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With how easy it is to get him to power down for the dark-cycle, Hot Rod may just be perfection wrapped in feathers.
Of course, he is still a sparkling, and challenges will always come with raising them. Prowl can easily number the instances so far where he and Jazz have had to deal with an impossible hassle the little one put up, and he has personally witnessed enough scuffles between creators and their young — both regular Cybertronians and other-worlders — to know that caring for the firebird will get harder before it gets easier. But despite this all, Hot Rod is still a good sparkling. Quite adorable, too. He’s one that Prowl is happy to call his own and raise alongside Jazz, even if his creator-hood is not biological.
So, even if Hot Rod does not turn out perfect, he will certainly be close enough, rivaled only by Prowl’s mate.
All of these feelings swirl around Prowl’s spark as he reverently watches Hot Rod fall into recharge. Jazz had assigned the alpha to do some tidying around the room, taking to singing traditional Polyhexian lullabies to their dozing firebird. Efficient as always, Prowl had finished picking up dropped toys and putting blankets back where they belonged a few breems ago, and was now silently gazing at the scene, taking in how the light from where Sparky is nestled nearby casts some sort of soft glow onto Jazz.
It’s impossible to resist traveling his gaze along the curves which make up that sleek, gorgeous racer’s frame. Prowl aches to take those few steps forward and drape himself over his beloved, give into his instincts and allow himself to be seduced more than he already is by the gentle tune coming from Jazz’s vocalizer. If he were in any other headspace he certainly would— but tonight, an invisible weight keeps him frozen where he stands. Ironic, for how much he normally enjoys initiating physical contact with his Jazz, especially after stressful situations. He’d just been doing that some joors ago after carrying his mate and sparkling back to the safety of the apartment.
And yet. There’s a compulsion nagging at Prowl to take in every single detail of what he’s witnessing, to let his optics travel along every speck of light that illuminates his small family. Without physical interjection.
He doesn’t wish to do anything that could shatter the sight he feared he’d lose.
Jazz reaches the end of his last lullaby, tapering off into a comfortable silence. Dark digits reach down to secure the meshes tucked around Hot Rod and then brush along the sparkling’s forehelm, followed by the press of a kiss in that same spot. Hot Rod’s small optics were shut off, and Jazz gently readjusted a few plushes around the firebird with one final hum.
Entranced, Prowl watches Jazz stand to full height, pausing for a moment to stretch before gesturing with a digit for the alpha to follow him to the nearby berth.
Prowl, naturally, obeys.
“Gonna spill what’s on your processor now, Prowler?” Jazz asks in a low murmur, once they are both settled and sitting on the berth’s meshes.
Prowl cocks his helm to the side. “...You?” he offers. It wasn’t inaccurate at all, but must not have been that good of a response. He can practically feel how the Polyhexian’s optics roll in fond annoyance behind that blue visor.
“C’mon now, ya gotta gimme more than that,” Jazz complains, resting his servos on Prowl’s faceplates and giving his cheeks a cute little squish. “I’m askin’ what up there’s keeping you stressed and half-shifted,” he huffs, with a tap to Prowl’s helm.
Ah. Well, now that it was pointed out, Jazz wasn’t wrong. He had yet to shift fully back to his regular mech form.
Prowl couldn’t, really. Not right now.
“This ain’t a complaint,” his mate quickly adds on, “you’re still pretty as ever. But I can still feel your field, and your spark in our bond, and I just… I’m worried ‘bout ya, Prowl.”
Letting out a soothing rumble, Prowl adjusts the angle of his face to kiss one of the lovely servos cradling his helm. “I don’t mean to cause you concern, my Jazz,” he whispers apologetically into the Keeper’s palm. “There’s just some lingering stress from earlier that I have yet to rid myself of. I’m certain that I will be fine by the next cycle.”
That still isn’t entirely enough for Jazz: his dermas downturn into the most adorable pout, and Prowl wishes nothing more than to kiss it away. Before he can act on that desire, though, he suddenly finds himself sitting with a lap-full of Jazz. The closeness is a surprise, but a welcome one, and Prowl automatically positions his servos to their usual spot on Jazz’s hips. One of those dark digits reaches up to trail along Prowl’s chevron, and the beastformer lets out a quiet, pleased rumble in response to the contact. In return, Prowl massages soft circles into the plating he is holding, being careful with his claws. His olfactory ends up buried in Jazz’s neck cables, and he takes a moment to inhale the lovely scent that can be found there. If the intoxicating aroma that made up Jazz’s scent was a drug, Prowl could easily see himself becoming an addict.
