Archive of Our Own

1.

“Your chassis is folded like an accordion,” Ratchet hissed, gripping his wrench tighter. “What gave you the bright idea to ram into a tank three times your size?”

‘What’s an accordion?’ Prowl wanted to ask.

“I was aware of the risks,” he offered instead, hoping that Ratchet might be reasonable. Risks, as far as Prowl was concerned, were non-negligible in times of war. Prowl never took a gamble where the costs outweighed the benefits, nor did he ever move forward with a plan unless Optimus approved of it. Why Ratchet always shouted at him over otherwise successful missions, Prowl could not fathom. He had a perfectly fine track record.

Ratchet pointed at him accusingly, index jabbing into his chassis. “Doesn’t matter. Once you’re able to transform, we will be having a talk about your driving etiquette, Prowl. I can’t believe you were ever cleared to navigate on civilian roads.”

In response, Prowl shifted side-to-side on his wheels sulkily. Technically speaking, he wasn’t cleared to drive as a civilian. He’d only ever been trained to use his alt mode while on the job. Using his alt mode in a recreational setting, by contrast, was actually newer to him, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Ratchet—especially when he was under the impression that Ratchet had thrown that out as a joke. Most likely, Ratchet would not take kindly to learning that Prowl never got properly licensed.

“Stop that,” Ratchet smacked his crumpled hood, the impact making an unpleasant thunk against sharp juts of metal. “I can’t work on you while you’re squirming. If you have something to say, then come out and say it.”

Prowl’s engine rumbled low and dangerous, then eased. “I’m a good driver,” he spat out, but obediently settled down. He pretended not to hear the exaggerated scoff from the medic, doorwings twitching in a poor facsimile of what should’ve been an impatient flutter.

“Oh, is that right?” Ratchet drawled. “And just who told you that?”

“Outside of active pursuit,” he amended with a twinge of regret. The words came out far more petulant than he’d intended, but he was certain that his actions were perfectly defensible. “I can’t control the routes that my targets take or the speed they go. If damage to my frame mitigates problems down the line, then a couple of scrapes to my frame is a small price to pay.”

“Fine, so you enjoy getting slagged. Good for you. But this is more than ‘a couple of scrapes,’” Ratchet grumbled, deliberately flicking Prowl’s door as he spoke, the wing wrenched out of alignment and covered in dust from trailing on the ground. Prowl resisted the petty urge to jerk his doorwings back. “Look, you can’t keep playing the odds like this. You’re reinforcing your armor. Doctor’s orders.”

Prowl startled at that, rocking back on his wheels. Ratchet swore at the sudden motion, but Prowl couldn’t bring himself to care about the scolding he was surely in for. “That is ill-advised,” he protested. “Reinforcing my armor will make me slower, and change my center of gravity. I would have to take an extended leave to recover even a semblance of my previous effectiveness on the field.”

“Good. Primus knows you could use the rest.”

Prowl sputtered. “We can’t afford any losses to our forces, Ratchet.” Their formations would suffer to a quantifiable degree, and he had the empirical data to back his claims up. Not to mention that Optimus Prime endangered himself enough as it was. What would their leader do with one less voice of reason to stop him from running head-first into danger?

“Then work from your office. The sky-spy works just fine, and you have your comms. Advise us from a distance and we can all be happy, hold hands, and sing Kumbaya.” 

“But,” Prowl began, and just as quickly stopped as Ratchet smacked his roof. The light impact didn’t hurt, but it certainly got the medic’s point across.

“Nuh-uh, no back-talk. I’m reinforcing your plates before you’re cleared to leave, and that’s final. You’ll learn to cope with a little added weight,” Ratchet grumbled, “because you and I both know you’re not going to stop ramming yourself into anything that moves.”

Prowl went to protest on principle, then stopped, cutting his voicebox, and rumbled his engine in a bout of frustration instead. He truly couldn’t promise Ratchet that he would stop charging into high speed chases. So, instead, he settled back down like a model patient and made a point of ignoring Ratchet for the remainder of his repairs.

‘What’s Kumbaya?’ he despaired to himself.

2.

It was only a few cycles into his mandated vacation with new, thicker plating that Prowl came up with yet another reason that reinforcing his armor was a waste of time and precious resources: carrying around extra weight was expensive.

Of course he knew that builds like Ironhide and Optimus required greater quantities of energon, usually two cubes worth when he saw them for morning rations, but he had ascribed it to their larger frame size in combination with their highly active roles on the battlefield. Prowl, by contrast, typically only required a single cube of energon to get through the day, even deployed on the field. He was good at managing his energy, and rarely found himself dipping into the red.

As it turned out, however, he had missed a significant contributor to energy consumption. Integrating the new plating required more energy than was typical for him, but was within expected parameters for post-battle recovery. Maintaining that weight was an entirely different challenge that he had not been prepared for.

Prowl scowled at the low fuel warning pinging his HUD.

He’d already fueled at the beginning of his shift, and had been making his way through his stack of reports quite efficiently until he’d been interrupted by the initial alert. He’d dismissed the notification and continued working, only to be interrupted a second time. And then a third. And fourth. And now, a warning occupied his entire HUD, bathing his visual feed with a furious red tint:

[DANGER: FUEL LEVELS CRITICALLY LOW.]

He grunted in discontent, checking his fuel levels. They weren’t optimal, but 5% was still fully operational. Why he hadn’t disabled the low fuel warnings earlier was beyond him—for his systems to ping him as early as 20% was ludicrous and a detriment to his work ethic. Still, knowing what would happen if Ratchet found him powered down in his office again was enough to sway Prowl from the temptation of catching up with his stack of long-overdue reports.

Standing up was another challenge that Prowl had yet to overcome.

He grimaced as he stood, catching himself on the edge of his desk. Prowl was heavier everywhere, but the bulk was especially localized towards the front of his chassis now, meaning that he’d had more than a few embarrassing stumbles around base. He’d complained to Ratchet about the strain to his backstrut, but Ratchet had assured him that his nanites would adjust with time to compensate for the new weight distribution. For the short-term, he had no choice but to rest or deal with it. And he couldn’t very well let the reports pile up, so ‘deal with it’ it was.

He picked his way out into the hallway, quickly merging into the flow of traffic. Getting to the rec room was a humiliating ordeal, but he managed it with minimal prodding and posturing from his fellow Autobots. A few odd looks here and there, some paltry attempts at conversation, but that was more or less typical for him.

What wasn’t typical was the ratio of odd looks to the volume of Autobots present. Most likely, he was being ogled for deigning to leave his office at all.

“Hey, Prowl. What are you doin’ out so late?”

His doorwings twitched. Exhibit A.

“I’m refueling,” Prowl replied dryly, averting his optics.

A certain mech that Prowl had long since classified as a headache in his personal directory stepped in even closer, propping up his forearm and bracing himself against the wall, observing Prowl as he retrieved his ration. “You don’t say,” he hummed, smile much larger than it should be. Was he in a particularly good mood? Likely. Plotting? In Prowl’s experience, almost certainly.

Prowl’s shoulders dropped in defeat. “What do you want, Jazz?”

“Who, me?” Jazz smiled even wider, the motion easily caught in the peripheral of Prowl’s visual feed. Definitely plotting something—something that would most assuredly cause problems specifically for Prowl. “I’m just checkin’ in! It’s not every day I get to see our head of Tac’ in the metal, much less see you takin’ the time to refuel.”

Prowl had to tamp down an irate snarl from his engine. “The recreation room is here for the express purpose of refueling,” he managed, voice clipped and brusque. Prowl really wasn’t in the mood to entertain Jazz’s games today—or any other day, for that matter. Speaking to his fellow officer ground on him in more ways than he cared to properly express.

