to the steady thump-thump-thump ing of both of them made one.