Prowl kisses Jazz. Not on that cute pout like he’d originally wanted, but on his neck cables, for he is far too deep into scenting his beloved to bring himself to pull away. Above him, Jazz lets out a pleased sigh, and returns the affections with gentle kisses and nuzzles to Prowl’s chevron.
They’re both content to remain like this, soaking in the other in the quiet of the dark cycle. Aimlessly worshipping his mate, Prowl’s kisses become more firm, and begin to travel along Jazz’s cabling and plating. There’s zero intention to fully arouse — not with Hot Rod in the same room and the pack (plus Ricochet) recharging throughout the apartment — but Prowl leaves soft nips with his fangs as he kisses, which he knows is a surefire way to get Jazz’s plating to warm quickly. Jazz is still holding the alpha close, sighing and arching into the nips while stroking along anywhere he can touch. Prowl lets out another soft rumble, his kisses leaving Jazz’s neck and trailing to the side. He stops at a shoulder, taking another moment to inhale that perfect scent.
Beneath it is a lingering hint of mech-blood from the wound that was on this exact arm.
Prowl pauses at this, a sudden pang hitting his spark as the reminder of what had happened falls onto him like a bucket of coolant. The alpha manages to suppress the whimper that threatens to escape him, but it is in vain. Jazz is a perceptive mech, and Prowl feels him sit a bit more straighter at how the beastformer stills.
It’s only another moment before everything clicks in the Keeper’s processor.
“There’s no pain,” Jazz automatically assures. “Arcee didn’t jus’ close the wound. Her healin’ magic convinced my frame that the cut was never there, it seems.”
Silently, Prowl nods. He lifts his helm slightly to get a better look, optics landing on the spot where that cut had been. If Prowl hadn’t personally witnessed the injury and wasn’t able to smell the traces of mech-blood, he most likely wouldn’t have ever known Jazz was hurt in the first place. But Jazz had gotten hurt. Had been in distress as he was trapped in a mysterious dimension with a bounty hunter insistent on stealing away their Hot Rod.
When Prowl’s mate and sparkling were in peril, he hadn’t been there. What sort of sorry excuse for a–
“Stop.”
Jazz’s soft command cuts through a quiet, keening noise that Prowl didn’t even realize he was making. He briefly glances at Hot Rod’s bassinet, and after ensuring that the little bird was still in recharge, forces himself to look back at his mate’s focused gaze. (Oftentimes, Prowl ponders what exactly in his life he’d done to be blessed with catching that visor’s attention.)
“He ain’t gonna try and get us no more,” Jazz continues, “he can’t. You know that. And even if Lockdown somehow worms his way outta the maze, he’s gonna have’ta deal with the wrath of our pack, friends, the Fae, every other regular customer, and the Phoenix himself. Pit, I think even Rico’ll get a few hits in.” A chuckle, and then Jazz presses their forehelms together. “I’m still shaken up ‘bout it too, yeah, but… I don’t want this to hang over us forever.”
“…Me neither,” Prowl whispers. “I don’t— I just— I…”
After the third attempt at stringing together a coherent response, Prowl grumbles some wordless noise, lowering his face to rest against Jazz’s chestplates. Hmmm. Despite how weird he felt internally, this admittedly was nice: nosing at the sinuous curve of his mate’s bumper while still cradling his hips. If Prowl concentrates, he can faintly make out the hum of Jazz’s spark underneath his natural warmth. It recenters something in him.
“Y’know,” the Keeper starts again, chest reverberating his voice under where Prowl’s head rests on it, “before they passed, my creators would sometimes get into it with each other. Sometimes it’d be loud arguments, other times just a quiet misunderstandin’, but it wasn’t fun. Wasn’t always resolved. An’ even if they tried to act normal in front of Rico and I, we knew better. Loved ‘em, always have and always will, and they did their best to raise us well, but they weren’t always good at sitting down to just talk ‘bout stuff. Even if they loved each other a lot.”
Prowl listens dutifully, his servos traveling down and gripping firmly at Jazz’s thighs. “I would say they succeeded at raising two wonderful mechs,” he softly affirms, and Prowl smiles to himself at how his love’s field flushes with pride.
“Damn right they did,” Jazz says. “But this ain’t about that. Sire, carrier— sometimes, stuff’d happen that impacted ‘em both, and they’d try to be too strong ‘bout it with their actions, to the point where words failed ‘em. And… I don’t think I liked seein’ that very much.” Jazz’s frame separates the smallest bit from Prowl’s; not far enough away that they weren’t in contact anymore, but enough to let there be at least more than an inch of air between the two.