A sudden bark of laughter had Prowl jumping, nearly spilling his energon with the strength of his flinch. He risked a glance over at the Spec Ops commander and couldn’t help the defensive hike of his doorwings at the heated gaze that met him. How Jazz could manage such distinct expressions through that visor of his was beyond Prowl.

“Prowler, that’s what I like about you,” Jazz said, smile a touch lower on his face; less pronounced but corners spread wider to compensate. His voice was warm, rich with something that Prowl lacked the appropriate data to decode. “You’re funny, mech. Real funny.”

Prowl frowned, a small, unhappy shape that quickly smoothed itself back out as he snipped back, “I’m not here to entertain you.” He clutched the energon cube a little closer to his chest than he intended, the ration bumping against the metal of his chassis with a light tink as he backed away with the intention of shuffling back to his office. Unfortunately, he found himself followed every step of the way by another set of pedes.

“Aw, I don’t mean to offend you, Prowl,” Jazz soothed as he linked an elbow around Prowl’s arm, tugging the tactician off his intended trajectory and into a table situated in the corner. He dropped into the seat opposite of Prowl, arm slung over the back and pedes crossing over into Prowl’s side. “‘Swear I’m only teasing, you don’t gotta take it personal.”

Prowl took a mutinous sip of his energon. If nothing else, he refused to let Jazz interrupt his allotted time for refueling. “If your intention isn’t to offend, then I’m afraid you’ve failed on all fronts.”

Jazz flashed him another empty grin (absolutely still plotting), nursing his own cube—where he produced it from, Prowl didn’t know—as he happily continued prattling on, failing to notice (more likely ignoring) the furious look Prowl was giving him. “‘Ey, my bad. How can little ol’ Jazz make it up to you?”

“You could let me fuel in peace.” Prowl grumbled. He checked Jazz’s schedule—he was expected for an appointment with Ratchet five minutes ago. Prowl briefly toyed with the idea of contacting him to get Jazz off of his heels, but just as quickly dismissed the idea. Without further information on Ratchet’s current mood, he had as good as a fifty-fifty chance between Ratchet fetching Jazz and yelling at him to come to the medbay to “stop avoiding his check-ins,” and Ratchet coming down to come drag both Jazz and Prowl down to the medbay himself.

In sum, an undesirable outcome either way.

“What do you want, Jazz?” he repeated instead, hoping to get an actual answer this time. Wishful thinking on his part.

Jazz waved his servo dismissively. “Like I said, Prowl—I’m just checkin’ in! You usually hole yourself up after retrieving your morning ration. I mean, we’ve been on the same unit for vorns and even I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fuel, barring field rations. Half the base is convinced you recharge in your office, y’know.” If Jazz noticed Prowl’s digits twitch against his cube, he didn’t comment on it. “It’s nice to see you out, mech. What’s the special occasion?”

“There’s no ‘special occasion,’” Prowl responded reflexively.

“No?”

“No.”

Jazz stared at him for a moment, helm tilting and lip tugging to the side in what Prowl could only interpret as the equivalent of a raised orbital ridge, then gestured at him with his free servo. It was an invitation: open-palmed, fingers curled slightly in a manner that suggested he elaborate.

The corners of Prowl’s intake deepened. “There’s nothing to explain.”

Jazz sighed and took a swig of his energon to fill the space, the easy motion reminding Prowl to consume his own ration—albeit more stiffly. “C’mon Prowler, throw me a bone here,” he said with a groan, throwing his helm back. “Not that I ain’t happy to see you, but you never leave your office unless there’s an emergency or Optimus asks you.” He lifted his helm, ducking his chin almost teasingly. “You don’t have to spare my feelings. I’d hardly call myself bad company, but I suspect you don’t particularly care for all the nuances ‘n the like.”

“You’d be correct.” Prowl didn’t bother feeding into Jazz’s ploy for sympathy.

Jazz laughed again, the tone strangely melodic. “Be still my beating heart! You don't pull your punches, Prowl.”

Prowl didn’t bother hiding his scowl at that. His beating heart—? What was that supposed to mean? It was another human term, he was sure—his comrades seemed to be picking up assorted phrases from their human allies with increasing frequency; phrases that Prowl didn’t understand. So rather than respond to Jazz’s pointless drivel, he took another measured sip of his energon.

Jazz didn’t attempt to break the silence this time, more than happy to lounge back in his seat and watch Prowl drink, corners of his intake ticked up in what Prowl was sure he meant to be a casual smile. Amusing himself, clearly.

That was one more thing on top of an exhaustive list of reasons Prowl disliked being around the agent, he mused to himself as he polished off the remainder of his energon. Jazz loved annoying him. He always knew how to leave just enough room that Prowl would embarrass himself, no assistance necessary.

Prowl dispersed the cube, steeling himself to shuffle to his pedes. Though he’d much rather spare himself the embarrassment of being watched, Jazz definitely wouldn’t be the first one to leave.

He made to stand, twisting in his seat, just for Jazz to raise his servo, signaling him to stop. For some inexplicable reason, Prowl did.

“Give me just a sec’,” Jazz said, and knocked back the cube. Then he hopped out of his seat and jogged to the dispenser to nick a few extra cubes—Prowl pinged himself a reminder to reprimand Jazz later for hoarding rations (commanding officer or not, it was bad practice)—and zipped right back, hauling Prowl out of his seat by the arm with a crisp “a’right let’s go,” and half-dragging him out of the rec room with a bounce to his step.

“Jazz,” Prowl hissed, stumbling alongside the mech, “what are you doing?” He tried to pull away from Jazz, but the officer was holding his wrist in a secure grip, Prowl’s arm slung around Jazz’s shoulder while Jazz supported his waist. Well. Tried to support. Prowl had straightened up the instant Jazz wrested him from his seat, not keen on testing his weight against Jazz’s light-weight racer frame.

“I’m distracting you!” Jazz cheered, not slowing down. “Can’t let my favorite tactician rust away in his office, can I?”

I’m the only tactician on base, Prowl wanted to say. “My work is very important,” he muttered instead.

“Yup.”

“So will you let me go?”

“Nope.”

Prowl couldn’t stop himself from releasing an irritated vent. “Jazz.”

Jazz tilted his helm to meet Prowl’s optics, boasting his typical, easy smile. “Prowler.”

“I need to catch up with reports. We are in the middle of war.” Prowl narrowed his optics, watching Jazz’s grin expand. Either he was under the delusion that Prowl was being funny again, or he came up with another clever idea. Great. “Don’t you have reports to file?” he tried, exasperated. “To me, specifically?”

“Nah, I already took care of that. Even organized them by subject and date, just the way I know you like ‘em. They’re on your desk—worry ‘bout it later, Prowl.” Jazz wiggled his digits playfully against Prowl’s waist and turned his helm back to focus on wherever he was dragging Prowl off to, leaving Prowl to stew.

A familiar flash of red and white stepped out from around the corner and stopped, arms crossed.

“Jazz. How kind of you to bring Prowl with you.” Ratchet, flanked by a timid-looking First Aid and overly-enthusiastic Hoist, narrowed his optics, offering no room for negotiation.

Prowl whipped his helm to the side, frigid glare meeting Jazz’s less-than-jovial smile, which had shrunk by a measurable degree. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost feel confident in calling the look guilty. “Did you plan this?” he hissed.

“Nah.” Jazz turned his helm back towards the trio of medbots, but Prowl got the uncanny sense that Jazz was still looking at him. “I think they’re here for me, actually. Don’t tell me you’ve been skipping your appointments too?”

