Work Text:
Jazz danced.
Of course, Jazz loved to dance. Jazz danced whenever he could. In the rec hall, he was a natural. When the music came up after hours, he would be the first one on the dance floor, moving and shaking along with whatever beat Blaster was laying down.
He danced when he walked. Jazz would shift his hips, shuffling his pedes to the sound of music that only he could hear. He was never awkward or clumsy when he walked and danced, but flowed smoothly along the floor.
He danced when he was sitting still. Engaged in conversation with another mech, his shoulders would move, his helm subtly tipping this way and that. He wouldn’t drop his side of the conversation; instead, his movement seemed to be independent of the words flowing between him and his friend.
He danced when he drove. A small bounce to his bumper, a flick of his side mirrors, a gentle wavering in his lane. Whenever possible, the music that he was dancing to would be blaring from his speakers.
Jazz danced.
When he danced, he usually loved to be watched. He loved being the center of attention. A small smile would form on his lips. Jazz would focus on someone watching, and he would dance for them as much as for himself.
But sometimes, his need to move – his need to dance – warred with the need to be unseen.
Returning from missions, when walking through the halls of the Ark, Jazz would still smile. He would still shift his hips as he walked. He would tip his helm back and forth as he talked.
But soon, he would feel the need to move differently. And he needed to not be seen.
After sneaking through the Decepticon base, he needed to thrash. He needed to flail. He needed to burn off energy in a way that wasn’t the controlled, graceful movement that was Jazz dancing.
After being hypervigilant about being seen, he needed to be unseen. He needed to not be watched. He needed to be invisible.
But after a mission, Jazz also could not be alone. He needed someone near him. He needed someone close by who could come to him if he called out in fear. He needed to feel a friendly presence.
So, after a mission, Jazz would go to Prowl and dance.
“Dance” might be the wrong word for his movements. Jazz would stomp. Jazz would swing his arms wildly. Jazz would stumble about the room clumsily, loudly.
And Prowl would sit at his desk and work. He would sit and not watch Jazz. He would just be there.
In Prowl’s office, Jazz could writhe, uncaring for how he looked or how off beat his movements were. He could lose the flow and pick it back up and lose it again, and no one would see. He could wriggle and squirm and be uncoordinated, and Prowl would not care.
And after he was done, once Jazz had burned off his energy, after his movements had calmed and he had finally settled into the chair across from Prowl, Prowl would look up from his work and smile. Prowl would ask, “How did the mission go, Jazz?”
And Jazz would dance in his chair as he gave his report to Prowl.