Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Elita is maybe two or three cubes of high-grade in and is ready to call it a night. She used to be able to last longer, but that doesn’t appear to be the case anymore. She can hear Windblade calling her old in the back of her processor.

She’ll just pretend this batch was brewed stronger is all.

She doesn’t want to give in just yet, but her time surrounded by bots on the dance floor has been fulfilled. She spots Prowl off to the side in one of the chairs and moves to join him.

Frankly, she’s surprised that he’s still here. Usually Prowl will have one cube before calling it quits just to appease Jazz. He’s got to be on his third or fourth at this point.

“No dancing?”

“No, though Jazz has certainly tried.” Prowl replies with the tiniest sliver of a smile.

“I bet he has.” Laughs Elita before they turn to a comfortable silence. Prowl’s good for that. So is Chromia but she and Ironhide are currently busy doing what Elita pretends she isn’t aware of. Eh. Good for her.

Prowl has definitely gone past his usual singular cube if his incredibly relaxed doorwings are anything to go by, but still appears to be handling it quite well.

On the topic of handling high-grade well, Optimus is most certainly not. You’d think with such a big frame he could handle more, but nope. Guess the Matrix doesn’t change everything she thinks fondly.

Optimus notices Elita sitting and waves at her enthusiastically from his spot on the dance floor, accidently smacking Sunstreaker with his servo without realizing. She waves back less enthusiastically and his smile somehow gets brighter even behind the mask. She can feel the upturning of her lips.

The next few breems consist of Elita watching from the sidelines as Prowl quietly taps his pede to the music. Sideswipe laughs as Sunstreaker is accidentally smacked in the helm by Optimus’s servo for the umpteenth time. Inferno has convinced Red Alert to join the dancing in the corner but the Security Director keeps shooting frantic looks every few moves. Ratchet’s days as the “Party Ambulance” have made a return.

Elita’s bot watching is brought to an abrupt stop by the sound of revving.

Loud revving.

Loud revving from Prowl.

For a klik, Elita assumes she is so far gone that she is now hearing things, but Mirage and Hound have both paused their dancing and look towards Prowl with bewilderment as well.

Prowl makes no indication that he is aware of this. Empty cube in one servo, chin resting on the other as his half-lidded optics are stuck staring intently across the room right to where Jazz is dancing, light reflecting off-

Oh.

Eh. Good for them.

Spec Ops’ most recent mission is a success in the sense that the intel they were to find, was found.

It is also a failure in the sense that every bot on the field for that mission returned with some parts missing.

However, it is still a success in the sense that nobody died. Or at least that’s Ratchet’s view on it all. Ratchet fears Prime’s optimism has been rubbing off on him.

Some agents got hit harder than others. The one taking the brunt of it being the team’s very own leader, Jazz, after shoving Bumblebee out of the way from a stray blast by Thundercracker.

Nothing life-threatening, thank Primus, nor is it anything Ratchet can’t fix, but Jazz will be out of commission for the foreseeable future.

The most difficult part will be convincing the slagger to take it easy once he finally wakes up.

Ratchet is in the middle of checking Mirage’s injuries when Prowl pops his helm into the medbay, holding several datapads.

“Where’s Jazz?” Straight to the point, per usual.

“Commander’s Corner. Room to the right. Still in stasis.” Ratchet doesn’t bother to look up, Prowl will probably just drop some documents off for when Jazz awakes and then leave.

Or at least that’s what Ratchet figured was the case until several orns later when he goes to check Jazz’s vitals only to find Prowl quietly sitting beside him, tapping away on a datapad.

“How long have you been here?” Ratchet asks in disbelief.

Prowl startles, so absorbed in his work that he hadn’t noticed Ratchet walk in. He quickly schools himself back to indifference.

“Not too long.” The pile of completed datapads beside him says otherwise.

Confusion aside, Prowl isn’t doing anything wrong. Most certainly isn’t disrupting, so Ratchet just leaves him be. Figures Prowl will head out eventually. Which he does.