Prowl let his silence speak for him.

Jazz snickered, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by Ratchet’s booming voice—not typically how Prowl would describe Ratchet, but the halls of the Ark carried sound quite well—as he glared at them.

“Are you two done whispering? I’d like to actually use the time set aside for appointments.” Ratchet sounded tired, prompting Prowl to look away as a pang of shame lit up his central processor a short instant. He certainly couldn’t be mad at Ratchet for doing his job, as much as he disagreed with the CMO on a personal basis.

…Even if he was fairly certain that Ratchet only wanted to get their appointments over with so he could make it to Bluestreak’s party tonight.

“Aw, come on!” Jazz protested, oblivious to Prowl's inner turmoil. “Wait just one more klik, Ratchet, I'm conspiring with Prowl.”

“You are not—”

Prowl didn’t get to hear the rest of Ratchet’s sentence, pedes swept out from under him and suddenly airborne. He sputtered out an inelegant blat of sound as he was sent flying over the triad, First Aid looking particularly scandalized among the group watching him sail over their helms, and stiffened as he rapidly processed his approximate position, current velocity, and expected trajectory. Then, he braced himself for a landing he knew he’d have to take against his backstrut.

“I gotcha!” Jazz shouted helpfully, and oh, Jazz did manage to catch him—frame slipping beneath his own just in the nick of time—sparks flying as the two of them slid down the length of the hall with a hefty screech of metal on metal, Jazz’s back taking the brunt of the damage. Then he shot up, carrying the momentum forward into a sprint with a hasty, almost frantic laugh.

“Did you get heavier, Prowler, or is it just me?” Prowl didn’t get the opportunity to answer, Jazz slinging him over a shoulder with a short, careless, “whoops!” so he could free up a servo to help him take a corner.

"Jazz!" Ratchet bellowed, the sound of transformation following close behind them.

“Did— what—?” Prowl’s processor chugged, the distant wail of Ratchet and First Aid’s sirens not helping with the sudden influx of information overloading his sensors. “Why—”

“No time!” Jazz chirped, and then he tossed Prowl, transforming into his alt mode and revving his engine. “Better hold tight, Prowler!”

Prowl, the second his chassis met Jazz’s hood with the characteristic clang of crashing metal, dug his digits into the fine seams of Jazz’s plating. Clinging to Jazz’s alt looked foolish, he was certain, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when he could barely think—

He hissed as Jazz zipped down the winding halls of the Ark, making quick work of losing Ratchet and narrowly avoiding bowling over about half a dozen Autobots as he made his escape—the Prime among those numbers—while Prowl’s fans kicked on high, nearly screaming as he fought for coherence.

“You—! Watch where you’re going!” he managed, though not without some static and stutter. He desperately reset his vocalizer until it stopped looping long enough for him to spit out, “Report!”

“Mute it, Prowl! Save the interrogation for later!” Jazz whooped, drifting the corner and flying out the entrance, cutting the corner and hurtling past the streaks of color that must have been other Autobots sent by Ratchet to cut them off. Without any real intention of incapacitating their officers, they never had a chance.

“Alright, we’re about as free as we’re gonna get. I’ll pull off in a few kliks, gotta make sure we get just far enough that Ratch cancels the appointment,” Jazz said. He revved his engine, taking an unnecessarily sharp turn that had Prowl clutching at his seams into a path that wound down to a lower level of the canyon.

The instant Jazz slowed to a safe speed along the bank of a small trickle of water—calling it a river would be generous—Prowl practically fell with the speed he slid off of Jazz, stumbling for a half-step before he righted himself. He stood sharp and straight, wings held high as he whirled back around to glare at Jazz as his abductor shifted back into root mode.

“You—!” His vocalizer was still spitting out static and choppy syllables, but he decided it just had to be good enough, continuing on his tirade. “You—I—What was that?”

Jazz put up his servos in a mock surrender, still smiling, and said, “I wasn’t about to leave a mech behind. Seriously though, did you get heavier or is it just me? ‘Cause I swear I didn’t mean to throw you that hard.”

However hard Jazz had thrown him, Prowl crashed harder.

3.

Spike had been looking at him strangely all day.

Now, Prowl had never gotten along with the human particularly well, but they did not interact enough that he considered them to be on bad terms either. So the (badly) hidden attention was odd, if not outright irritating.

Spike gave him another sideways glance as Ironhide left the room, rushing off to resolve some scuffle the twins had started. That left no one else in the room but him, Spike, and Carly.

Prowl vented, then subspaced his datapad to look at Spike. “Yes?” he prompted.

The human squawked, caught in the act. “Nothing, sorry!”

Prowl didn’t move, maintaining eye contact with the human. He raised an optical ridge, refusing to lose in a battle of wills.

Spike stared back for a few seconds, defiant, then slowly wilted. “Uh, this sounds bad, but did you… gain weight?”

“Spike!” Carly slapped Spike’s arm.

“What?” Spike yelped as Carly smacked his arm again. “Okay, okay! Sorry!”

Prowl cycled his optics, not quite following. “For… asking about my mass?” It wasn’t exactly a common question exchanged between Cybertronians outside of sharing frame specs, but he failed to understand how the topic could possibly be as provocative among humans as Carly’s reaction seemed to imply. “You don’t need to apologize, Spike. My mass has increased recently.”

If anything, his response only appeared to make Carly and Spike more flustered. Carly wordlessly grabbed Spike by his shoulders and shook him in wordless exasperation while her victim smiled sheepishly, eyes darting between her and Prowl.

He was the first to break the silence, Carly finally releasing her victim to bury her face in her hands while Spike busied himself with inspecting the floor. 

“Is there something wrong with that question?” Prowl probed, tentative. On the off chance that the question truly was offensive among humans, he didn’t want to risk echoing it back to them. Optimus would be furious if Prowl upset their human allies.

Spike glanced at Carly first, only speaking when she lifted her face to give him a look. Her face was flushed pink, but whether it was from embarrassment, anger, or laughter was beyond Prowl. 

“I phrased my question badly,” Spike admitted, ruffling his hair. Prowl’s optics fixated on him as he spoke, noting and tucking away the nervous habit for his ever-expanding catalogue of human minutiae. “For us, pointing out someone’s weight is kind of rude. But, uh, Carly would probably explain it better than me.”

Prowl’s optical feed drifted over to target Carly, who was taking deep breaths to calm herself. It seemed to be working, if the recession of her flush was any indication.

“She’s more of an authority than you on this subject?”

“In a way,” Carly coughed. She was still overheating, but a smile threatened to undermine the apparent seriousness of the situation. “Do you guys…” she stopped to consider her words for a moment, “... court other bots?”

Ah. This was a conversation he would rather not be present for.

“Yes.” Prowl saw something like understanding appear to dawn on Spike’s face. Sensing this was going to be a long discussion, he reluctantly settled himself on the floor; roughly eye-level with the humans sitting on a control panel. “Is one’s mass related to human courting practices?”

Carly shook her head. “Not exactly. It’s more like, uh,” she paused again to ponder, the silence urging Prowl to contact someone else to conduct the peace talks. How delicate of a subject was he broaching with them, exactly? “Well,” she tried, “say, Prowl, what would you consider attractive in another bot?”

Prowl chewed on the question, turning it over in his processor for several nano-kliks before he responded. “I’m not sure that I’m the best person to ask about this,” he admitted. “I’m not actively courting any other Autobots.”

“Really? But what about you and—” Carly slapped a hand over Spike’s mouth before the youth finished his question.

“That’s fine!” she interrupted, speaking a little too quickly to fully mask her desperation. “Even if you don’t have a type, surely there’s a common standard? Like something that most of the Autobots around base would agree is makes another bot desirable.”

