Chapter Text
Jazz was irritable. It wasn’t a condition he often found himself in, even after a mission he was less irritable and more paranoid, more aware of his surroundings.
Part of it was, he knew, was lack of sleep. He and Ironhide returned from Polyhex, only the day before. By the time his reports were filed, his optic shutters were drooping, threatening to do what he clearly too stupid to do on his own. Then he went to bed, only to find that recharge was avoiding him.
Not cool.
It wasn’t post mission paranoia, they’d been helping Polyhex set up their own enforcer post, something he’d been thrilled to do. He was originally from Polyhex, and was glad to see it thriving post war. Well, maybe not thriving, they cybertronian population hadn’t yet recuperated from the war enough for ‘thriving’, per se, but it was large enough to need enforcers, and that was a start.
He sighed, and pinged the lift for the top level. He’d been skulking in his office long enough, it was time to meet the Prime’s sparkling. Prowl, he corrected himself. He and Ironhide had been in Poly when his birth was announced to the general population, but of course, he’d known Elita One was carrying.
And the data feeds. ALL the data feeds. Pick any one and all you’d find were pictures of the little one. Jazz grinned despite his mood. The sparkling looked pure Praxian. Elita’s kin hailed from both Crystal City and Praxus, and Jazz felt that her latent Praxian CNA had waited to show itself at the just the right time to make Optimus miserable. Prowl strongly favored Elita’s Grand-Carrier, who strongly disapproved of Orion Pax, the dock worker, and deemed Optimus Prime, the leader of their entire civilization “a slight improvement.”
Jazz grinned. His spark still felt weird, spinning all over the place, but his mood improved. He’d been Prime’s second in command since the beginning of the war, and one thing he’d learned was that Prime needed a little torment in his life. It was good for him, built character and all. And clearly, Primus agreed.
Ironhide was waiting for him at the top of the lift. “I’m not going in alone.”
Jazz arched an optic ridge.
“I’m not. The place could be crawling with femmes. And Ratchet. It could be crawling with Ratchet, too.”
Ironhide was facing the lift. Jazz looked past his shoulder and helpfully pointed out “Well, it’s definitely not crawling with Ratchet, he’s just a little ways up the corridor.”
“Frag. I’m due for maintenance.”
“Suck it up, yer a warrior. You can take him.”
Ironhide barked a laugh, but followed Jazz gamely up the hall. The red and white medic fell in step with them, and the look he shot Ironhide over Jazz’s head said he’d NOT forgotten about a certain old mech with rusty gears that needed an exam. He then turned to Jazz with a somewhat evil grin and said, “Feeling ok, Jazz?”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“Not too likely to take damage training a bunch of rookies, doc.”
“True. You know, Elita was telling me earlier that Prowl has been fussy since the last day cycle. That’s odd for him, he’s been a very quiet sparkling.”
Ratchet was giving Jazz a look that suggested Jazz might know why Prowl was fussy, and still kind of grinning in that disturbingly cheerful way. It was…scary. He glanced at Ironhide, and got a shrug, zero help there, and decided it was safer to be prudent than brave. Jazz fell behind a step and came up on Ironhide’s right side, putting the warrior between himself and Ratchet.
Ironhide took one look at his new circumstances and unceremoniously grabbed the first piece of convenient kibble and dragged Jazz right back into the middle. Traitorous tin can.
Ratchet laughed, and Jazz was surprised that no lightening struck the officer’s barracks of the Prime’s residence.
It hadn’t taken that long to get to Prime’s quarters, it was right at the end of the corridor, but Jazz was glad to see the door. He didn’t care if the place was crawling with roving packs of marauding femmes, they wouldn’t be as terrifying as the CMO.
His entry ping was answered immediately, and he stepped inside. The place was comfortable and lived in, and gave the few remaining nobles on Cybertron fits. It wasn’t grand enough for a Prime, according to everyone, and it wasn’t even any bigger than the other officer housing on the floor. Jazz grinned again, OP was many things, grandiose wasn’t one of them. The company room was tastefully decorated, by Sunstreaker, with art created by Sunstreaker. The only piece of art Prime had prior to moving into this suite was a velvet painting from their time on Earth. Sunstreaker told Optimus that if he even thought of hanging it where anyone could see it, that he would defect. And since the war was over, he was perfectly fine with inventing a new faction to defect to.
As a result there were beautiful landscapes hanging on the walls, and Sunstreaker was still an autobot.
Jazz didn’t care about any of those things. He’d said hi to the room in general, Optimus, Elita, and Firestar. He was vaguely aware of Ironhide telling Optimus that Prowl looked like he was the milkman’s kid, and he kinda heard Optimus asking what was a milkman, but most of his focus had zeroed in on what had to be the most adorable sparkling in the universe.
Prowl was sitting on Firestar’s lap. Jazz could easily see the budding of a ruby red chevron, and his color was all the way in, black and white in opposite of Jazz’s own. And, he looked annoyed. The sparkling’s face was devoid of emotion, but his winglets were hiked as far up on his back as he could get them, and his ice blue optics were glaring daggers at Firestar.
Jazz immediately decided that Prowl was a genius sparkling.
Prowl turned to fast Jazz so fast that if Firestar hadn’t had a good hold on him he would have fallen. One look was all it took. Prowl leaned forward as far as he could, his little arms outstretched, reaching. Jazz scooped him up, more comfortable holding a sparkling than he ever thought he would be. Prowl, for his part simply laid his head in the crook of Jazz’s shoulder, put his arm around Jazz’s neck, and promptly went to sleep.
Elita grabbed Jazz’s audial firmly, and said in a voice that brooked no argument, “You are staying HERE tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jazz made his way to the couch and settled down, snuggling the small form in his arms, completely unaware of the thunderstruck silence around him. He could feel his spark settling, no longer whirling like a top that had been spun too hard. And, he could feel, through the thin armor over Prowl’s chest, the sparkling’s spark settling and pulsing in time to his own.
It felt like coming home.
At least until Ratchet cackled, “Congratulations Prime! Jazz is going to be your son-in-law!”