Chapter Text
“Listen, Jazz: this sort of body modification isn’t exactly the easiest to do or get used to.”
Words Jazz had heard probably a billion times already. In true Jazz fashion, he rolled his optics under the obscurity of his visor, and shrugged. Like he didn’t know that relocating parts of his frame was going to be tricky… c’mon, Ratch, he wasn’t created yesterday!
“Yeah, yeah,” Jazz waved a hand flippantly. “It’s either this or I don’t get the intel and we all die. I think I know which option I’m choosin’, thanks.”
Ratchet flicked Jazz’s helm sharply. “Keep your tone to yourself,” he scolded. “Now lay down and shut up or I’ll weld ‘em to your aft.”
Jazz resigned himself to the CMO. He didn’t apologize, except for doing what he was told. These days, he wasn’t so sure when the old medic was joking about malpractice. No direct evidence had come of any of his threats of course, but that was because nobody was willing to test that theory. Jazz was no exception, even if he did have a pension for bad ideas and danger.
Laying on his front on the medical berth, Jazz tried to relax. He was fine. Cool, even. Just a little major surgery for the sake of the greater good. No biggie. He’d probably done worse to himself to survive. This was safe. He was safe.
“See you in eight joors, solider,” Ratchet gave Jazz’s flank a somewhat-reassuring pat.
“...See you.”
And then Jazz fell into the sort of stasis that felt like being held by someone too big to see.
Eight joors became ten joors as Jazz groaned and writhed and did not whine through the pain of fresh welds and sorting his processor out with the new sensors. For a short bit, his frame still thought parts of him were in their original place, and he got stuck in a feedback loop until Ratchet dragged him out of it. And then?
“I see the reformat was a success,” Optimus rumbled softly to Ratchet, who snorted (fondly— Jazz could always tell).
Jazz was ecstatic. He couldn’t stop striking poses in the mirror! He almost wished he’d thought of requesting mildly-experimental major surgery sooner! He was so hot!
“Hardly a reformat,” Ratchet muttered, looking exhausted in his reflection. Not that Jazz was really looking at him. “Just a little rearranging.”
Jazz struck another classic pose, one with a cocked hip, craning his neck to look over his shoulder at himself. Moving them was still a little tricky to get a grasp on, like trying to move cube of energon with your mind alone, but frag were they awesome. Not the prettiest pair of doorwings he ever did see, but certainly a good contender for second place.
Ratchet droned on about ‘being careful’ and ‘taking it easy’ for a few cycles– yeah, right. But Jazz nodded along for Optimus’ sake, gave the two a big grin, and marched his aft to the rec. room to show off his new appendages.
The rec. room was in full activity mode. It seemed like half the base was either enjoying some energon or gathered around some game or another. It was good to know that the world didn’t crash and burn while Jazz was out. It was also perfect.
Once one pair of optics looked up, they all looked up, basking in all of Jazz’s shiny glory like they tended to do. Because he was awesome like that.
“Hey, sick wings, Jazz!” Blaster called from across the room. Gotta hand it to Blaster for being his number one hypebeast.
Just like that, dozens of other cheery compliments were hurled at Jazz as he chuckled and sauntered around to mingle with his fellow Autobots. After lots of flattery and small talk, he made his way to the doorwingers club.
“Ratch did a good job!” Smokescreen said, not even looking up from the round of blackjack. “How’s it feel?”
“Pretty cool.” Jazz finger-gunned. “The bandwidth on these things is incredible. Thanks again for the idea.”
“My pleasure,” Smokescreen hummed, dealing cards out around the table. “You in, or?”
Jazz shook his helm. “I’m good, thanks. Gotta head out later tonight, and I better flaunt ‘em around while they’re still fresh.”
“Have fun!” Bluestreak chirped, peaking at his cards. Oh, definitely a losing hand. Jazz could tell. “Tell Prowl I gotta reschedule my next couple shifts please!”
“Sure, sure,” Jazz laughed. He shouldn’t be surprised that they knew where his next stop was. It would be downright impossible for Jazz to simply not go visit Prowl, no matter where he was. They were friends, of a sort. Plus, Prowl was one of the few others with doorwings, so it only made sense.