A small frown wormed its way onto Prowl’s face at that, the neutral line of his lips delicately dipping. “I’m unsure. I suppose that one’s level of polish and their paint job are both factors, since it shows how well you take care of your frame.” He tilted his helm, frown deepening. “But I wouldn’t say that Autobots like Ratchet or Cliffjumper are unattractive. They just don’t attend to that particular variable.”

“What about frame size and shape?” Carly suggested.

“That’s on a personal basis, I believe,” Prowl said carefully. He wasn't entirely sure himself, and was feeling progressively further out of his depth. “I know that some favor mingling within their own height class or their own frame type. Beyond that, I don’t know. You’d be better off asking a more social Autobot. Bumblebee, perhaps?”

Spike snickered. “Bumblebee? I love the guy, but he had no clue Carly was trying to hit on him when they first met.”

“Spike!” Carly gave him a half-hearted shove with her elbow before she turned back to Prowl. “We’ve met everyone, but you know them better than we do. Could you call someone down? Only if they’re free, of course.”

Did he know them better? Sure, he had been with this crew for some time, but he was hardly a social mech. Spike alone had likely exchanged more words with Hound in a single year than Prowl had over several.

He flipped through his contacts anyway, pulling out the candidates most likely to actually understand the nonsensical conversation between him and the humans. Mirage would—ah, no, he was away on a mission. Tracks was too self-absorbed, as was Sunstreaker (assuming that Sunstreaker would be willing to discuss aesthetics with the humans in the first place). Optimus—he immediately eliminated him from consideration, knowing the Prime was almost certainly overdue on some reports—before moving onto Powerglide, who was dating a human anyway; Grapple was in a meeting with Hoist; Inferno was perhaps too passionate; and Smokescreen…

Prowl fought back a scowl. He didn’t even want to think about Smokescreen right now after his last little stint in Las Vegas. Out of the pool, personal bias be damned.

“Blaster, Sideswipe, and Jazz are free right now, according to their schedules. Do you have any preference?” he asked.

Spike and Carly looked at each other. If he didn’t know that humans were incapable of supporting internal communication systems, he would have assumed they were arguing over comms. But somehow, even without words, Spike managed to win their argument, turning back to Prowl with a grin while Carly pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Jazz, please! And tell him I burned another album for him. Got the disc right here.”

Prowl nodded, deciding not to push the matter. The humans could keep their secrets.

::Jazz, Spike and Carly have informally requested an appointment. Spike says he has ‘burned another album’ for you.::

It took less than a nano-klik for Jazz to respond, quick enough that Prowl got the sense Jazz was shirking his duties. And he, it seemed, had just given Jazz a convenient out.

::Prowler!::

::You’re my savior. I’ll be right there.::

Suspicions confirmed, Prowl frowned. Tempted as he was to pursue the matter, he ultimately let it go. He would surely hear of whatever it was that Jazz was avoiding soon enough.

“Is he busy?” Carly’s voice cut through his musing, prompting him to shake his helm.

“No, he’s on his way.” He mulled over his words for a moment, debating whether or not to share unnecessary information. The internal workings of their command line wasn’t strictly confidential, and Spike had previously expressed discontent with being left out of plans. The humans, if small and prone to incident, were not stupid. It would be cruel of Prowl to treat them so. Bowing his head, Prowl admitted, “I believe Jazz is using you as an excuse to escape his responsibilities.”

Spike snickered while Carly smiled wryly. “Yeah, that sounds right for him.” Spike said, cheeky smile shining bright on his face. “But at least he’s doing something by answering our questions, right? You can’t be mad at him for that.”

Prowl shook his helm, about to contest the assertion, but a familiar voice cut in before he could respond.

“That’s right,” Jazz announced with a wave. “Call it ‘improvin’ human relations,’ or whatever sounds good on paper. I’m gonna call it hanging out with my best human buddies.” Jazz dropped onto the floor beside Prowl, propping an elbow on his leg so he could lean in comfortably. Prowl tried not to glare at where their legs made contact. “So what’s this I hear ‘bout an appointment? I don’t think we’re all gathered here for a listening party.”

“The hu—” Prowl shook his helm softly, correcting himself quickly. “Spike and Carly have questions about Cybertronian ideals of aesthetic.”

“Beauty standards, huh? And what prompted this discussion?” Jazz tilted his helm, tone light. Prowl didn’t trust it, knew better than to fall for one of Jazz’s “look at me I’m innocent and also everyone’s best friend” smiles. He was rooting around for blackmail material, even if Prowl couldn't prove it.

Spike choked on something, Carly slapping his back while the human coughed. “Nothing!” he yelped, turning a shade of red that matched Carly’s own face.

Vexed, Prowl looked between the two of them. “Spike,” he broached, “is this topic more offensive than you led me to believe?”

“No!” Carly answered for Spike, the human still coughing. “No, I think Spike is just embarrassed because it’s Jazz. The question’s rude, remember?”

“I remember.” Prowl frowned, no closer to understanding the mystifying subject. “But as I told you, comments about one’s mass are not typically insulting among Cybertronians. I’m sure Jazz would not mind.”

A loud, shocked peal of laughter beside him nearly gave Prowl a spark flare, optics overly bright as he stared back at Jazz. The mech was downright guffawing, laughing hard enough that he had to grab onto Prowl’s shoulder to steady himself as he vented, fans clicking unsteadily with every whoosh of air. Then, just as he thought Jazz had gotten over whatever he found so funny—

“You called Prowl fat?” he cackled, falling right back into his laughing fit.

Prowl crossed his arms, making no move to catch the bot as he finally lost control of his balance and fell over with a loud clang. Prowl sneered. He hoped Jazz dented himself.

“I didn’t say it like that!” Spike cried out at the same time as Carly sputtered an indignant, “No!”

Jazz just laughed harder at that, servo slapping at Prowl as he grabbed at his extremities to haul himself back up into a sitting position. Prowl made his displeasure known through his stiffly-held doorwings, refusing to look at Jazz even as the mech practically climbed halfway up his arm.

By the time all parties calmed themselves, Prowl was seriously debating committing himself to the medbay for a processor evaluation. But even if he excused himself now, the damage had been done. Jazz had some new inflammatory material on Prowl, even if he didn’t understand the significance of it. It would be more advantageous to see the discussion through, if only to glean some understanding of what his fellow officer found so funny about Prowl's "weight."

He heard Jazz draw in an unsteady vent and set his jaw in preparation of what outrageous thing would fall next from Jazz’s lips.

“A’right,” Jazz huffed out, vents still heavy with carefully smothered laughter. “So what Prowl told you guys is correct. Mass ain’t a big deal to us, ‘cept for when it affects our functionin’. So no, not a part of our beauty standards. You didn’t insult him by commenting on his weight.” He paused, likely glancing over at Prowl to confirm.

Prowl kept his gaze straight ahead, refusing to meet Jazz’s optics.

“Sorry for laughin’, Prowl. Swear I was laughing at them, not you.” Jazz murmured, leaning in close and bumping shoulders with him. Prowl didn’t know why he bothered. The humans could hear him just fine, illusions of camaraderie aside.

He finally allowed himself to turn his helm the barest amount to meet Jazz’s optics. His frown deepened, but he didn’t actually have anything to protest against, so he grunted in acknowledgment and turned his attention back to the duo before them, easing his wings back into a neutral position.

The sight before him was enough to tick the corners of his intake back up into his default frown, more shallow neutrality than deep displeasure. Carly and Spike, not unlike a set of curious sparklings, were looking between him, Jazz, and then themselves, cycling between their options with wide eyes. Did they believe he and Jazz were so uncivilized as to break out into a fight in front of them?