“Talk to me, Prowl. Tell me what you’re thinkin’. Please.”
As pack alpha, Prowl is meant to be headstrong. Logical. Unshakable. The perfect example of maintaining dominance.
That last part often got twisted by many through different generations, as seen by the habits of his own Sire, and when he left Praxus (and Tumbler) Prowl vowed to be a much better example to his own pack than the lacklusters that had come before him. He unlearned vorns of toxicity to find ways to provide safety and nourishment for his pack, while avoiding unnecessarily excessive violence. Prowl’s leadership was one that earned respect over intimidation. He knows he is objectively better than many wannabe pack alphas.
But alas. Prowl is well-aware that he could still strive to improve in many areas beyond physical actions. For the sake of his family, he must keep trying.
So, with an aching exhale, he brings one servo up to Jazz’s back, drawing his mate close and pressing his dermas to an audial horn.
“When I got the comm from Mirage about you being… taken,” Prowl starts, each word of the memory feeling like a knife to his spark, “I dropped everything to round up the pack to try and find you. We’d all assumed that you’d been whisked away to some far-off location, and that as soon as we picked up your scent, you and Hot Rod would be easily found and rescued. Just… just like what we had to do with Ricochet, back when…”
The reminder of Ricochet being kidnapped — something that feels like it happened centuries ago at this point — makes Jazz shudder in his arms. Prowl pulls his mate even closer, bringing them both down to lay on the soft surface of the berth. A small attempt to comfort, even as the beastformer feels himself falling apart all over again.
“When we finally got there,” he shakily continued, “I picked out your scent immediately. Both yours and Hot Rod’s. I immediately followed after it, all the way to where Mirage and Hound were waiting for us with their young.”
Prowl pauses again. He can feel his servos twitching where they rest against Jazz, his fuel pump racing with the memory.
“There was no trail. Nothing more to follow.” His whisper doesn’t sound real to his own audials, hollow and far away. “I could smell you and our sparkling, soured with distress, and then it just stopped. As if you both were right there to be gathered into my arms and protected from whatever threat there was— but you weren’t.”
Looking back, Prowl wasn’t proud to say that he’d almost lost a grip on his sanity right then and there. At the same time though, it really could not have been helped. With no clear trail or other clues to Jazz and Hot Rod’s whereabouts to follow, his instincts had gone mad, overwhelming his hindbrain with a mix of hot-red rage and spark-crushing sorrow. The collected demeanor that he usually kept up, even in the face of other unpleasant events, was completely out of the window, replaced by a mech simply gone mad. Jazz still had some presence in his spark from when they had last merged, so Prowl knew he was alive, but this knowledge combined with the fact that he couldn’t find Jazz in the place where his scent was so fresh only served to further enrage his inner wolf. If it were not for the presence of Bluestreak and Smokescreen, Prowl probably would have fully reverted to his base instincts and gone on an indiscriminate rampage of his immediate surroundings, desperately attempting to find any trace of his mate. But even they had only been able to do so much at the moment.
The only thing that had brought Prowl back to something resembling a stable mind was when Drift had been able to track the pocket dimension Jazz and Hot Rod were stuck in. Still: the wait had been torturous, despite the timeframe giving Prowl the chance to actually calm down a little.
Attempting to stop the small sob that escaped him was pointless; Jazz is too close to not notice, and his audial senses have always been subpar for a regular mortal. Prowl can’t bring himself to move his faceplate as tears streak it, allowing them to slide down to Jazz’s plating and berth. He hopes his mate doesn’t mind later on, when the night is over.
“I can’t imagine what that was like,” Jazz breathes, pressing a kiss to Prowl’s helm. In response, the beastformer whimpers almost pathetically, the freshly painful memories conflicting with the very real present of Jazz safe in his grasp. “It must’a been terrible. I know it’d be awful for me, if I knew you were in trouble and didn’t know how to find ya.”
“You have no idea,” Prowl rasps. “Those joors where you were gone, and I couldn’t do anything but sit there and wait… I think those were the worst moments of my entire life.”
With the truth of everything he’s been internalizing all said aloud, there’s nothing Prowl can do but continue to shake and hold his beloved. He’s always been a quiet mech, and his shaking sobs are equally as muted, but they feel like the loudest they could be to Prowl. With each hiccup and twitch, his plating is stroked and massaged by Jazz, who whispers gentle murmurs between a few sniffles of his own.