Jazz could not wait to flaunt them to Prowl: first-place doorwing haver.
“There’s my favorite tactician!” Jazz purred, once he made it to Prowl’s office. He leaned the same sultry way he always did in the door frame. “Ready to send me off?”
“Hello, Jazz,” Prowl greeted, same as always. He was also fixated on a stack of datapads, as always. Mech never could stop working. It was like relaxing, to him. Jazz didn’t get it but he could understand it, to an extent. “You aren’t scheduled to leave for another half… cycle…” he trailed off when he looked up, frowning minutely at Jazz. “You have doorwings?”
“Cool, right? Got the idea from Smokescreen, actually. He said it’d help me blend in, plus the sensors will keep me well aware of what’s goin’ on behind me.” Jazz did a little twirl to show the doorwings off, holding them proudly like he’d seen Bluestreak do when he nailed a ‘Con right through the spark chamber. “Plus, we’re matching even more, now! They ain’t as pretty as yours of course~”
Prowl’s face dropped, his gaze flickering beyond Jazz instead of at him. Slowly, like a frightened animal, his doorwings raised and pinched backwards.
Jazz didn’t detect anything with his nice, new doorwing sensors, but he looked over his shoulder anyway. Hmmm, nope! No scary specters or looming warlords behind him! Just his own pretty self and his awesome doorwings! Did he mention he got doorwings? When he looked back, Prowl’s face was turning blue, and was strained like his circuits were overheating.
“What? Did I give you a brain freeze bein’ this cool, or–”
“Get. Out,” Prowl grit out, finger joints creaking around the datapad he was frozen holding. “Do you have no shame? No sense of decorum?”
Jazz nearly lost his balance with how quickly his doorwings flicked downwards. What the– he didn’t mean to do that? He suppressed a grimace as he braced against the door frame, then tried to figure out what, exactly, he did to deserve getting snapped at. All he did was say ‘Hello, Prowl. Look at these thangs! Cool, eh? We’re twinning!’. Well, that was the gist, anyway. In not so many buzzwords. Oh yeah he did also directly compliment Prowl’s wings. But he did that all the time! Like… maybe even more than he just said ‘Hello’!
“What are you–”
“Get out!”
The door slid shut frantically the instant Jazz backed out of the door frame. The following snk of the locking mechanism wrung out a rare flinch from Jazz.
Well… that was slagging weird. Out-of-character, if he said so himself. And he did. That was not like Prowl; to get all spooked and weird and kick Jazz out of his office. Jazz! Jazz never got kicked out! Not even when he probably deserved it!
Jazz stood in front of the door for a moment, mouth slightly open. His jaw wasn’t dropped, but he should probably pick it up a little bit, lest someone catch him staring open-mouthed at Prowl’s office door like a freak-weirdo.
Barely-audible snickering came from around the far corner back the way Jazz came. Primus those sensors were good. He calmly turned around to casually walk in the direction of whoever thought his minor blight with Prowl was funny. Because it wasn’t. And Jazz knew what was and wasn’t funny.
Whatever that was? Was concerning. Something was wrong with Prowl. He wasn’t sure what but he was going to find out sooner or later. Preferably sooner, but the mech hadn’t ever locked his office door before. There was just no telling how long he’d be holed up in there, especially considering the fact he was already a chronic worker without a proper recharge schedule. Maybe he’d break in later, just in case.
Around the corner was none other than Bluestreak and Smokescreen, who were already looking at Jazz innocently.
“How’s it going?” Smokescreen nodded politely, but his left pede was bouncing like it always did when he was up to something involving shanix.
Also, Bluestreak was still giggling into his servo. He’d never make it into spec ops.
“Oh, fine.” Jazz shrugged, then slowly turned his whole body to face Bluestreak, but he kept his optics on Smokey. “What’s so funny?”
Smokescreen’s mouth pressed into a flat, nervous line. Bluestreak, however, just giggled louder while shaking his helm.
“Nothing!” Bluestreak declared, shaking himself out and clearing his vocalizer. “Smokey just tells great jokes, y’know.”
“Uh huh,” Jazz angled his helm to look at Smokescreen head-on. “You should tell me later, I’m sure it’s hilarious.”