Prowl sighed.

“You had questions about courting between Cybertronians?” he prompted, dreading the ensuing discussion.

“Oh, right!” Spike nodded, more than eager to take the offered segue. “So, Jazz, if weight isn’t a big deal, then what is considered a beauty standard for you guys? Prowl said he didn’t know about any besides polish and general maintenance; that's actually what we wanted to ask you about.”

“Polish?” Jazz mused, tilting his helm. “Yeah, I s’pose you could consider that a standard, but that’s probably more like one of you dressin’ nice for a date. It’s the cherry on top, not the main course, you dig?” At Carly and Spike’s serious nods, he continued, “I don’t think there’s any one standard for all the different cultures ‘cross Cybertron, besides general upkeep like Prowler said. But if you guys want to get into the nitty-gritty of cultures, then yeah, there are definitely stricter standards—’n some traits are exclusive to certain frametypes, so those are under a stricter lens.”

Prowl saw Carly’s brow furrowing and intercepted the question before she could ask it. “An example of exclusive traits would be chevrons.” He tapped the center of his own for emphasis as he spoke, continuing, “Ratchet, Smokescreen, and Bluestreak all have chevrons like my own, but we all have individual variability regarding the height, width, and thickness of our chevrons.”

“So what would be considered attractive with chevrons?” Carly pressed, leaning forward a little.

He shrugged. “I never paid much attention.”

“I did!” Jazz crowed, eliciting a shudder of Prowl’s doorwings. For a moment, he’d somehow forgotten the bot was there. “That kinda thing depends on preference, ‘course, but for Praxus—that’s where Bluestreaks’s from—they’re real strict on purity. So havin’ classical ‘Praxian’ traits is attractive over there. In order of overall attractiveness over there, it’d probably be Bluestreak, Smokescreen, Prowler, then Ratchet.”

Prowl glanced over at Jazz with a critical squint of his optics. “Why do you know this?”

“Old op’,” Jazz said proudly.

Prowl forced himself to tear his gaze away from Jazz. “Right,” he muttered, not entirely doubtful but suspicious all the same.

Jazz was correct, from what little Prowl recalled—though Bluestreak and Smokescreen would be closer to a tie due to the latter’s neo-eccentric charm. What Smokescreen lacked in traditional traits, he made up for in paint job and attitude. And Ratchet hardly counted at all, so naturally he went to the bottom of the list. As for Prowl—he was a mass-produced model. He aligned with Praxian tastes, but his model type didn’t have a particularly intricate faceplate. He was easy to look at; inoffensive, and that was all.

“So then what about you two?” Spike piped up. “Who’d be more attractive on base?”

Jazz snickered at the same time Prowl did his best approximation of rolling his optics. “Depends on the ‘bot, Spike. Some of them like my suave charm, and others—” he shot Prowl a knowing look, like he was part of some inside joke between the two of them, “—like Prowl’s cool attitude. Don’t forget we’re a melting pot over here, and too small of a team to have forged a real culture of our own yet.”

“Jazz is the more attractive option between the two of us,” Prowl cut in bluntly. “My frame is not unique, so Jazz would be the objectively more desirable choice.”

“You’re missin’ the forest for the trees, Prowler,” Jazz chuckled as he tweaked a doorwing playfully. “‘Point is that beauty standards are mostly a class ‘n function thing for us, not a single specified frame type. ‘Sides, I’m technically not a unique frame type if you count my batchmate.”

Prowl flicked his doorwing back, pleased at the small yelp the impact elicited from Jazz. He could keep his roaming servos to himself—Primus knows he made a habit of breaking into Prowl's office often enough.

“If there are no more questions about Cybertronian culture that I’m directly needed for, I’ll be going. I have a backlog of reports to work through,” he informed the humans, rising despite Jazz and the humans’ protests. He had lingered for long enough.

“Oh, but Prowl,” Carly called as he’s passing through the door. “We enjoy your company!”

“Yeah, mech!” Jazz contributed (unhelpfully; possibly even to their detriment). “Stay for a while longer and chat with us! Nothing wrong with getting friendly with your favorite co-worker.”

For some inexplicable reason, Prowl paused. Then he tilted his helm, and gave Jazz a small, tentative squint. "We got plenty ‘friendly’ last week, Jazz," he said dryly.

Then he let the door close behind him, the room exploding with noise as he walked off.

He’d stick to interacting with Chip in the future. His words were far less confusing to decrypt.

4.

Prowl's vision swayed and rippled, world spinning out from under him as he was pushed right-side up and back onto his tires. He landed with a heavy thud on his wheels, air wheezing out from beneath him with a pained grunt. Tire pressure compromised. He struggled to outmaneuver his swimming processor, every thought an active fight to maintain to its end.

He was overheating. No, that wasn’t quite accurate—his processor was overheating, but the rest of his frame was operational. His coolant systems were functioning, if woefully inadequate against the spinning meltdown that he could feel descending upon him. This was a familiar feeling. He must have rammed into something. Rammed, and hopefully took out.

"—ler. Prowler!" someone shouted into his receptors. He had half a mind to turn his audio processing off, primary processing unit shuddering as he followed through his sluggish boot up sequence. "Prowl, mech, you gotta tell me if you can transform!"

His headlights were dimly lit, Prowl realized belatedly, betraying his dazed, if conscious, state. He clipped an audio sample and ran it against his databanks, processor chugging tortuously slow. Voice match identified: Autobot Jazz. Ally.

"Functioning," he managed to push through the sweltering heat that seemed intent on swallowing up his thoughts. "Attempting to transform." And he did, servos on his frame guiding him through every step of his transformation sequence. He shouldn't ask questions, not when they could very well be under fire, not when he felt mere kliks away from combustion, but he couldn’t help himself. "Situation report. What is our current set of circumstances?"

"Prowl," Jazz stopped his exasperated sputter—ah, he wasn’t shouting, merely too close to Prowl’s audials—and shook his helm instead. He pulled Prowl's arm around his shoulder and slid his own arm around Prowl's waist, a practiced motion that teased at the frayed edges of Prowl's memory banks. "Nah, sorry beau, but escape comes first; you can ask questions later."

‘Bow?’

Prowl slumped, unable to stop himself from leaning his weight on Jazz, a pinprick of guilt running in the background of his processor. "What can I do?" he asked quietly, trying to find something that might make him useful instead of a burden. With his comms unit and navigation systems offline, he couldn’t do much else but cling to Jazz for support and trust in the mech to guide him to safety. He didn't like putting himself in the other's servos, but until he had answers or his frame in semi-working order, he had to stick close to Jazz.

"Just keep your pretty self behaved, Prowler," Jazz said, all hushed tones and uncharacteristic urgency in the way he handled himself. "Sorry 'bout forcin’ you online, but I'm afraid you're getting too heavy to drag around behind enemy lines. Just stay quiet and follow my lead."

Prowl scowled, but didn't say anything as he limped alongside Jazz. What was it about those words that irritated him so much?

Jazz released his arm to hold up a servo as they came to a stop, pushing Prowl flat against the side of the under-canyon they were creeping through as he cocked his head to the side, clinging tight to the mouth of the passage. Then, after a beat, he returned his servo to Prowl's arm and darted out of the opening, damn near snatching Prowl across the gap and into another narrow passageway; one too small for most Decepticons to fit through. But Jazz didn’t slow his pace—rather, he seemed more anxious by the way he kept his helm tilted away from Prowl at an angle, audial horn leading the way.