Only to come back the next day with even more datapads.

And then the next day.

Apparently this is just what Prowl does now.

Ratchet doesn’t get paid enough to care about this. He doesn’t actually get paid at all. Nevertheless, the medic doesn’t pay Prowl’s moment of weirdness much mind and ends up just about forgetting it.

Ratchet is cleaning supplies when Jazz’s vitals start beeping, signaling that he’s finally awake. He makes his way to Jazz’s room only to stop a few inches from the doorway.

“Hey handsome.”

It’s not the words themselves that leave Ratchet shocked, but the tone. There’s none of that typical humor that always laces Jazz’s words. It’s completely genuine and just so, so soft. As well as a tad tired.

“Hey you.” Prowl replies just as softly, gently holding Jazz’s servo and pressing a quick kiss onto it before smiling at him.

Oh.

“Have ya been doing your work in here the whole time I’ve been out?” Jazz motions to the stack of datapads.

“Not the whole time.” Prowl averts his optics briefly, still holding Jazz’s servo.

“Just most of it.” Jazz says knowingly.

“Hm.”

“Y’know, no one believes me when I tell them that you’re sweet.”

Ratchet will deny the small smile gracing his faceplates as he turns away.

Jazz’s vitals can always be checked later.

Red Alert is at his wit’s end.

Jazz keeps dismantling the security cameras in his office on the flimsy argument that “A bot deserves his privacy, mech.”

But what good is privacy if safety is on the line! Jazz just refuses to see reason. None of the other officers have ever complained about the cameras. Not as much that is.

On top of that, the cameras in Prowl’s office keep fritzing out too, but at least he never puts up a fight about them being fixed. Jazz should really spend some time with Prowl and learn a thing or two.

So Red Alert has done something that may or may not be against the guidelines.

He placed a hidden camera in Jazz’s office when he was away for a mission.

He knows that sounds bad. But it’s for the greater good! Plus if anyone gives him slag about breaking rules, he can easily counter that this only happened because Jazz broke them first!

Red Alert doesn’t even get why Jazz was so against the cameras in the first place, the bot is barely ever in his office anyways.

In fact if he were to check right now, he would just be met with another shot of an empty room. He switches the cameras to the one in Jazz’s office and lo and behold-

The room is not empty.

The room is not empty.

Jazz has Prowl pushed up against the wall. Aggressively. Red Alert is about to sound the alarm when suddenly a moan hits his audials. Among other noises.

Oh.

Maybe a little privacy isn’t so bad after all.

Usually when Sideswipe and Sunstreaker piss off Ironhide, the Weapons Specialist just threatens them with bodily harm (sometimes actually going through with it) and then goes on with his day.

Apparently he decided to spice things up and now the twins are stuck delivering datapads for him for the next week.

“This blows, Sunny. Why couldn’t the ol’ geezer just throw us at a wall again and get over it?” Sideswipe throws back his helm as he complains.

“Stop calling me that. But yeah, you’re right. Last time I checked, we’re lamborginis, not delivery trucks.” Sunstreaker huffs as he repositions the stack of documents they were instructed to drop off at Jazz’s office.

“I don’t think Jazz even does paperwork. What’s the point?” Sideswipe kicks the bottom of the door to Jazz’s office since his servos are currently occupied.

No response.

“Oh come on!”

“Just use the temporary code Ironhide gave us, dumbaft.”

Sideswipe rolls his optics before rearranging his stack so he can punch the numbers in. “You could’ve done it.”

“Shut up.”

“No you shut u-” Sideswipe’s rebuttal is cut off by the realization that they currently have free roam in Jazz’s office.

He dumps the stack of datapads unceremoniously before excitedly turning to his twin. “No one’s here, we can totally dig through it!”

“Won’t Jazz find out?”

“Not if we put everything back like we found it! Plus Jazz doesn’t even have working cameras in his office, Red Alert complains about it all the time. We’re golden!”

