Chapter Text
Prowl flew across the surface, silently panicking. His fuel levels were plummeting, and his engine threatened to overheat, but he kept going.
They were going to find out. About Airachnid. About his crime.
His only hope was that he could get there before them.
The fear and anxiety echoed through his spark, ricocheting through his chassis and back again. Something amplified his panic, making it worse.
His engine roared, his cooling fans ran at full speed, and he drove so fast that his tires threatened to shred. And yet, he beelined towards Iacon.
Even then, he was too late.
Before he knew it, Prowl stood before the consequences of his war crime.
Ravage swiped the blaster from his hand, leaving him defenseless.
Megatron restored Airachnid's T-cog.
And Airachnid raised her arm, and shot him.
The projectile hit him high and left, ripping through his shoulder and left optic.
The blast knocked him to the ground. Energon poured from his wounds, too fast.
And just before he lost consciousness, he felt a sharp, ripping pain in his spark, followed by an agonizing burn all throughout his chassis.
Then it all went black.
Optimus Prime finally sat down, having spent hours pacing a trench in the floor of the private waiting room. Elita glanced at him, then went back to silently staring out the window.
They had been waiting a long time to get an update on Prowl.
Finally, the door opened, and First Aid walked in, clearly exhausted. Optimus and Elita both stood when they saw him.
“How is he?” asked Optimus, wringing his hands together.
“Sit back down, please,” said the weary medic.
Optimus and Elita quickly sat down, and First Aid gratefully collapsed into a seat across from them.
“Okay,” the medic sighed, “Prowl's alive, but he's in bad shape. We repaired as much of the damage as we could, then got him into stasis lock. Although, I may need to call in a specialist to handle his case, given his injuries and the state of his spark.”
Optimus nodded. He'd already given First Aid permission to contact Ratchet. If he needed to bring another medic on board – perhaps one who specialized in spark injuries? – then so be it.
“Contact whoever you need,” said the Prime. Then he hesitated for another moment. “So... what's the damage?”
First Aid pulled out a data pad and started listing off the damage that the explosive bolt had done. Prowl's left arm had nearly been blown off, and the blast had taken out his left optic. It also caused a lot of internal leaking, and even cracked his spark chamber.
“And that's not even counting the damage from the rapid descent,” the medic added. “Little one separated in a panic, and did some damage on its way down. At least it seems stable, for now.”
Optimus and Elita glanced at each other in confusion.
“Descent?” asked Optimus. “What do you mean by that?”
“Yeah, what are you talking about?” asked Elita.
First Aid looked back and forth between them for a long moment, then buried his face in his hands.
“Oh Primus, you don't know...” he muttered. Then he sat back up. “I think it would be best if you two came with me. I'll just show you.”
They followed First Aid out of the waiting room and down the hall, where the private recovery rooms were located. Only one was occupied.
The sight of the injured tactician was shocking, to say the least. Prowl lay comatose on the medical berth, hooked up to half a dozen monitors and infusions. There were thick patches covering his wounds, on his shoulder, his neck, and the left side of his face.
The spark monitor he was hooked up to showed his racing, uneven sparkbeat, and–
Optimus and Elita both noticed it at the same time. It was Elita who spoke first.
“Um... why the hell does Prowl have two sparkbeats?”
“So, that's the thing...” First Aid sighed. “He's carrying.”
The Prime stared at the medic. “Carrying what?”
“What... a sparkling, Optimus! Prowl's sparked!”
“Oh... oh!”
“Wait a second, I thought Ratchet gave everyone protocols, and baffles, and the talk,” said Elita. “So how...”
She trailed off, a look of realization on her face.
“Except Prowl hates medbays. He probably never got them. Scrap...”
“Are... are they both okay?” Optimus asked, gesturing to Prowl, and the second pulse on the monitor.
His field had already been laden with guilt, but now that he knew he'd endangered the life of an unborn sparkling, it was overwhelming.