“Aw yeah. Super good. Best joke I’ve ever told, maybe!” Smokescreen blurted, doorwings trembling in what looked like a forced-prideful position. He would also never make it into spec ops. Good thing he was a half-decent tactician and fighter.
Jazz shrugged. That was enough for him to determine that they were definitely laughing at him for one reason or another. They’d get their repentance later; Jazz would make sure of that. Actually, it started now.
“I’ll hold you to it,” Jazz said with a smile and a deliberately over-friendly pat on the shoulder to Smokescreen. “Ciao!”
Jazz began a confident march further down the hall, already setting a timer to make sure he didn’t forget to pry Prowl out of his office. Not that he was going to be able to forget that he’d been kicked out . Seriously, that was probably the worst thing to happen to him ever. And he’d been tortured by Shockwave! Twice!
“What the frag is ‘ciao’...?” Smokescreen muttered under his breath. Of course, Jazz ignored him. Never mind was ciao was.
Something was wrong with Prowl.
Jazz’s timer didn’t even get to run out by the time Prowl reportedly made an appearance outside of his office. Thank you cameras he could hack into without much fuss (probably a security concern but, eh. Red Alert could deal) for alerting him the instant the mech stepped outside.
“Where are you going…” Jazz whispered to himself, watching the feed on his HUD. He jumped from cam to cam, tracking the tactician’s casual movement through hallway after hallway. He did not stop, and he didn’t really acknowledge the bots around him, either. His course was direct and efficient and was– oh, hey, that’s Jazz’s hab door!
Unfortunately, Jazz was not in his hab. He was actually on an early transport shuttle to his mission drop-off location, because of course he couldn’t catch a Primus-damned break. He never liked Decepticons, but did they really have to decide to kick up their activity right when Prowl started being weird? Rude!
On a transport, far up in the periwinkle sky, Jazz sat in the corner and watched Prowl stand awkwardly in front of his door, raise a fist to knock (instead of pinging, like any normal bot would), pause, shake his helm, then walk away a little less casually from before.
His pretty doorwings were drooping.
What the frag??
“We’re going to the coordinates you provided, sir,” the transport shuttle mumbled around him. “Just some finicky wind currents, is all.”
Jazz did not jump out of his armor, but he’d be lying if he wasn’t at least a little bit startled. He was mission-ready. Locked in. But he was also kind of really focused on tracking Prowl’s every move.
“Ah, got it, mech. Thanks.”
“No problem. And, uh, could you do me a small favor?”
Jazz looked past his HUD and at the mostly vacant cargo bay of the shuttle. “Sure.”
“Could you stop hitting me with your doorings, please?”
Jazz frowned, just a little. He didn’t even… oh, whatever. Maybe the calibration was just a little off or something. Nothing to be concerned about, of course! So, he just scooted away from the wall a bit and tried not to think about what everybot thinks about when hitching a ride in someone’s alt: how it feels for the shuttle.
“Sorry.”
“No problem. Just six more joors to go. I’ll alert you if anything happens, sir.”
Needless to say, Jazz spent those six-ish joors watching Prowl sit alone, drink some energon, and then watching his closed habsuite door. Nothing actually out of the ordinary, really. And that was maybe even more concerning.
…See you in a groon or two, Prowl.
Jazz’s return to home base a whopping four groons later was typical: A large welcoming party at the main entrance and an overly-worried Ratchet fussing over every bit of his plating. Yes, the mission had gone on a little wrong. But that was because, for once, Jazz was trying to play it safe. And he did! For the most part… just a few home-made welds and questionable missing wires. Nothing like it could have been. Even the extraction had gone off without a ridiculous improvised explosion to send him off! Really, it was all boring.
But he got the right intel and forked it over; enthusiastic to have a lighter processing load for once. Ratchet got to fix him up just like he liked. He got to party and get absolutely slagged, surrounded by friends and comrades.
But. There was one little thing nagging him: Prowl.
Always Prowl.
Prowl, as usual, was not in attendance of the welcome-back committee nor the bumpin’ party Blaster set up. And usually , this wouldn’t irk Jazz. Because he knew Prowl.