A smirk slowly forms as Sunstreaker thinks it over.

“Bro.”

“Bro!”

The two enthusiastically get to opening every nook and cranny of the Spec Ops Commander’s office.

The excitement soon fizzles out though when the twins are met with the fact that since Jazz is barely ever in his office, there is barely anything in his office.

Anything besides unfinished reports that is.

And some sticky notes about upcoming meetings such as “Prowler, 10:30” Lame.

Sideswipe’s about to call it quits as he opens another drawer only to be met with more half-assed reports yet again, but then notices a hidden compartment. Behind it is an unassuming folder with seemingly some pictures sticking out. He instantly snatches it up to open it.

“Sunny! Finally something good, I can feel it-” Sideswipe’s grin drops.

“For the last time, stop calling me that. What is it anywa-”

They’re pictures alright. Pictures of a Datsun 280ZX police car. Prowl’s alt mode.

Oh.

There’s pictures of it from just about every angle. Pictures of it at night with the lights on. Pictures with the sun reflecting off it just right. In a parking lot. In a field. In a car wash. It’s downright pornographic.

They’re Prowl pin-ups.

“Jazz, you sick fuck.” Sideswipe whispers, horrified.

The two stare at each other with slacked-jaws and wide optics.

“Bro.”

“Bro.”

They’re never gonna be able to look at Jazz or Prowl in the optics again.

They put the pictures back as they were and vow to never speak of this.

A few days later, they come across Prowl and Jazz having a discussion in one of the halls. The twins noticeably avert their optics and begin picking up their pace.

Prowl turns to Jazz, confused. Jazz just shrugs.

This is one of the biggest missions they’ve had in awhile. Every member of the Ark is present and accounted for. The Strategist Room has never been fuller.

Everything's going surprisingly well, Smokescreen notes.

Then Jazz’s group strays from the plan.

“Sector 7 disengage.”

The command appears to have not gone through. This happens on occasion so Prowl calmly tries again.

“Sector 7 disengage.”

Nothing.

“Sector 7 disengage.”

Sector 7 does not disengage. Or more accurately, Jazz doesn’t.

This has been happening a lot lately. Jazz likes to push Prowl’s buttons just to get a rise out of him, but lately it’s been to a much greater extent. He’s been going against most of Prowl’s orders for the past few weeks. Everyone’s waiting for Prowl to erupt in a week or so. Smokescreen’s banking on it happening today.

Many think Prowl is calmer than he is and that’s just because they can’t read doorwings. Prowl’s have been high strung for days now.

“Sector 7 disengage now.” Oh Prowl’s starting to seethe. Smokescreen can feel his bet winning already.

“I heard ya the first time, Prowler.” Jazz finally responds flippantly.

“Then why haven’t you disengaged?” Prowl’s servo clenches into a fist. Smokescreen moves his chair a little farther to the right. Just in case.

“It’s not necessary. We can handle it.”

“You said that last time and it resulted in you losing an arm.”

“And getting a hold of even more intel.”

“An outlier, irrelevant.”

“It’s not irrelevant and you know it. You just hate being wrong.”

“The rewards don’t outweigh the risks this time around.”

“Calculated that, did ya?”

“Yes. Just how I calculated the majority of this plan so everything can go smoothly.”

Smokescreen tends to prefer fieldwork, but the drama here is certainly a plus.

“Hate to break it to you sweetspark, but that pretty lil’ processor of yours isn’t always right.”

Doorwings hike up in anger. Prowl’s limit has finally been met.

He stands up from his chair so fast that it falls to the floor with a loud thud and presses the comm button with such force it’s a miracle it didn’t break.

“Jazz of Staniz, you will disengage right now or I swear to Primus you can forget about sleeping in our berth tonight!”

Oh.

The strategy room is dead silent. Like dead silent. As in none of the other sectors’ comms are sending feedback-oh.