Prowl shambled along as best he could manage, three little steps equivalent to every one of Jazz's own. Far be it for him to intentionally slow down an ally.

"We're gettin’ close. Trailbreaker's just up ahead." Jazz murmured, nearly inaudible. He gave no indication he was looking for confirmation, so Prowl didn’t bother responding. He did, however, yelp when Jazz dropped him.

He fell to the ground with a grunt as Jazz whipped around, firing off several rounds into whoever had followed them. Decepticons?

Prowl chanced lifting himself a fraction of a meter off the ground, turning his helm to catch sight of the perpetrator. A flash of black, engine snarling: Ravage. Then Jazz was hopping back and to the side, luring Ravage away—away from him. Prowl was in the way.

Prowl sucked in a vent, something in the processor lighting up with pain as he forced his arms to work. He dragged himself off to the side while fumbling through his subspace, trying to find something, anything of use.

Jazz slammed against the rock with a sharp creak of metal bending and a pained crackle of static.

Prowl finally managed to withdraw his rifle with shaking digits, years of training steadying his aim as he trained the barrel on Ravage. He couldn’t get a clear shot.

"Jazz," he rasped.

That was warning enough, apparently. Jazz kicked the cassetticon off, shouting, "Audials!" giving Prowl a gracious two nano-kliks to switch off his auditory processing before Ravage was blasted back, clearing Prowl to brace the rifle against his shoulder and steady himself, locking up his joints for precision as he traced the arc of Ravage's fall—

Ravage’s intake flew open, likely shrieking, as acid ate through their plating with ease. They landed with a heavy impact, dust flying as they stumbled back to their pedes, and Prowl fired another shot into their flank. Ravage stumbled back, glaring at him before turning tail, opting to retreat to its host mech.

The cassetticon’s silhouette receded into the winding darkness of the under-canyon, but Prowl didn't lower his gun, keeping his optics keenly trained on the pocket Ravage had disappeared into.

He registered a small impact to his armor—a pebble—and belatedly switched his audials back on, casting a weary glance towards Jazz.

"You okay, Prowl? We gotta move."

"Affirmative," Prowl uttered, but didn't budge. Guilt pricked at him as he confessed, “the tension cable holding my shoulder snapped. I can’t release my joint locks without risking discharge.”

Jazz gave him a crooked smile and pried the gun out of his servos, clipping the safety and subspacing it himself before he knelt before Prowl with a grunt. "That’s a'right, we’ll just have to do things the hard way then," he chuckled, slinging Prowl over his shoulder with a hefty grunt as he forced himself back on swaying pedes. "I wasn't kidding by the way—you're getting a little too heavy for me to keep carrying you around like this."

Prowl vented, but didn't protest. The rest of their trek was a hurried jog, Prowl giving himself the self-assigned task of keeping optics on their rear. By the time they managed to regroup with Trailbreaker, Ratchet was already on the scene, waiting for them with his doors open.

"In, both of you," he snapped. "Trailbreaker, you follow."

Jazz obediently hopped in, Prowl in tow. They scarcely had a moment to settle themselves on the floor before the doors slammed shut, Ratchet taking off at a speed that Prowl was certain broke local speeding ordinances.

"Ratchet," he began,—

"What were you thinking!?"

Prowl winced at the harsh boom of sound assaulting his audials, doorwings rattling in sympathetic agreement.

“I don’t know.” He shrank back, pressing closer to Jazz as he spoke. “My memory is corrupted. Did it work?”

“I think Prowl’s kinda scrambled right now,” Jazz mercifully cut in. “Go easy on ‘im, Ratchet. And yeah, Prowl, you took out ‘Screamer. Don’t know how you managed to get enough lift to knock him outta the air, but color me impressed.”

“Don’t encourage him!” Ratchet growled. “The only reason he’s still functioning is his reinforced plating—which, by the way, was not an excuse for you to go around crash testing Decepticons, Prowl. I installed those plates as a failsafe, not as an additional tool. You want to keep ramming into things? Fine! See if I don't put you on medical leave.” Ratchet turned his attention to their SIC, tone no degree kinder. “And you! What possessed you to go after Prowl? We could’ve lost both of you, thanks to your recklessness!”

“Hey, we both came back in one piece,” Jazz laughed, raising his servos defensively. Whether that was by habit or a deliberate performance put on for Prowl, he wasn’t sure. “I kept my comms open in case of emergency.”

“Yes,” Ratchet agreed. “Open and unresponsive.”

“Had cyberkitty on our tail, Ratchet. I wasn’t exactly at liberty to talk.” He cocked his helm, smile tugging to the side with the motion. “Didn’t work out too well, but ‘ey, we got most of the way there. Speaking of, I’m gonna go ahead and thank Trailbreaker for holding down the fort. Gimme a klik?”

Prowl let his helm drop, chin hitting his chassis with a quiet clank. He was content to let the sound of Jazz arguing with Ratchet fall into the background, dimming his optics and focusing instead on the soothing rattle of Ratchet steering over uneven terrain, engine growling in irritation. The gentle vibration of Ratchet’s engine was almost enough to make him offline his optics, light dimming and feed breaking down into low-resolution to conserve power.

He didn’t even notice it when he dropped off, frame slumping against Jazz’s own.

5.

Jazz had been trying Prowl lately. More than usual, somehow.

Prowl pursed his lips, glaring harder at the monitor before him. The skyspy had its strengths. Wrangling a loose cannon of a mech, unfortunately, was not one of them.

“Jazz,” he said, voice tight, “what do you think you’re doing?”

Silence. Then, a short burst of static:

“I think I’m hitting the ‘Cons where it’s gonna hurt,” Jazz replied, barely intelligible over the tenuous connection. “Stand down, Prowl.”

Prowl’s temper flared.

“‘Stand down?’” he repeated, indignant. He slammed his servos down on the dashboard, leaning in towards the dancing waveform occupying the primary screen. What in the name of Cybertron did Jazz think Prowl was hired for, office decoration? “Jazz,” he insisted, “the planted explosives could be triggered any second now. Whatever you’re trying to do, it’s not worth it. If this fails, you—”

The connection cut off, Jazz’s biosignal abruptly disappearing from Teletraan I’s running catalogue as Prowl paused mid-sentence, intake open in a surprised gape as he stared dumbly at the rapidly changing values scrawling across the screen. He lowered his servo from where he’d unconsciously reached out for Jazz, letting it drop to his side.

Prowl shook his helm. He didn’t have time for this nonsense, not when lives were at stake. He dialed in a few changes in Teletraan I’s directory, opening a transmission to Optimus—he had his transmission set to automatically receive live transmission from Teletraan I, no matter the circumstances.

“Optimus,” he said, brief. “Sir. Jazz has gone dark and intends on taking personal action against the Decepticons. His last known location was within the Decepticon base—please proceed with caution.” Please, he didn’t say. Please don’t let him do something foolish.

His wordless plea was unnecessary, he knew that. Knowing so didn’t stop the wave of relief he felt upon hearing Optimus respond, “Prowl—sshktt—do you have any way of locating him?” A blast of sound and static chopped up the Prime’s words, ushering Prowl to hasten his own words.

“No. Jazz has turned off his biosignal. I won’t be able to locate him until he appears somewhere the skyspy can see him or until he turns the signal back on himself.” A sharp jolt of pain called Prowl’s attention to his servos—he’d dented the fine plating. Reluctantly, he unclenched his fists, staring at his slack palm as a sudden wave of helplessness permeated the entirety of his frame. He couldn’t do anything from here.

“We’ll hold off on triggering the explosives for as long as we can,” Optimus promised. “The Decepticons are still battling us out here. I think we can hold out for as long as twenty more minutes, but please, Prowl, continue attempting to get in contact with Jazz.”