Maybe it was because Jazz had been thinking about the tactician for most of his four groons away. It was like the most annoying tune he couldn’t get out of his head: the brief moments where Prowl kicked him out of his office and locked the door. The image of Prowl not-quite knocking on Jazz’s door after he left. He felt like he’d gone half insane during every quiet moment. Even drunk off his diodes, he was thinking about how there had to be something wrong with Prowl, but he was powerless to do anything about it.
Okay, maybe that last part was the engex. He wasn’t usually a… drunk crier.
“Woah,” someone muttered, scooching their stool away from where Jazz’s face was plastered to the bartop counter. “Yikes…”
Yikes was right, whoever-that-was. If Jazz had any real cognizance left, he would’ve slapped himself in the face and told himself to get over it. Really, it was stupid to be dwelling on two of the tiniest little moments from four groons ago. He was never one to hold grudges like that. And yet, there he was, sobbing into the cool, metal bar.
“Hey should someone, like… do something?” the same voice asked timidly.
Someone probably should. Hey, maybe he should do something! As in Jazz.
“I’m up!” Jazz slurred, managing to snap himself into an upright position. What was he even crying about? Psshh… nothing wrong in his life ever. “Lookit, aaalll up! Up ‘n’ attem! ‘Sfine.”
Jazz stumbled off his barstool, momentarily catching himself on– oh, hey Windcharger!- before he could fall on his face.
“Uh–” Windcharger began to say, before Jazz decided, you know what? That’s his new buddy.
“Yer a-comin’ with me now, buddy.” Jazz then proceed to sling the poor minibot over his shoulder like he weighed like a couple of grapes. “AWAY WE GO!”
“Wh– Help? Help! HELP!!!” Windcharger cried, all through the halls of Autobot base. But his fate was sealed. Jazz was wasted and dangerous. He was like a wild stallion on the open plains of Wyoming. He was like a wild fire, burning down all of California. He was like, uh, some third simile that was terrifying and destructive and wild.
No one was saving Windcharger.
Except, perhaps, an unsuspecting tactician.
Like a teenage girl with a heart of gold. Like a sexy firefighter. Like a… third metaphor. Jazz skidded to a halt, dropping Windcharger in the process like… he was seriously out of figurative language. A sack of something, maybe.
“Jazz,” Prowl sighed, tapping a foot and standing there with his arms crossed all disappointedly. “What are you doing?”
Now that! Was a great question. Jazz stared dumbfoundedly down at Windcharger, who was beginning to crawl away in terror. Hey, when did Windcharger get there? Looking back up at Prowl, he had an even harder time figuring out what was happening.
“Uh?” Jazz said at length. Prowl was so. So. So handsome. Hello, sailor…
When Jazz next became more aware of anything at all, he was safely tucked into his own berth, and a chevroned shadow slipped out of his hab.
“Some party last night, huh?” Smokescreen elbowed Jazz playfully.
Jazz, who was nursing the worst hangover ever, chuckled weakly. “Yeah… totes.”
“I mean,” Smokescreen paused to chuckle that shanix-laundering chuckle. “Word is you tried to kidnap Windcharger!”
Jazz, who only remembered showing up, getting hammered, and an angel tenderly putting his weary helm to rest, cocked his helm curiously.
“Oh?”
“Eh-yeah. Made it halfway down the hall with him kicking and screaming. Really funny slag. You musta had a few too many, mech!”
“Eeeh-yeah,” Jazz uttered, filtering his visor to let the least amount of light reach his optics as possible. Frag. Poor Windcharger. He made a note to send him a gift basket or something.
“I also heard that Prowl–” Jazz’s audial perked up so fast– “dragged your aft to berth.”
Smokescreen looked too smug for his own good. Also, loose change was literally falling out of his subspace pockets. Jazz was usually an avid Smokey-Betting-Pool follower. He’d lost some, he’d gained much more. Suddenly, being on the other side of things wasn’t as fun.
“News to me, mech,” Jazz scoffed. Play it casual. Prowl helped him to his room? Interesting. “Where is he, anyway? He hasn’t debriefed me yet.”
Smokescreen frowned, disappointed. “Y’know I would’ve thought you’d debriefed last night if you know what I mean.”