In Prowl’s moment of fury he pressed the Public Comm Button rather than just the Specs Ops one.

Every single Autobot got to have the same little realization that Smokescreen just had. A few appear less shocked than others.

From the screen Jazz is shown to be stopped dead in his tracks. His optics are probably wide behind his visor. All his comrades look at him incredulously.

Jazz audibly swallows.

“Yes sir.”

“Thank you.” Prowl picks up his chair and sits back down with a huff.

The room remains silent.

Primus, today’s debrief is going to be awkward. At least Smokescreen will be getting his shanix.

Chapter Text

Once he finally cooled down, Prowl was left with the horrified realization that he was the one who broke their whole privacy agreement. He expected Jazz to be upset with him considering all the times Prowl would get on his case about not being careful enough.

Instead, Jazz had just laughed. A lot. He leaned over and had to use a table for support he was laughing so hard. Prowl would’ve preferred anger he thought as he stood there with his arms crossed.

After Jazz finally calmed down, pretending to wipe coolant from his optics, he looked up to Prowl with that grin that never means anything good. “So does this mean I can finally brag to everyone about how you’re mine?”

Primus give me strength.

Shock aside, not much really changed after Prowl’s public comms incident. The Ark just saw the interactions between their resident Head Tactician and Head of Spec Ops in a new light.

All those times Prowl asked Jazz to come to his office and vice versa were likely not always to look over reports.

Wheeljack is now realizing that when he sees either of the two come out of the other's habsuite, they were most likely not just having an off-the-clock meeting as he had originally assumed. Or well not that kind of meeting.

Ratchet now goes over the interfacing section when Prowl has his check-ups.

What is new is the way that Jazz flirts with Prowl in public.

It’s little things mostly. Quick pecks on the cheek before leaving for missions. Hand holding in the halls. The amount of times that Jazz calls Prowl nicknames increasing notably much to Prowl’s embarrassment. Not to mention bragging to his fellow soldiers about Prowl.

When Prowl brings up the unprofessionalism of it all, Jazz will just smugly remind him that he was the one who decided the whole Ark should know of their relationship. Prowl huffs but never dignifies that with any further response so Jazz knows he’s not really that bothered by it. Plus he knows Prowl is aware that Jazz can read his happy little doorwing flicks when he does most of those things anyways.

What’s really new is when Prowl starts being open about it.

Prowl, Elita, and Chromia are currently stationed together but the lack of activity has turned to personal conversations rather than work ones.

“Optimus keeps bringing me back corncobs when he returns from missions because he thinks they’re a type of flower and I don’t have it in my spark to tell him that they’re not. He’s always just so happy when he gives them to me.” Elita shares with exasperated fondness.

“It’s the thought that counts I suppose.” Chromia offers with amusement as she polishes her gun.

“It is still very sweet. I just now have several vases of corn in my office that I have to explain anytime I have meetings.”

“I had a similar situation with Ironhide when we had begun our relationship. He would gift me swords all the time because of our shared love for weaponry, which while yes, I do love swords, I did not have room for them all. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by accidentally making him think I was ungrateful, but the walls of my habsuite back on cybertron were completely covered in swords. That was always fun to explain when I had guests over.”

“I can’t believe I forgot about that! It really did bring your habsuite together though.”

“I am having a similar situation with Jazz as he has now taken up baking.” Prowl quietly adds as he looks through cameras showing the same empty areas.

This gets Elita and Chromia’s full attention.

“Baking is not his strong suit, I take it?” Asks Elita, hoping Prowl will give them more. Chromia puts her gun down and turns to Prowl with intrigue.

“No. He keeps burning everything, but I don’t have it in me to tell him that especially since I know he got into it for me. He’s also just so proud of himself every time he makes something.”

“So have you just been eating a bunch of burnt energon goodies for the past few weeks?” Questions Chromia.

Prowl sighs. “Past few months.”

“Oh Prowl.” Elita puts her servo over her mouth and Chromia shakes her helm in sympathy.