“Understood.”

Prowl closed the connection himself, switching back to Jazz’s (disturbingly empty) profile. He stared into the monitor, his own reflection glaring back at him. Biosignal offline. Coordinates, therefore, were inaccessible.

Prowl chewed his lip.

Jazz had entered the Decepticon base approximately two minutes ago and counting, and it would take a minimum of 5 minutes with Jazz’s current specs to evacuate the blast radius—assuming he was exiting from the same point he’d breached initially. And Prowl had no clue what Jazz planned on doing beyond the intentionally vague phrase Jazz had left him with.

“‘Hitting the Decepticons where it hurts,’” Prowl muttered to himself, glaring harder at Jazz’s profile—he sent Ratchet a quick ping with a set of coordinates, registering a fluctuation in Windcharger’s biosignal from the outskirts of his periphery—and groaned, thudding his forehelm against the screen. “Just what are you thinking?”

Chances of Jazz going for an energon supply—high. Energon was both extremely useful as their primary fueling resource on Earth as well as a volatile substance that would extend the range of the explosion, but whether he’d go for one or the other was difficult to determine. Prowl didn’t have the sufficient amount of data to make a judgement call with confidence, and that was bad because either proposed scenario had wildly different timelines.

And, of course, there was always the distinct possibility of Jazz running into trouble.

“Red Alert,” he called over his shoulder.

“What is it—I need to focus on the battlefield so please make it quick, Prowl.” Wild clacking from his own terminal resumed, the regular tapping of keys and clicking of dials filling the command center. Red Alert, blunt and snappish as he was, was a surprisingly comfortable presence to work beside, new transfer or not. He’d integrated himself into Prowl’s team quickly, filling in the gaps of their security with a fervor that Prowl could only respect.

“I’m calling in a shift rotation so I can search for Jazz. Please do not shoot them when the door opens.”

“Acknowledged.”

Just like that, their conversation was over. Prowl sent out a ping to Perceptor, keeping an optic on his own terminal even as he wiggled his doorwings impatiently. The mech could run all the way to the command center and Prowl would still think he was taking too long.

The door slid open and Red Alert, as promised, refrained from unloading a bullet into Perceptor as he entered, servo only twitching minutely as an artifact of a habit.

“Perceptor, thank you for coming on short notice. Please take over operating Teletraan I. Typical tactical advisory—but keep a watch over Optimus. Use the emergency alert if the explosives are set to detonate.” Prowl handed off the controls to Perceptor, backing off as he added, “I will be in contact as soon as I am able.”

“Of course, Prowl, it’s no problem at all.” Perceptor waved him off, already navigating through the trail of notes Prowl had left throughout the battle. “Rest assured; I will do my best to fill in for you.”

Prowl dipped his doorwings politely, even knowing Perceptor couldn’t see him. “Thank you,” he repeated, and slipped out of the command center.

Sending off another ping to Jazz returned an error. Prowl frowned, but didn’t bother worrying about it—he turned off his own biosignal, making quick work of packing his subspace and resetting his rifle with fresh acid pellets. He didn’t have the luxury of time, not when Optimus’s maximum timeframe was steadily ticking away.

Based on his own observations of the battlefield, Optimus would be able to hold off for a few minutes longer than his own estimation of twenty minutes—their Prime always had a way of making small miracles. Nonetheless, it was never good practice to rely on something as nebulous as miracles, so he set himself an internal timer for ten minutes from now, five minutes earlier than Optimus’s initial allowance.

The fight had drifted, thankfully, so Prowl was able to take a direct path towards the Nemesis. Approximately seven minutes. He dove into the water, sinking as he transformed back into his root form and made his way towards the breach in the hull left behind by Jazz. Two minutes. He pulled himself up through the hole, trudging through the water-logged halls while keeping an audial open for Jazz. He wandered, performing a systematic sweep of the halls based on their current scans of the Nemesis, finding nothing. Three more minutes.

Slipping down the final leg of the ship, Prowl turned a corner—and found himself swiftly flipped upside down, hitting the ground hard as his rifle was kicked away from him and a blade dipped into the cabling of his neck. Then, just as Prowl processed his spatial orientation, the knife froze.

“Prowler?” Jazz said, blaster to Prowl’s helm and blade held to his neck. He was frowning. “You’re not s’posed to be here.”

Prowl didn’t move. Slowly, deliberately, he parted his lips:

“T-minus seven minutes until detonation,” he said. “Please get off me.”

Jazz stared at him for a second. Then, like a switch had been flipped, he leaned back casually, tilting his helm with a smile as he rolled back up onto his heels, knife disappearing with a flick of his wrist. He kept his blaster out, but offered his free servo to Prowl, helping him up.

“I was just on my way out, anyways.” Jazz said with a shrug. “Let’s boogie.”

Prowl fell into step beside Jazz, lips creasing into yet another frown. Boogie? He’d have to perform research on that term as well.

“I gotta make a quick pit-stop ‘fore we leave. Mind if we detour?”

Did he have a choice? “Make it quick,” Prowl said, by way of compromise, drawing up a memo to work on while he followed Jazz’s lead. If nothing else, he could send out an update once they cleared the Nemesis. “No longer than thirty seconds, if you can manage it. We need to clear the blast radius before the bomb goes off.”

“You’re the boss, Prowl,” Jazz said, and ducked into an off-room. Prowl hovered by the entrance, keeping an optic out for unwanted attention. He’d been lucky so far, but there was no telling when that lucky streak might break.

Jazz tossed something at him, and Prowl scrambled to catch the object. It was small, glittering; an—

“—energon crystal?” he questioned, and was met with a self-satisfied smile from Jazz. “What’s the purpose of this?”

“It’s about as good ‘a grenade as we’re gonna get down here. And if we get out scot-free, a little snack for later.” Jazz flashed him a toothy grin, like that explained everything, and patted Prowl on the shoulder as he slipped back out of the room, doubling his pace so that Prowl had to jog to catch back up with him. “You got an exit planned, or are we playin’ things by audial?”

Prowl blinked. “I assumed we were taking the same route out as we used to get in.” Truthfully, he’d assumed Jazz already formed a plan. Foolish of him to think so.

“Nah, that’s boring. I was gonna go out guns blazing from the main entrance.”

That might have actually been worse. Prowl turned his helm fully to look at Jazz, genuinely at a loss for words. “What?” he managed, the word coming out every bit as confused as he felt. “Why?”

“Joking, Prowl, I promise.” Jazz made a flapping motion with his off-servo, optics trained ahead. “You know I like doin’ things freestyle.”

For the record, Prowl didn’t even know what freestyle was.

“Anyway, I was thinkin’ we might bust out this wall and—”

A purple flash of light interrupted him, Skywarp stopping mid-stride to stare at them.

“—make a beeline back to base,” Jazz finished lamely.

None of them moved, sizing each other up in silence. Then, finally, Skyward broke the strained quiet:

“What are you doing in front of my room—Ow!” Skywarp yipped as Jazz shot at him, narrowly missing his chassis and singing his hip instead. “Why, you— You’ll pay for that, Autobot scum!”

Prowl dove out of the way as Skywarp began blasting his nullrays, grunting as Jazz grabbed him by the push bar on his bumper and hauled him away, muttering “nope, nope, nope!” under his breath as they skittered back and around a corner.

“Get back here!” Skywarp called, stomping after them. “I gotta make you an Auto-smear!”

Clever.

