AU August Fic 21

AU August Fic 21

Ghosts

Listen, this was not supposed to be 1,500 words of dystopian YA novel.  Yet here it is.

“Ugh.  Or-ion!  Come on!  Before they see us,” Ariel scolded as she slipped under the fence.

 “Maybe this isn’t such a good -” Dion started to say as he scooted under, folding down his smoke stacks.

 “It’s a great idea!”  Ariel put both servos on her hips and glared at them.  It was unsettlingly similar to the depiction of the Divine Weapon on the sides of the temple, one of the unknown Primes.  “We’ll finally get to do something fun!  Exams are over -”

 “Until we apply for Secondary Schools,” Orion Pax corrected as he carefully held the fence away from his shiny new paint.  Ariel had already scratched hers and Dion’s creators hadn’t bothered with the traditional re-paint after graduation.

 The other side of the fence looked surprisingly…normal.  Everyone had different reasons why the plains and forests outside the city were forbidden - wild mechanimals, rogue sentinel bots, sparkeaters.

 It was a bit dusty, Orion decided, a bit quieter.  It was mostly bare with a few shrubs and a few places where the heat of the core had burst up and buckled the surface metal.  Even that had cooled, leaving a lonely stretch of cold, dark land.  

 Ahead of them was the abandoned building they’d been wondering about since they had all been sparklings. Had it been a base for an army?  A prison?  A mad scientist’s lab?  When Ariel had suggested one more adventure before they split for secondary (Orion for Knowledge, Ariel for Military, and Dion for Construction of all things) none of them had had the spark to say no.

 It sounded like Dion was second guessing that idea.

 “I’m just saying,” he repeated, “that if we get eaten by a sparkeater my carrier is going to kill me.”  

 “That’ll save them the trouble then!” Ariel called back.  She was leading the way, darting from shrub to rock shelter, to hide from anyone monitoring the gate.  Dion and Orion Pax tried to copy her clever movements, which wasn’t easy to do, considering they were four times her size.

 After a few more ‘duck and covers’ they both just trailed behind her as she rolled and tumbled.

 Finally they reached the entrance.  Or where an entrance would have been if the roof hadn’t caved in.

 “I’ll go first!” Dion volunteered because he never turned away a chance to get dirty or injured by falling debris.

 Which explained the construction degree, now that Orion thought about it.

 Dion safely made it through and into the hallways and called the other two after them.

 It was…dark.  Quiet.  Orion found himself slowing his venting as he walked.

 It looked like it might have been a…bar?  There was a big room with chairs and tables and some sort of spigot?  Dion mentioned seeing something like it in one of their history texts.

 “Imagine,” Ariel said as she fiddled with it, “just drinking whatever energon came out of that.  It could be cut with dead bot’s energon or hydrogen dioxide!”

 Orion explored one of the rooms on the left and came back to tell them it looked like the school’s chemistry lab.

 “I think they mixed things into their energon!”

 “Oh, come on!” Dion ribbed him.  “No one would waste gold or lead or sulfur on flavoring their energon.  I bet this was a secret weapons facility!  They were probably building weapons and - and time vortexes!”

 “Pft.  I doubt it.”  Ariel was standing on the bar, trying to reach one of the ceiling panels.

 “I could be right!”

 “In your dreams!  You thought the noise outside your window was a sparkeater!”

 “I was 112!  How was I supposed to know what rain sounded like?”

 “I bet it’s an old mad scientist’s lab,” Ariel proclaimed, a look of giddy excitement crossing her face that Orion hadn’t seen since they were small.  “She was probably creating super soldiers against the government and they shut her down!”

 “That’s stupid!”

 “It is not!”

 “You said my idea was stuipd!”

 “Because it is.”

 “Hey!”  Orion cut them off.  “We’ll probably never know -”

 “We could just ask them!” Ariel interrupted him.  Orion looked over and caught her optics.  Oh, this was a plot, he could feel like.

 “Ask who?” he said carefully.  She reached into her newly created subspace and brandished a datapad with a peeling sticker that said “Ghost Chaser!” with the logo for the popular television show.

 “What,” he said flatly, “is that.”  She only smiled wider.

 “They use them on the show to talk to ghosts!  We can contact the ghosts of the bots who used to live here and ask them!”

 Dion walked over and pulled it out of her servos.

 “Hey that’s mine!”

 “How long have you been planning this, A?”  She snactched it back.

 “A while!  It’s not like it’ll hurt.  We’re already here.”  She looked over at Orion.