“We’re both okay now,” is what he repeats over and over again. “We’re gon’ be okay. I love you. Hot Rod loves you. We’re right here wit’ ya. We’re okay.”
More time passes. The only sounds in the room are the occasional small noise from Hot Rod as he dreams and shifts in his recharge. Prowl eventually ran out of tears, staring quietly at one of Jazz’s racing stripes. Now that he’s allowed himself to break, he can be put back together again, guided by gentle black servos and a soft cerulean gaze.
Right now, those servos are guiding his face to meet his mate’s, Jazz smiling sweetly at Prowl while stroking along his features. Prowl’s face is pulled into a kiss, gentle yet deep and settling some internal tension still within him.
“You’re so sweet, y’know that?” Jazz murmurs. “So loving an’ strong, all for me an’ our pack.” The Keeper presses another kiss to Prowl’s olfactory with a light giggle. “But also kinda funny, sometimes. My silly lil’ puppy.”
Despite himself, Prowl frowns. “I am not a pup, Jazz,” he deadpans.
“I didn't say that, I'm well aware that you’re an adult,” Jazz teases. “Still a puppy, though.”
Prowl’s confused frown only persists. “Jazz, what does that even–”
A black digit is pressed to his dermas. Prowl immediately shuts up and glances down at it with a blink, then back up at Jazz’s visor. The Polyhexian has some sort of self-satisfied smirk on his face, and Prowl can only guess what sort of things his mate is thinking of now.
“See?” Jazz grins. “Prowl o' Praxus is a giant puppy.”
…What?
There’s clearly something he’s not getting here, but whatever it is, Prowl genuinely doesn’t have the energy to try and figure it out. It’s been a long cycle, releasing all the pent-up emotions within him only left him drained despite the relief of the action, and all Prowl wants to do is hold Jazz while guarding his mate and sparkling from any potential threats that linger in the night. He finds a nearby mesh and pulls at it to cover them both, soaking in how the warmth and sweet scent of Jazz’s frame is cozily trapped underneath it.
What happened isn’t truly over yet, and they both know that. Whatever — or whoever — sent the ex-hunter after Hot Rod could strike again at any time, and the knowledge of this is shared throughout the entire apartment. Prowl’s pack wouldn’t all be spread out to recharge in the hallways (Smokescreen being an exception and probably drooling all over poor Ricochet right now) if they believed that all was truly well again. Jazz wouldn’t be sparing another long glance back at Hot Rod’s bassinet, then an even longer one at the locks on his room’s door, if he was truly sure that the threat was gone.
But in the quiet comfort provided by the presences of his mate and sparkling, Prowl allows himself to soften, releasing some of the stress lingering in his frame as sleep finally takes a hold of him. He dreams of nothing too-far removed from regular reality, just a peaceful day of being with Jazz and his pack while caring for Hot Rod. Only this time, rather than one singular sparkling, dream-Prowl apparently must have sired a litter with Jazz. Several nameless pups toddle about in this dream world, chirping and yipping for the affection of their creators.
It’s a pleasant recharge flux. Maybe, if Jazz wanted, they could make it real someday.
(Sometime in the early joors of the next cycle, Jazz briefly stirs awake. He can’t quite pinpoint what had woken him up; a bad flux he can’t recall? A random noise that his audial horns picked up on? Something else? But once he is, he silently glances at Hot Rod’s bassinet, smiling when he sees that his little bird is still in recharge with Sparky at his side. Just when he’s about to turn his visor off again, the brush of a canine olfactory against his neck is felt.
Curiously, Jazz glances behind him. Him and Prowl had ended up spooning, with one of Prowl’s white servos on Jazz’s chestplates and the other resting on his abdomen. Multiple promises, wrapped in one gesture. But instead of Prowl being half-shifted or in his mech form, the beastformer apparently shifted to his full turbowolf form, and is now snuggled into their meshes and pillows. Jazz barely contains a laugh at how Prowl’s tail and audial shells twitch unconsciously, and he is delighted by how in this form, the beastformer grunts and makes other soft turbowolf noises while in flux. There are no signs indicating a nightmare of any sort inducing a stress-related shift. If anything, it seems like Prowl’s having a great time.
Yawning, Jazz boops Prowl’s snout, presses a gentle kiss to it, then turns off his visor and cuddles back up to his puppy to catch a few more kliks of recharge.)