First Aid sighed. “They're both alive. The sparkling is weak, but it's doing better than Prowl. The shot triggered it to descend into his forge early. They're both lucky that the spark chamber was ready.
“But that's why I want to bring Greenlight over. She's done training as a blacksmith. She'll be able to monitor the sparkling, while I tend to Prowl.”
Elita nodded. “I'll have Arcee send you her comm link.”
“I'm also going to assign guards,” said Optimus Prime. “I don't want the Decepticons coming back here to finish the job. Other than us, the only bots I want near him are medics.”
“And Jazz,” added Elita. “We've gotta tell him, too.”
Optimus nodded. “Jazz will want revenge... I don't want him going after Airachnid, especially during a fragile ceasefire, where she's protected by the Decepticons.”
“Yeah, but he still deserves to know,” said Elita. “I mean, knowing Prowl, Jazz probably doesn't even know that he's gonna be a sire.”
“That... is probably true,” muttered Optimus.
“Plus, if you tell Jazz to stay away from the 'Cons, he'll listen to you.”
“Will he?” asked Optimus, his starry optics drowning in guilt. “My orders put Prowl and his creation in danger. I could have killed them both. Will any of them listen to me, after this?”
Elita's optic twitched, then she turned to First Aid. “We'll be right back.”
The medic watched as the SIC of the Autobots dragged the guilt-stricken Prime out of the room, presumably to go get a pep talk.
First Aid sighed, then went back to monitoring his patient.
Well... patients.
It took a few attempts for Prowl to come back online, given the damage he'd sustained. But the sound of gentle music seemed to take him by the hand, and guide him back into the light.
In the moments before wakefulness, he felt the soreness in his frame come into hazy focus. It was present all over, yet it concentrated in his left shoulder, neck, and helm. It also felt like someone had laid something heavy across his midsection, putting an uncomfortable amount of pressure on his lower spinal strut.
His processor was sluggish, struggling to come online. It was incredibly frustrating – until his TacNet powered up, he wouldn't be able to reconcile how strange his frame felt.
Slowly – slower than usual – his processor came online. He let out a soft sigh, then carefully blinked his optics open. His left eye appeared to be nonfunctional, covered by a patch.
The room he was in was small and cozily furnished. The lights were dim, but he recognized it.
He was in one of the long-term recovery rooms in the Kalis medbay. Monitoring devices surrounded him, and drips poked into his lines, feeding him oddly-colored energon – probably medical-grade, though it looked thicker than average. Supplemented to help him heal, perhaps?
He knew he was injured, but the specifics had yet to come through. Until then, he could only focus on how odd his frame felt.
His armor was too tight, his core was too hot, and there was too much pressure in his lower abdomen. His cooling fans were running steadily, trying in vain to reduce his temperature.
Something had clearly gone very wrong – did he have internal leaking? Was that why his middle felt so heavy?
As his processor booted up, he slowly remembered the events that had transpired to land him here.
Then he remembered his war crime.
Prowl let out a strangled gasp, feeling his tired vents suddenly struggle to keep up. His functional hand clutched his chest, then shifted down towards his abdomen.
Another hand caught his before it could make contact, making him snap his attention to his right.
There was Jazz, sitting at his berthside, watching him with overt concern. One servo gripped his, while the other shifted his electro-bass off his lap, resting it against the wall.
He couldn't help but miss the music.
“Prowl...” Jazz breathed, his visor brightening in surprise.
That reaction told him enough. He'd been comatose for a long time. His processor wanted to panic about that realization, but his partner's presence silenced it.
Jazz's EM field washed over Prowl, surrounding him with nothing but love, comfort, and an overwhelming sense of safety.
Prowl took a deep vent, his entire field of view focused only on Jazz. On that bright visor, and gentle, lopsided smile. His frantic TacNet settled, basking in the sense of comfort and certainty emanating from his partner.
Whatever had happened... whatever had been revealed... he wasn't doomed. They wouldn't let Jazz be near him if he were.