“I’d rather eat burnt energon cookies than go to one of those drive-in movie theatres he is always bothering me about though.” Prowl continues with the slightest hint of humor.

“Optimus talks about those all the time. He refuses to see reason in how there's nothing inconspicuous about a semi-truck and a pink jeep.”

“Jazz too, he says that I’m worrying over nothing, but I just know his alt mode will attract the attention of some humans. Not to mention mine. And then he will complain about people touching his paint again.” Prowl rolls his optics.

This is probably the most Elita has ever heard Prowl talk in a casual situation ever. Granted they are in a war zone, but still.

Optimus would later get Jazz and Prowl to go on a double date with him and Elita to one of those drive-in theatres by telling Prowl it was for a mission. Prowl was not impressed. He said he only stayed for Elita’s sake. Elita knows it was mostly because he can only say no to Jazz for so long. And yes, the humans were baffled by their alt modes.

The High Command meeting is about to commence. Well, should be commencing soon but Jazz is still yet to arrive. Anytime Optimus tries to tell him that it would be better if he tried to show up on time, Jazz informs him that he needs to learn the Earth concept of “being fashionably late.” Optimus does not get that one. He will have to have Elita explain it again.

Perhaps it is for the best that Jazz will be “fashionably late” yet again, Prowl appears to be missing part of his documents as he goes through all his datapads for the fifth time. Growing more frustrated by the klik. At least the rest of High Command is having a good time conversing.

A couple breems after the meeting was supposed to start, Jazz saunters into the room before holding up a datapad. “Hey babe, you left this on my nightstand.”

Prowl’s doorwings instantly relax as he gratefully grabs the missing datapad. “Thanks, hun.”

The pre-meeting chatter instantly stops.

Elita and Chromia share a look. Optimus finds that they do this often and he never knows what it means.

Every other bot’s optic ridges shoot up in momentary surprise. Optimus gets that at least.

Prowl is unaware of his slip up as he goes through his documents again to make sure he really has everything now. Jazz has the dopiest grin on his face as he slides into his chair next to him.

Optimus is proud that the two have both grown comfortable with their relationship. Especially Prowl. It’s sweet and often has him smiling behind his battle mask. He could do without accidentally walking in on them on Prowl’s desk again though.

Optimus should really start this meeting.

Others gained some new teasing material.

The entirety of the Specs Ops department was having a riot calling their commander “Jazz of Staniz” for a solid week. Jazz wasn’t exactly enjoying that as much. Some bots had also been calling Prowl “Sir” more, but that fizzled out pretty fast when Prowl wasn’t picking up on it at all.

Optimus overhears Bumblebee go “Jazz of Staniz, here's my report from our last mission!”

“Thanks, Bee.” Jazz says tiredly, grabbing the datapad with none of his usual bravado.

“What, not gonna call me sir too?” Hound and Mirage start hollering at that; Hound having to hold onto his knees to stay upright as Mirage leans into him, clutching his side. Jazz stomps away without saying anything as the three continue to lose it.

Optimus would be lying if he said he didn’t gain some entertainment from seeing something actually get under Jazz’s plating for once. Not that he’d ever admit it. That wouldn’t be very leader-y of him. He will however be telling Elita of this since he knows it will make her laugh, and she has a great laugh.

Prowl is busy filling out reports when Smokescreen decides to break the silence.

“Remember that time Bluestreak got us to play 20 Questions?”

“Yes, he was quite excited about that.” Answers Prowl without looking up from his datapad.

“Your answer to the favorite color question was blue, right?”

Prowl briefly turns to Smokescreen as he raises an optic ridge, “Yes?”

“Out of curiosity, did you mean any blue or a specific shade of visor blue-”

“No.” The flick of his doorwings says otherwise. Smokescreen’s grin widens.

He throws an enthusiastic arm over Prowl’s unenthusiastic shoulder before cheekily adding “Awww Jazz was right about you being sweet.”