Prowl grunted as he was thrown around the corner, Jazz transforming into his alt mode and speeding down the opposite adjoining hallway while Skywarp gave chase with a shrieking laugh, not even bothering to look back where Prowl was splayed out in full view. It was entirely possible the Skywarp had forgotten there were two of them to begin with.

They didn’t have time for this. Joints creaking in protest, Prowl transformed and gave chase. Tracking the objects of his pursuit wasn’t exactly difficult—Jazz’s engine had a very distinct scream, and Skywarp had a…uniquely deranged laugh—but pinning them down was.

“Jazz!” Prowl shouted, trailing after the two at as close a speed as he could manage without spinning out, “left!”

Jazz, for better or for worse, didn’t respond. Instead, he hit the gas, somehow moving faster, and hugged the corner on his next turn, swinging left, and made a beeline back towards their origin point.

Skywarp, to his credit, didn’t even yelp when his wing clipped the corner. But he did shriek with glee when he realized Jazz was slowing down, bursting forward in a tackle—

Which was when Prowl made his move.

Engine snarling, Prowl strained himself forward as his sensors flashed an angry red. He couldn’t take corners, but this was a straight shot. As Skywarp dove, Prowl barreled forward—

—and rammed into seeker and racer frame alike, an explosion blowing out his audials as they punched through the wall of the Nemesis out into the open ocean. He certainly hadn’t done that.

“Jazz!” he yelled, the words registering only through his own vocalizer and not his audials, “what did you do?”

+1.

When Jazz finally booted up from stasis, Prowl was in the middle of some light processing—reading, he supposed, would be the rough equivalent for humans.

“Prowler?” he creaked, and Prowl immediately refocused his optics, putting a pin in the article he was in the middle of scanning in favor of meeting Jazz’s gaze.

It was strange, seeing Jazz without his signature visor. His face seemed oddly barren without it.

“Jazz,” Prowl responded. He didn't know what kind of response Jazz was looking for, thus he kept his response as neutral as possible. “You are in Ratchet’s care. Please rest assured that we are in the process of repairing your frame.”

“Huh.” Jazz tilted his helm. “How long’ve I been out?”

“Not long. You’ve only been out of commission for two days—today is the third. Ratchet only kept you offline because the damage to your outer plating was so extensive.” Knowing what Jazz would next ask, he tacked on hastily, “I am under the impression that you will be released from the medbay once the new plating has fully integrated into your sensory suite.”

Jazz smiled, but the motion didn't quite meet his optics. “I don't suppose you're willing to help me sneak outta here?”

“Of course not,” Prowl brushed him off, “though, if you’re feeling well enough to run off, perhaps you are feeling well enough to fill in the blank spaces in my mission report?”

Jazz made a face—more accurately, he screwed up the corner of his intake, the same way he normally would with his visor. His optics didn’t seem to emote with the rest of his face, remaining fixedly static and focused on Prowl even as the rest of his face moved with a level of expressiveness Prowl had only ever seen him pull off. What must it look like when Jazz winked?

“Touché.” Jazz flopped back with a dramatic knock of his helm against the berth, sighing. “‘Kay, I’ll sit and let Ratchet fuss over me like a good little Autobot. But only ‘cause you asked so nice.”

Prowl was mostly sure Jazz was joking. Mostly.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m sure Ratchet will appreciate your cooperation. But that was a genuine offer. I will have to collect your report eventually.”

“Aw, mech,” Jazz whined. “Can’t a bot keep his secrets? Where’s the mystery in telling you everything?”

“If you keep refusing, I am going to assume you are withholding information.” Prowl blinked. “Are you hiding something?” He hoped not. Prowl couldn’t afford surprises when it came to fighting the Decepticons.

Jazz went suspiciously silent.

Prowl stared at him, the mech looking off to the side with a nervous uptick to the corner of his intake as he avoided Prowl’s gaze. This was the head of their Special Operations? Optimus’s right-hand?

“Jazz,” he began, but Jazz cut him off before he could continue.

“Nah, I got it. No keeping secrets from Prowler.” Jazz deflated, plating depressurizing and sinking alongside Jazz as he slumped into the berth. “You’re a real tough customer, you know that? I can’t keep a thing from you.”

A sentiment that Prowl disagreed with. Jazz delighted in bewildering him.

“You are our second-in-command,” Prowl stressed. “It would be against the greater interest to keep your own activities secret. I admit that my attempt at an extraction exacerbated the situation, but I cannot plan around factors I do not know of.”

Jazz drummed his digits against the berth, intake pinching around the corners. “I hear you, Prowl, but it’s hard to get the jump on the ‘Cons when they got the world’s greatest living line-tap for an SiC. I’ll dial you in ‘best I can before I go jumping into danger, but I’m not going to give you a play-by-play as it pans out.”

Prowl pursed his lips. That was… not ideal, but when did Jazz ever act in accordance with Prowl’s own preferences?

“Very well,” he ceded, “I accept those terms. And I…apologize. It was my involvement which led to your injury.”

Which was unacceptable. Well-meaning or not, Prowl had nearly gotten both Jazz and himself scrapped, which would have been a devastating blow to Autobot command.

“What?” Jazz guffawed, “for nearly crushin' me? Nah, Prowl, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. An’ the mission was a success, wasn’t it? You got me out; that’s what counts. I’d kiss you if you wouldn’t put me in the ground for trying.”

Prowl flicked back his doorwings in alarm. “Threatening others with intimacy is ill-advised, even as a joke.” Not to mention the plethora of moral codes the act would violate.

“‘Wasn’t a threat, Prowl,” Jazz said. Whatever that was supposed to mean.

Repeated offenses against Prowl’s own sanity aside, this was just too much.

“Then what was it, if not a threat?” Prowl crossed his arms, settling back in his seat as he looked at Jazz expectantly. He was tired of this strange dance that Jazz seemed so intent on, tired of all the jokes and jabs at his expense. “Explain it to me, Jazz.”

Jazz raised an orbital ridge, lazy smile pronounced. “Prowl, mech, you’re a smart cookie. You’re tellin’ me you haven’t figured it out?”

“Obviously not, given that I’m asking,” Prowl snapped. ‘And what’s a cookie?’

“I already told you, Prowl,” Jazz said, smile growing wider. “I like you.”

“Would you stop saying that? I know you find my behavior entertaining, it’s all you—”

Jazz burst out laughing, stopping Prowl dead in his tracks.

“That’s what this is all about? Prowl,” he mimed wiping a tear from his optic. “Prowl. I’m flirting with you, mech.”

…Ah.

Prowl’s optics involuntarily brightened, forcing him to turn his face away as he put a servo to his mouth in thought. “Oh,” he said dumbly. “I see.”

“I think you’re real cute.”

“Right.”

“Apple of my eye.”

“Sure.” Not that Prowl knew what that meant.

“Shining star, light of my life—”

“You can stop.” Prowl held up his other servo, as if it might actually stand a chance at halting Jazz in his pursuit. “I get it.”

Jazz propped himself up on his elbow. “See, I’m not convinced that you do. You missed so many of my signals that I gotta make up for lost time.”

“I don’t…” Prowl sighed. He really didn’t understand Jazz. “I need to reevaluate our working relationship. Please excuse me.” He stood, but before he could turn to leave, Jazz caught his servo.

“Hey, thanks for visiting,” Jazz said, tone a degree softer, and flipped Prowl’s servo to brush his lips over his digital joints. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?” Then he winked, releasing Prowl, and laid back as Prowl stiffly nodded, turning and exiting the room with hurried steps.

As the door closed behind him, Prowl came to a stop. He belatedly lowered his hiked doorwings, optics dimming as he rubbed the back of his servo where Jazz had planted a kiss.

…So that’s what Jazz looked like when he winked.