“Easy there, Prowler,” said Jazz, his voice low and soothing. “Just focus on me, and take it nice and slow.”
As his TacNet powered up, it started running a low-urgency deep full-frame scan. However, it was still functioning at a lower baseline power level than normal. As if something else was drawing his energy, diverting it away from the TacNet.
Regardless, his battle computer of a processor recognized that they were somewhere safe. That it could afford to come online slowly, perform systems maintenance, and prepare for him to fully awaken from stasis without crashing.
They were safe. It wasn't like anyone could get to him, with Jazz watching over him.
Prowl squeezed Jazz's hand, his field full of gratitude and love.
With the full-frame scan running in the background, he slipped back offline.
When Prowl came online again a few hours later, there were more bots in the room. His doorwings were sore and achy – likely because he'd been lying on them – but they could still sense the movement of three separate bots.
Jazz was on his right, holding his hand again. Prowl could recognize those hands and field anywhere. The deep sense of comfort that his presence provided was more potent than usual, but welcome.
In the background, the deep scan continued to run. The TacNet seemed to be stuck on something, though, lagging at 89% completion. His cooling fans were still running, working hard to dispel the heat from his processor and core.
On that note, his position had been readjusted. He leaned against the head of the soft berth, propped upright at a 45 degree angle, rather than lying flat. In this new orientation, the weight in his abdomen had shifted off his spinal strut, settling instead on his hips. He wouldn't say it was comfortable, but it was less painful.
Prowl still couldn't seem to gather the energy to open his eyes, so instead, he simply listened.
“–was impinging on his vents, so hopefully the new position helps,” said a mech to his left. He recognized the voice as First Aid's.
Of course it would be a medic. He was still wounded, after all.
“Still sounds like he's overheatin',” muttered Jazz. The hand that wasn't clutching Prowl's gently pressed against his cheek. Prowl leaned into the touch.
“Yeah, he's at the point where overheating starts to become more common,” said the voice of a femme, which he didn't recognize. “And that hardware in his helm isn't helping. His cooling lines are really overtaxed.”
“He burned through a few coolant lines durin' the battle to break the siege,” said Jazz. “Hoist had to replace 'em.”
The femme made a surprised noise. “Seriously? Hoist didn't notice this?! Did he even scan him?”
“Greenlight, you have to remember, this was right after a major battle,” said First Aid, defensive of his mentor. “The medbay was packed with bots waiting for repair. We were in triage mode. Otherwise, this wouldn't have slipped through.”
“That's fair, I guess,” said the femme, Greenlight. “I was still in Iacon during all that.”
“Is that why he's strugglin' to wake up?” asked Jazz, concern flickering through his field.
“That's definitely part of it,” said First Aid. “This was his first time in stasis lock, right?”
Prowl's wings felt Jazz nod.
“First time's always the roughest,” the medic continued. “Especially with two separate systems leeching energy from his spark. Let's just let him rest for now.”
Jazz gave a weary chuckle. “Ya know he's not the best at that.”
“Well, he's gonna have to get better at it,” said Greenlight. “That rapid descent nearly tore a chunk out of his spark. Between that and his injuries, he's gonna be on berthrest until well after emergence.”
Something Greenlight said triggered the TacNet to overcome the snag. The percentage on the full-frame scan began to tick up again.
Prowl wanted to open his eyes and start asking questions, but the power drain from his processor continuing the scan was too much to overcome. He pressed his overheating face into Jazz's palm, and dropped back offline.
When Prowl finally recovered enough to fully wake up, the air was filled with gentle music once again.
He stayed still and quiet, not wanting Jazz to realize he was awake yet. He didn't want him to stop playing.
While he laid there, he took stock of himself. He still felt sore, and so weak that he couldn't even lift his functioning hand.
Although his wounds didn't ache as much, the pressure and weight in his lower abdomen had gotten worse. Even though he was still propped upright, the firm mass pressed painfully on his lower back, as well as his pelvis. It radiated heat, yet it leaned heavily on his ventilation systems, preventing him from cooling himself effectively.