Prowl shoves him off. “I have work to do. As do you.” And begins walking away.

“Aw c’mon! There’s no need to be ashamed of your love, Prowl! You guys are my favorite couple after all! And not just because you two won me all that Shanix!”

Some things remained the same, Prowl and Jazz still continued to have their spats from time to time. It never got any less awkward many bots would note unfortunately. Ratchet would argue that it never got any less entertaining either.

He’s on monitor duty with Prowl this time around and to Ratchet’s unsurprise, Jazz is being difficult.

“You’re injured Jazz, fall back. We will send Mirage in your place.”

“It’s barely a scratch, Ratch.”

“You are quite literally bleeding out. Fall back.”

“All my limbs are still attached, so that’s gonna be a no, Doc-Bot.” Is all Jazz refutes before turning his comm off.

“Slagger! He never learns! I swear this idiot of yours has a death wish, Prow-Prowl?” The medic’s anger is momentarily forgotten at the look of Prowl positively seething. He has never seen Prowl’s doorwings twitch that way before.

Prowl doesn’t say anything as he marches out of the comm room. Ratchet hears him transform and then drive off, fast.

Entertaining indeed.

“Looking a little rough, Autobot.” Sneers Starscream.

“Never been better, Starscamp.” Jazz shoots back, grinning. Cocky grounder.

“It’s Starscream to you.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. Actually hit me will ya?” Starscream was hoping he’d get to fight Skyfire today, instead he’s stuck with this insolent mech. Ugh.

Awkward falling out aside, Sky at least always understood the concept of respect. Something Jazz clearly doesn’t as he keeps throwing out lines that no bot but himself could possibly find funny all while wearing a proud smirk. How Starscream wishes he could just wipe it right off-

Apparently Primus is listening today because suddenly a loud “Jazz of Staniz!” is shouted from the other side of the battlefield and said bot’s grin drops instantly.

“Oh c'mon, they just stopped calling me that.” Jazz mutters to himself as he drags a servo down his faceplates.

The source of the noise, Autobot Tactician Prowl, transforms to his root mode with a face full of fury as he makes his way through the battlefield. Several Autobots and Decepticons pause their fighting to look at him warily and step out of his path.

Those two blasted lamborgini twins each have one servo around Thundercracker’s neck with their fist in the air ready to punch but are completely frozen on the spot.

Jazz suddenly looks worried too which Starscream really doesn’t understand at all. Prowl is barely ever on the field. He’s a pencil pusher. He’s got dainty digits. Even Frenzy and Rumble could take him easily-

Prowl shoots Skywarp without even looking in his direction. Huh. It’s a clean shot too. Knock Out is going to actually have to be a medic today.

Jazz turns to him and whispers urgently, “Starscream do a mech a favor and shoot me right now.” As much as Starscream dreams about others groveling before him, right now he’s just confused.

“Excuse me?”

“Please!”

“Jazz of Staniz, don't you even think about driving away!” Prowl bellows again.

“Slag.” Jazz sighs in defeat.

Prowl finally makes it to where Jazz and Starscream were fighting before he decided to interrupt. Rude. Skyfire would never.

Prowl jabs a digit right at Jazz’s bumper. “When has turning comms off without notice ever been a wise decision?”

“Look Prowler-”

“Don’t ‘Prowler’ me right now! You shouldn’t even be on the field!”

Starscream is suddenly brought back to the days when Skyfire was still a Decepticon and when they had their completely reasonable spats he’d always try to placate by going “Look Star-” only to have Starscream yell at him to quit with that-

Oh. Oh.

Was it this awkward when they fought? No. No, it couldn’t have possibly been.

Starscream should shoot them. They’re certainly distracted, but it’s just so strangely entertaining.

Prowl finishes his rant by pulling a dejected Jazz off the field by his audial horn.

“Autobot Jazz: In the Doghouse.”

“It does appear that way, Soundwave.” Agrees Megatron thoughtfully as they watch from afar.