Jazz, too hungover to entertain… any of that… just grumbled and walked away. So what if he’d been trying to get under the covers with that mech for forever! Was that so absurd? Mech was hot! And… interesting. He wasn’t like other mechs. Truly.
Speak of the fragging devil.
Jazz stopped in his tracks upon seeing Prowl waiting in line for his morning energon. Right. He was hungover but he had things to ask, things to know. Like why Prowl acted all weird before he left and why he helped him to his room last night and why he was… anxiously watching Jazz from the corner of his optic.
“Hey,” Jazz said, deciding to just roll with it anyway. “I was wondering–”
“No thanks!” Prowl spluttered, edging further along in line. “I’ll speak with you later! Bye!”
Everyone in the room looked at them. What. The. Frag. What did Jazz even do?!
Jazz was left utterly stunned. He stood there, optics wide beneath the visor. “Oh,” he breathed, not even meaning to sound so dejected. “Alright, then. See you...”
The world had never been so gray.
Orns went by, just like that. Prowl would only talk to Jazz in private, only about work-related things, and he was always quick to cut their interactions short. He was always nervous and weird. He’d always run off if Jazz was in the rec. room at the same time. Worse, Smokescreen wouldn’t stop teasing him about it.
So, naturally, Jazz made him tell all of the frontliners his “best joke ever” as a humiliation tactic. It was only half as satisfying as it should have been, and it had been truly embarrassing (for Smokescreen, of course).
This awful, spark-crushing development of Prowl avoiding Jazz at every turn, no matter what he did, was miserable. Who the frag was he supposed to hang out with? Windcharger? He’d already tried that, apparently (poor minibot still gave him a wide clearance in the halls). Yeah, everybot else was cool and all, occasionally. But they weren’t Prowl. Prowl was special to him because, again, he was different! He… felt like he could just be himself around Prowl.
Plus, he was hot as the Pits. Just a bonus, of course, but now he could hardly even look at him on account of him being so entirely avoidant!
After a command meeting where Prowl pretended like Jazz wasn’t even in the room, Jazz decided he’d had enough. He was going to force the truth outta that mech once and for all! It was either going to completely ruin their weird little friendship/ability to work together and Jazz would have to wallow for eternity, or it was going to solve whatever the issue was. Easy.
The fun thing about the Autobot base was that Jazz knew how it worked intimately. Habsuite wings were arranged so that mechs who worked the same shift had rooms in the same area. That way, shift A mechs wouldn’t get woken up by the happenings of shift C mechs, and so on and so forth. At this joor, Jazz knew that the hallways leading from the command center to Prowl’s habsuite were going to be vacant because everymech would be recharging.
It was simple, really. Follow Prowl through some empty hallways and trap him into spilling his intel. Yeah.
In a fashion that was absolutely going to slag Red Alert off, Jazz slipped into the base controls and shut down the lights and cameras in the hall he was currently trailing Prowl down. He also made sure to shut just one teensy little blast door to make the tactician walk into a dead end.
Switching to night vision, Jazz could see the moment Prowl realized he was being hunted. His doorwings were angled wide (probably to try and sense where Jazz was currently activating all his stealth mods at once) but they were tense, and he began hurrying quicker down the hall. And then he made it to the blast door, and he whirled around, literal blind panic suffusing from his frame language.
Jazz stalked closer still, hoping to get him in the corner, scare the info he wanted out of him like he would any Decepticon grunt.
Sudden high-beams right at his visor blinded him, however, and he instinctually covered his face with a wince. He should’ve seen that one coming, really. Luckily, he saw Prowl trying to dash around him, and was able to snag an arm. In some interesting dance, Jazz swung Prowl around to face him, and they spun, and then they were bumper-to-bumper in a dark, empty hallway.
“What the frag are you doing?!” Prowl hissed, seeming to realize it was just his favorite buddy pal spec ops commander terrorizing him. He jerked in Jazz’s grasp, face scrunched up. “Let go.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Jazz asked, pushing him away just to hold him against the wall. Heh, now wasn’t that a pretty sight? “You’re actin’ weird. Ain’t right.”