He must have made a noise of discomfort, because suddenly, the music stopped. Jazz shifted nearby, moving closer.
With a monumental amount of effort, Prowl blinked his eye open. His vision was blurry while his processor calibrated, but he could still see the shape of his partner leaning over him.
“Hey there, Prowler,” said Jazz, a relieved smile spreading across his face. “Are ya with me?”
Prowl reset his vocalizer. “I... believe I am...”
His voice sounded rough, and full of static, but he felt otherwise stable.
“How do ya feel?” Jazz quietly asked, taking Prowl's functioning hand and squeezing it between his.
“Strange...” Prowl groaned, glancing down at himself.
There was a large weld stretching across his left shoulder and chest, and his left arm was bound to his side in a sling. Because of his position, his bumper blocked his view of his abdomen, and he didn't have the strength to sit up and look.
He tried to move his hand to feel, but Jazz held tight.
“Jazz...?”
“Prowler, I... I gotta know,” said Jazz, repressed hurt creeping into his field. “Why didn't ya tell me?”
Prowl cringed, then looked away, staring down at the new scar on his chassis.
“I... I am sorry,” he muttered. “I considered every possible solution, but...”
His memory flickered back to the fateful meeting of the Autobot High Command, where they tried to figure out how to keep Airachnid imprisoned. It had gone nowhere, until the Prime tasked Prowl with keeping her incarcerated, without harming her.
He distinctly remembered the surge of panic he'd felt when he realized that the only answer was to remove her T-cog.
That fear of how the others would react, given their past... that was why he hadn't told anyone. No matter how sick keeping that secret had made him.
At least he wasn't nauseous anymore, now that the secret was out.
“I... I wanted to tell you,” Prowl quietly admitted. “But... I was afraid. That you would be furious with me, given our past. I was afraid you would hate me.”
Jazz took a deep vent, seemingly confused. “You're... you're talkin' about takin' Airachnid's T-cog?”
“Hers was the only cog I took, yes,” Prowl snapped, his field flaring. “Do you really think that little of me, that I would do something like that to anyone else?”
His vents suddenly wheezed, and a wave of dizziness swept through him. His vision flickered, and his helm and spark suddenly began pounding.
Jazz was suddenly on the berth next to him, leaning against his uninjured side, helping him stay upright. He pulled Prowl close, and began to softly hum.
After a long moment, the episode passed. Prowl sighed in relief, dropping his helm against Jazz's shoulder. His vents roared, and he felt an unnerving twitch in his abdomen – a cable cramp, maybe?
“Easy there, love,” Jazz crooned. “Can't have ya stressed. Least not 'til you're healed up.”
“Not... not possible...” said Prowl, still struggling to vent.
“I'll help you. Ya just gotta let me.”
“I... should have told you,” Prowl choked out. “I should have let you help me keep her imprisoned.”
Another tiny flicker of confusion ran through Jazz's field, but he covered it. Prowl wasn't sure why his own field was so sensitive at the moment, but he suspected his frame was compensating for his damaged vision.
“Yeah, babe,” said Jazz, his voice low and calming. “Promise to include me the next time ya do a war crime?”
“Promise...”
Jazz leaned in close and planted a gentle kiss on his helm.
“I am still mad about the whole T-cog thing,” he admitted, almost guiltily. “But I'll give ya grief for it when you're feelin' better. Like I said, can't have ya gettin' too stressed.”
Prowl gave a shaky sigh, then jumped in surprise when he felt coolant suddenly run down his face. Jazz had finally released his hand, so he reached up, and carefully brushed the tears from his face.
“What is happening...?” Prowl muttered.
“It's just your coding, love,” said Jazz, running a soothing hand between his doorwings. “Greenlight says mood swings are pretty common.”
“My coding?” Now it was Prowl's turn to be confused.
“Creator coding, Prowler,” said Jazz, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
There was silence for a beat.
“Primus, did you... are ya serious right now?” Jazz pressed. “Ya didn't know?”