 “Set it up,” he said, “but we aren’t going to wait all night like they do in the shows.”

 0-0-0

 It did not take all night.  It did not even take twenty kliks.

 “Look look look!  It’s moving!”

 Indeed, the small red dot was moving across the glyphs.  Everytime it paused the device read the word allowed.

 “Can’t.”

 “Stop.”

 “Can’t.”

 “Stop.”

 “Can’t stop what?  Where you murdered?  Are you a murderer?”

 “Sh, don’t interrupt it!”

 “Can’t.”

 “Stop.”

 “The.”

 “Can’t.”

 “Stop.”

 “The.”

 “Music.”

 “Ba-da-dum.”

 “Ridiculous.”

 “WHAT?” Ariel screeched.  She leapt for the pad, but Orion hauled her back.  

 The static around his spark was starting to prickle uncomfortably.  Something was…strange.

 “Ridiculous.  I.  Am.  Ridiculous.  You.”

 “Yes.  You.  Are.  Ridiculous.”

 “No.  You.”

 “Not. I. Singing. To. Sparklings.”

 “I’m not a sparkling!” Dion said outraged before going very still.  He had just yelled at a ghost.  It was Ariel this time who pulled him back.  She had gone very still and very quiet.

 “Sparklings.  Not. Forever. But. Yes. Sparklings.  Go. Home.”

 “No.  Stay.  Don’t. Leave. Me. With Stick-in-the-slag.”

 The device was running words together as if they were being pressed too quickly for it to handle.

 “Your.  Bonded.”

 “Bonded-stick-in-the-slag.”

 “You.  Like.  Stick.”

 “Sparkling.  Audials.  Quiet.”

 “What was this place?” Orion asked, seeing as both his best friends were playing statues.  

 “Bar.  Home.  Bots. Come. Music.  Fuel.  Family.  Family-after-the-war.”

 “What war?”

 There was a pause and Orion was afraid the ghosts had left.

 “The.  Great.  War.  Autobots.  Decepticons.  Good.  Evil.  Both.  Study?”

 “I don’t understand.”

 “You.  Study.  Not.  Great. War.  What?”

 “Well,” Orion said slowly, “I’m studying knowledge right now.  The Great Kaon Archives have almost 1,000 datapads.  I’ll be allowed to start reading them after I pass my university exam.  We learn about how the government works, how it gives us fuel and shelter.”

 “We do math,” Dion finally chimed in.  “We have to use it to build new buildings since the acid rain eats at them.  We have to calculate our fuel usage everyday to add it to our tally.”

 “Tally.”

 “Yeah.  The government gives us fuel as sparklings and we have to pay it back when we’re grown up!  Everyone does.  My grand-creator is almost done paying off her sparkling fuel.  After that they’ll pay her in credits and then we can go on a trip or buy cool stuff!”

 “Query.  Tally.  How.  Much.”

 “Well,” Dion said, squinting his optics as he thought, “my fuel usage today was 400 credits.  When I get my first construction job I’ll be able to pay back about 700 credits a week.  As long as I don’t have any accidents and I keep my fuel usage low, I’ll be able to pay my debt off way before my grand-creator did.”  He smiled, but there was something…tight about it.

 “How. Keep.  Low.”

 “Recharge as soon as you get home from school,” Orion started to recite.  It was on every classroom wall and in every sparkling show.  “Don’t use the datanet for more than 20 minutes a week.  Stay close to home.  No comms unless it’s an emergency.”

 The device was silent.

 “This.  Is.  Tyranny.  This.  Is.  Sentinel.  Prime.  This.  Is.  Praxus.  This.  Is. WRONG.”

 “Mechs.  Femme.  Wrong.  Listen.  Keep.  Down.  Hold.  Down.  No.  Word.  No.  Word.”  

 The device started to shake.

 “On-Pr-E-Sh-N.”  The ghost was cycling through the words even faster and they started to run together.

 “O-Pr-E-Sh-N.”

 “O-Pr-E-Sh-o-N.”

 “OPPRESSION.”

 “What…does that mean?” Orion asked, something in his helm - or in his spark? - flinching at the word.

 “Word.  Means.  Keep.  You.  From.  Fighting.”

 “It doesn’t!”  Ariel argued, glaring at the device.  “I’m going to study military and I’ll be fighting to protect us from the invaders!”

 “Fight.  Government.”

 Ariel rolled her optics.  “Why would we fight the government?  That’s stupid.”