Now. Jazz had excellent hearing as-it-were, right? He knew for a fact that Prowl’s cooling fans had just then clicked on, but he wasn’t sure what to do with that information just yet.
“Me? You’re acting weird! Let me go–”
“Holy frag,” Jazz mumbled, staring deep into Prowl’s wide, pathetic optics. It clicked, then. “Does this– are you turned on?”
Prowl’s vocalizer clicked once, twice, then his fans spun just that much louder.
Oh. Oh? Ohh…
Jazz licked his lips. Well, well, well… so he wasn’t insane for trying to pull this mech. It wasn’t an uphill battle with no peak. It wasn’t like trying to grab fistfuls of hot oil. It wasn’t so utterly fantastical like everybot made it up to be.
Prowl was into him. For realsies!
“Stop doing that,” Prowl whispered, shuttering his optics and downturning his helm.
Okay, that wasn’t what Jazz was after, though. What the frag was even going on? He’s into it, he’s not, he is, he’s not– Jazz slowly let go of Prowl’s arms, but didn’t quite back away, either. He needed to know, and he needed to know now .
“Stop doin’ what?” Jazz asked slowly, resting his hands on his hips.
Prowl– sweet Prowl– slowly raised his helm, gaze once more staring off behind Jazz and– oh! He was–
“Your wings,” Prowl mumbled, just as Jazz realized what he’d been staring at this whole time. “I know you like to tease me, but this is— this is— it’s too far,” he finished with the saddest, most defeated tone.
Jazz didn’t know what the frag Prowl was talking about. Yeah, he got doorwings, but it was common knowledge it was for the sake of that mission he went on. It wasn’t like bots cared he didn’t switch back; that would take a lot of time and energy out of Ratchet for one, and for another, he personally really liked them. They were handy! A little sensitive, yes, and they got a little tricky in tight spaces, but the trade-off was well worth it.
And then, teasing? He was teasing Prowl? Sure, he’d gotten a little heavy and obvious with the flirting, and it was a little out of personal amusement, but he wasn’t waving himself in front of Prowl like a forbidden snack! He’d wanted Prowl to take a stab at him… probably forever ago, at this point. It was hard to say.
“Hold up,” Jazz muttered. “Slow down. Huh?”
Prowl looked miserably at Jazz. “Don’t act stupid. You’re not stupid.”
“Yeah, I know I’m not. So what the frag are you on? What’s too far about my doorwings?” Jazz wanted to reach out and poke the edge of one of Prowl’s just for good measure, but refrained. Something was off. Unstable ground. Gotta tread carefully.
“You’re– you don’t know?” Prowl frowned hard. There were about to be monumental revelations, Jazz could feel it. Some real miscommunication slag. “When you flutter your wings like that, you’re basically… you know…” he twisted his fingers together, blushing like mad.
Ohh… yeah, okay. That was. That was a pretty major thing. No wonder he’d spooked Prowl off so bad! But… that also meant that everyone knew, right? Everyone with doorwings, at least?
“That’s… Embarrassing…” Jazz looked over his shoulder at his own doorwings. Sure as slag: fluttering. He had no idea they were even doing that! “So everyone with wings knows that I—“
“Yes,” Prowl sighed, pinching his olfactory. “You were— are— quite open about it.”
“Heh. Oops?” Jazz offered. Prowl didn’t look any less miserable. “If it’s any consolation– other than the fact I had no idea I was even doin’ it– I’ve been wantin’ to ‘you know’ with you for a long time. I wasn’t ever tryin’ to tease you. Promise.”
Slowly, like a snail coming out of its shell, Prowl met his gaze again. Primus then sent Jazz the greatest gift of all: a genuine, one-of-a-kind, Shy Prowl Smile.
There. Now that wasn’t the hardest miscommunication resolution he’d ever had!
“Let me make it up to you?” Jazz held a hand out, smirking. This time, he intentionally waved his doorwings around, trying to add some pizzazz to the classic flutter.
Apparently, that looked stupid, because Prowl rolled his optics and coughed a laugh away. Still, he slotted his hand into Jazz’s.
“My hab. And clear the cameras.”
Jazz fist-pumped as soon as Prowl turned to guide him towards his quarters. “You got it, beautiful.”