Prowl stared at his partner. Absently, he noticed his TacNet pinging him to try and get his attention, but he ignored it for now.
“Jazz, are... are you sparked?”
Jazz let out a disbelieving laugh. “No, Prowler. You are.”
Prowl stared at him.
That... what?!
Of all the ways Prowl expected this conversation to go, this had not been in his calculations.
“I...” His processor seemed to stall, unable to find the right words – any words – to say.
Thankfully, Jazz took pity on him. He took his servo, then guided both of their hands down to press against Prowl's abdomen.
Prowl let out a stifled gasp, then leaned forward, craning his neck to look down at himself.
His normally flat abdominal plates bulged outwards, forming a gentle swell. It was relatively small, yet still obvious. Anyone would be able to look at the round distension, and they would know.
He was carrying.
How had he not known?!
With Jazz's encouragement, he pressed against the little bump, stunned by how squishy his abdominal plating had become. His digits sunk in, before being stopped by a dense, overly warm mass.
The weight and pressure he'd been feeling against his internals had been his forge. Which meant the movement he felt–
Something kicked against his hand, making him jump.
There was something – a sparkling!
His sparkling. His and Jazz's.
Inside him. Growing. Moving. Alive.
“Prowl...? You okay?”
He blinked, realizing he'd been stunned into complete silence. His cooling fans were roaring, now, and his venting was ragged.
“I... I didn't know...” he whispered, his voice laced with static.
“It explains why ya kept gettin' sick in the mornings,” muttered Jazz, his hand rubbing soothing circles over Prowl's belly. “And the cravings. And ya started throwin' a lot more tables at people.”
“I thought I was just stressed... How... how did I not know...?”
“Well, you are a master of avoidin' medbays. I'm sure ol' Hatchet is gonna blow a fuse when he hears–”
“I almost got her killed...”
Jazz's hands froze, and his field pulled tight. “What...?”
“Our sparkling,” Prowl clarified, his horrified voice barely more than a whisper. “I almost got our daughter killed...”
Because now that he knew about her, he could feel her. She'd been there this whole time, as quiet as her carrier, and as sneaky as her sire.
He'd had no idea he was carrying such precious cargo.
And he'd driven headfirst into danger, and gotten himself shot. He could have lost her.
Distantly, he realized Jazz was talking to him, but he couldn't hear him over the roaring of his cooling fans.
Prowl wrapped his arm around his belly, trying to curl protectively around his forge. He couldn't get his legs as close as he wanted.
In an attempt to be helpful, his TacNet pulled up his frame scan results, highlighting everything related to his carriage, and the sparkling.
DIAGNOSTIC: major damage to core systems from close-range strike by explosive artillery, confidence 99.85%
DIAGNOSTIC: injury severity triggered newspark to rapidly separate and descend into gestation chamber, confidence 98.73%
WARNING: major wound to spark detected; RECOMMEND: minimize stress, keep spark rate low
WARNING: descent channel not formed, radiation damage detected across multiple internal systems
WARNING: 52% of chassis coolant lines integrally compromised
DIAGNOSTIC: gestation chamber active, quickening detected, confidence 95.33%
DIAGNOSTIC: sparkling successfully integrated into forged protoform, confidence 99.97%
DIAGNOSTIC: carrier protocols activated; correlating sire protocols sent and successfully received, confidence 100%
CURRENT STATUS: gestation 54% complete, 1.3 cycles remaining, variability 1-2 months
WARNING: internal cooling fans functioning at 23% efficiency; RECOMMEND: position adjustment, external frame support/cushioning
WARNING: carrier-creation bond below optimal strength; RECOMMEND: emotional bonding
WARNING: mineral deficiency detected; RECOMMEND: supplementing high-grade energon with silver, mercury, and aluminum
WARNING: circulating nanite levels at 14%; RECOMMEND: transfluid injection via interface with sire
Prowl blinked, hard. That one snapped him out of it.