 “If.  Government. Wrong.  How.  Will.  You.  Fight.”

 “The government…can’t be wrong!”  But there was something in Ariel’s optics.  Something Orion thought he’d been seeing peek out for a while.

 Fear.  She clutched at the seat of her chair, servos clench so hard the color was fading.

 Beside her, Dion was looking down, his whole frame hunched and drawn in.

 There was something here - something they’d left him out of.  Why?

 “Fight.” 

 “What…have you guys been keeping from me?” Orion Pax asked, hoping they wouldn’t answer.

 “We…we found some stuff…” Dion mumbled.

 “What?”

 “Frames!”  Ariel finally shouted, leaping from her chair.  “We found dead frames in one of the building in 23 District.  That’s it!  We don’t know how they got there!”

 “Just…frames?  Laying around?”  That…the government said that they didn't have enough cybertronium.  That for every bot that died, their frame was recycled and that was why it was so hard to create new sparklings.  That was why they had fuel shortages.  If they were in the Government District…

 “You…you didn’t tell me?”

 “They were…Orion, they were the Kaon Archive Librarians.”  Ariel wouldn’t meet his optics.  He felt like his spark was disconnected from his frame.  His processor had stalled.

 “Or-Eye-N.”

 Orion turned to look at the device.

“Danger.  

AU August Fic 25

Mad Scientist

Most bots thought of science as chemicals in beakers or mad engineers building time dilation devices.

They all ignored the subtle science of cybertronian anatomy.  The danger in a well designed pede and the poetry of a perfectly sculpted bumper.

The perfectly sculpted bumper in front of him, put stars in Jazz’s optics.  It was a perfect mixture of sleek and tough, expertly designed to balance speed and ramming ability.  The curve alone!  

Jazz was not, however, blindsided by a perfect bumper to the point that he ignored the rest of the gorgeous, gorgeous anatomy.  

Where to start?  Top or bottom.  Heh, ‘bottom.’

The mech’s pedes were not pretty in the same way his bumper was, but the sheer craftsmanship that had gone into them was dazzling.  Jazz watched each tiny hydraulic cylinder compress as the mech shifted from pede to pede, the shaft pressing inwards with the weight and easing out as he lifted his pedes.  It must have been like walking on air.  The moving parts, spinning and pumping and cranking, were dizzying to watch.

As his optics moved upwards, Jazz could see the cables and sensors peeking out from behind the armor plating.  Each leg was thick - heavily armored and strung with thick and thin cables.  It allowed the mech the choice of powerful gross movement or delicate precision.  Jazz felt an ache in his digits - he wanted to stroke his servos over those smooth shinplates and up those round thighs…

His hips were very wide - perfect for resting weight on be it his own or a partner’s.  While the mech was in pursuit the hip joints would take the heavy pounding if he was running.  Whatever bumps weren’t compensated for by the hydraulic suspension in his pedes, would be evenly distributed over his hips to reduce vibration and damage to his torso and sparkcase.

It seemed wrong at first, for the waist to be so small and trim compared to the generousness of his legs and hips.  However, as Jazz stared looked he realized the narrow waist gave him nearly 180 degree bend and twist.  The armor around his central column was made up of many interlocking plates, creating a thick, but flexible shield.  Flexibility was always…good.

Jazz shifted and bit down hard on his thumb, trying not to imagine that flexibility too much.

His chest was broad and deep.  Jazz had heard him speak and it was like a rumble of thunder.  His shoulders obviously held a trio of missile each, if the lines in his plating was any indication.  Yet they were so smooth and polished, it seemed impossible that they could transform.  Jazz imagined the plating folding out like a flower as the weapons sprung forward, hot and charged and -

Oh, he might need to step outside.  Jazz tried to discreetly increase his fans and pressed his back against the coolness of the window behind him.

His chest was impressive, not counting that perfect, perfect bumper.

The helm was striking.  Plain white, rounded, with cheek guards.  A single adornment - a sharp, red chevron - was the only flash of color.

His face, well, Jazz had always had a thing for the stoic type.  Pale blue optics and a stern mouth.  A chin that looked like it had taken a few hits - which only intrigued Jazz more.

Behind him, held stiffly, were the ultimate temptations.  If rumors were true, those elegant, thick doorwings were sensor rich.  Jazz wanted to locate each sensor and give it the attention it deserved.  Preferably while the mech was pinned on his front -

“Thermal-Blend with sprinkles for Jazz!” called the barista.  

Jazz wasn’t sure if it was good or terrible timing.  He felt a step away from combusting and he had a feeling the crowded cafe would notice something like that.

He had to be careful in the colonies.  It wasn’t as easy to disappear.  He had to leave behind his old profession and his old skills.  Things like that wouldn’t go unnoticed here.  Such few bots made patterns easier to see.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he bumped into someone, holding his cube close to his chest so it didn’t spill.  He looked up.

Oh.  He didn’t think he’d get to study the bumped up close.

“It is alright.  You are new to this colony?”  

Jazz nodded, trying to keep his optics fixed on the other mech’s instead of letting them slip down to -

“Just left Cybertron last week.  Thought it would be a good change.”

“It is.  I am Captain of the Enforcers here.  If you need anything, you only need to ask.”

An Enforcer. Of course he was.  Built for combat and pursuit.  Scrap.

“Thanks.  We’ll probably be seein’ a lot of each other,” Jazz said, before his processor caught up with him.  He wasn’t supposed to be taunting the enforcers!

“Oh?”  The enforcer tilted his lovely helm.  “What is your function?”

Jazz looked the mech up and down as his processor ran a mile a minute.  Well, he had said he was going to go straight once he got to the colonies…

“Scientist,” Jazz said, leaning back against the door frame.  “I’m a scientist.”

Why I like Comments&Kudos

I write fanfic for the same reason I bake cookies. I want to make them happy!  I only bake the kind of cookies that I myself would eat half of if left unattended.  When I bake, I want to share that feeling with people.  The warm pools of chocolate chips!  The tang of lemon in a shortbread!  The moistness of a peanut butter cookie with the little crosshatch on top!

I really like rereading my stories.  I am very easily entertained and rereading my favorite lines cracks me up every time.

I like comments and kudos (and bookmarks!) because it means that I got to share that with other people!  The romantic bits, the funny bits, the angst.  This idea in my head made me feel happy or hopeful or silly and out there somewhere, someone else got that feeling too.  Or they got different feelings that made them happy to read.

Kudos are awesome because they’re a way to say “I liked it!” even when I don’t have the mental/emotional energy to write a review. 

If they didn’t like my cookies, that’s okay too.  Maybe they’re a cake person?  Maybe they’re avoiding sugar (which my cookies and fics are full of) or it wasn’t their flavor.  It’s all good!

AU August Fic 18

Choir

“Cease.  Laughing.”

Jazz laughed harder.

His parole officer had said Jazz “lacked humility and a sense of kinship with his fellow cybertronians.”  The suggestions of a choir had been to encourage his love of music and at the same time force him to conform to an ensemble.

What the parole officer had never understood was that, Jazz lacked a sense of kinship with the chronically middle class afts he worked dead end jobs for, the entitled upper management that spread like rust, and the starry eyed young enforcers that they sent after him every time he decided he’d had enough of working himself to death for minimum wage.

It hadn’t even been a very big fireball last time and they’d still thrown him in jail.  Though, offering to split the money with the judge if he let it slide probably had just as much to do with that.

Unfortunately for his parole officer’s plans, the choir were Jazz’s People.  Within a month, the Prime himself could have come down and the entire choir would swear on their sparks that Jazz had been with them at the time he was suspected of stealing that Senator’s chrome finish.

Today, he was even more grateful.  Today was a special day.

It wasn’t everyday you saw the stupid young officer that had arrested you dragged in by the chevron and told - ordered - like a youngling to apologize to the choir director for trying to arrest her for ‘noise ordiance’ inside of a temple.

Timber, the mildest spark Primus had ever framed, had said - with a very devious look in her optics - that he could apologize by singing with them every week for the next two months.

Officer Prowl had looked like he’d rather put his helm in a disk shredder.

Actually, if his Captain hadn’t been standing there, Jazz had a feeling he’d have given it a try to avoid the choir.

Jazz, being the kind and considerate and most importantly humble, bot that he was, offered the great Officer Prowl as seat next to him.  It had proven to be hours of good entertainment.

Prowl could not find the key if it was handed to him in an evidence bag.

Prowl murdered each note personally, as if they had wronged his family.

Prowl’s vocalizer had yet to settle on a register and so he kept booming from a typical tenor into full “STOP RIGHT THERE” baritone.

Prowl was currently holding the program datapad as if it was a live bomb.  He looked seconds away from chucking it and running.