Slowly, he dismissed the report and reconnected with his frame, the threat of a crash abating. His burning helm was resting on Jazz's chassis, right above his steady spark. Jazz was wrapped around him, keeping him supported.
“There ya go, Prowler,” Jazz whispered, watching him become lucid again. “You're okay. You're both okay...”
With Jazz's warm field surrounding him, Prowl detected the fierce protectiveness hiding beneath the comfort. That must be the sire protocols in action, doing their best to keep Prowl calm and secure while he recovered.
“I am sorry...” said Prowl, his voice laced with static. “If I'd known I was carrying, I would have told you in an instant. I would never keep her from you on purpose. She is yours, as much as she is mine.”
He felt Jazz's frame relax by a fraction.
“This whole time, I was drivin' myself crazy, wonderin' what I did or said to make ya keep our bitty from me,” Jazz quietly admitted. “Glad that wasn't the case.”
Prowl pushed himself upright – with more difficulty than he expected – and sat facing his life-long partner. The realization that Jazz spent these last few months thinking he wasn't good enough broke his spark.
“Jazz, you are my world. Our sparkling is lucky to have you as her sire.”
It was a simple affirmative, but it was effective. Jazz's expression broke out into an overjoyed smile, and any lingering tension vanished from him.
“I am sorry I made you wait so long to hear this,” Prowl added.
Jazz leaned forward and kissed him, long and deep. Prowl responded with equal eagerness, his engine purring with satisfaction.
Then that satisfaction bloomed into something more passionate.
Conscious of his TacNet's recommendation, Prowl tried to shift himself into Jazz's lap. However, he found his frame awkward, and slow to respond. A wave of dizziness had him wobbling, clutching his partner for support as he struggled to compensate for his new center of gravity.
Jazz leaned back with a laugh, clearly picking up on his fumbled amorous intentions.
“I hear ya, babe,” he said. “But how 'bout we give ya one more night to recover. Plus, you're still hooked up to a spark monitor. That thing'll send an alarm, and I think Greenlight would rip my helm off if she caught us.”
Prowl let out an unhappy whine, then blinked in surprise. What kind of noise was that?!
“I know, beautiful,” Jazz chuckled. “Get some rest, first. Then I'll be happy to provide, whatever you and the bitty need.”
Prowl relented, letting Jazz lay him back against the raised head of the berth. He glanced to the left, finally looking at the spark monitor.
Because it was likely the middle of the night, the monitor had been silenced, but the dim screen still showed him what he wanted to see.
Two sparkbeats. His own was elevated from the activity, but relatively steady. And on the screen below his, was his sparkling's.
Fast, a little weak, but there.
Prowl blinked, realizing he was crying again.
He ran his hand over his belly, and was rewarded with the alien sensation of his sparkling stretching inside him. Her little pedes pressed against his palm, but her helm dug into his spinal strut, sending shooting pains down his legs.
Jazz snapped to attention when he winced. “You alright?”
“This position is uncomfortable,” Prowl admitted. “I think I would prefer to lay on my side.”
Jazz nodded, then slipped off the berth. He reclined the head of the berth, then helped Prowl shift into a better position. He also grabbed a few pillows from the room's storage cabinet, and positioned them under Prowl's belly to help support the weight of his forge.
Prowl grabbed one more pillow and shoved it between his knees, then he sighed in relief. With the weight of the sparkling no longer crushing his spine or impinging on his vents, he felt his temperature start to return to a somewhat normal level.
The lack of pain and discomfort made him realize just how fatigued he was. The moment his helm hit the pillow, he struggled to stay online.
Jazz slipped back onto the berth, face to face with him. He draped an arm over Prowl's middle, his field humming with happiness.
Prowl shuffled closer, burying his face in Jazz's neck. The only thing running through his processor was the thought of how lucky he was.
He knew he would face the consequences of his crime soon, but for now, he could rest.
Between them, their creation shifted, then settled, comforted by the calm, loving fields of both of her creators.
Within minutes, the entire little family was fast asleep.