“Cease!” Officer Prowl hissed again, turning the pad back and forth.  Jazz put a servo over his mouth and held it in for a moment.  Then the officer turned it upside down and Jazz lost it.

“Quit it before I arrest you!” 

“For what!  I’m allowed ta laugh!”

“Not at me!”  He sounded so much like a sparkling Jazz nearly toppled off his stool.  His fellow singers were trying to hold in their own giggles and were much more successful.  So successful that Prowl turned to one and asked in a low voice, if they knew what the datapad said.  

That was when the whole choir lost it.

That was when Jazz saw it.  A quickly fleeting flare in his field of pain - deep pain, that kind that took a lifetime to build - and the tremble of his servos.

Scrap.  Now it wasn’t as funny.  In some bizarre way having the whole choir laughing at him felt too much like being a thug with a crew and had never been Jazz’s style.  Scrap.

“Here.”  Jazz reached over and toggled the settings until the music was labeled - whole note, half note, quarter note) and the text was a bright red.  Prowl’s servos never released the pad, locked in place, but he allowed Jazz to invade his space enough to do it.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly.  The laughter was dying down now that Jazz wasn’t leading it.

“No problem.  Do you want a tip?”  Officer Prowl’s jaw was set hard and he refused to look at Jazz, but he nodded.

“Everyone here sucked their first time singing.  First you suck, then you get better.  I’m sure police work is different, but in music you just keep doing it over and over again until you get a little better at each part.”

“I have never…sucked…at anything in my entire career,” Officer Prowl said, a note of despair in his voice.  “I always practiced and studied so I wouldn’t have to.”

Jazz huffed a laugh and bumped Officer Prowl’s shoulder gently - like he would any of his friends.  He felt the flair in the officer’s field, but didn’t look into it - even a self righteous baby cop deserved a little consideration.

“I believe it.  For now, just focus on getting the words in the right places.  We’ll worry about everything else later.”

“Just the words.  I…can do that.”  

“‘Course you can, Officer Prowl.”  The choir was settling in for the practice now.  He darted a quick look at Jazz and his shoulders relaxed slightly.

“You can call me Prowl - but only if you want to.”

“Thanks, Prowler.”

“Prowl.”

“Got it.”

AU August Fic 24

Childhood Best Friend

Notes: This feels simultaneously like the most romantic thing I’ve ever written, and also like I’ve ripped my heart out of my chest and rubbed it on the page.

Prowl had been forced to come to terms with his failures.  He’d accepted many of his faults and was working on finding contentment.  His life was nothing like how he’d imagined it.

He was not the Chief of the Enforcers.  He was not even an Enforcer.

He did not own his own habsuite.

He was not bonded.

He had no honors for the walls, no proudly displayed awards or certificates.

He was a faceless no one on the street and he was going to have to be okay with that.

He was not okay with his sparklinghood best friend finding out.

0-0-0

Jazz had arrived at worse than rock-bottom - he wasn’t even a has-been.  He was inching towards middle age, firmly set for being a never-was.  Mediocre.  

He had no record contract. 

He had no gigs.

He wasn’t famous.

He wasn’t rich.

There was no ‘wall of fame’ with his music on it.

He was a failed musician working odd jobs to get by and he had been able to mostly ignore the gnawing sense of shame in his spark.

He wasn’t sure he would be able to if the most important person from his sparklinghood found out.

0-0-0

It was chance that they ran across each other - an old teacher had contacted them both, looking for pictures of their classmates for a reunion.  He’d been surprised they hadn’t kept in touch and given each the other’s comm code.  Meeting up was unavoidable.

They decided to meet at a small cafe by Jazz’s habsuite.  

Prowl had sprung for a polish, but it wasn’t enough to hide the cheapness of his paint or the lack of Enforcer decals.

He’d driven most of the way himself, fueling on the cheapest energon he could find to save a few credits and now he was lost.

“Excuse me.”  He was walking through a residential area - apartment buildings, tiny front gardens, a shabby well-loved sparkling park.  He stopped to ask an older mech repairing the fence for directions.

“Do you know where Gravity Cafe is?”  The mech stood up, creaking slightly, and brushed curls of aluminum from his knees.  He was the muddy brown-green that older bots tended to favor and he wore two small metals of distinction on his left shoulder for service in the Space Academy.  

“Out of towner?  You’re in the right area, keep goin’ up tha’ way,” he pointed ahead, “an’ take a right at the mega-credit station.  You here for the festival?” he asked hopefully.

“Festival?”

The mech pointed towards a banner strung between two light posts down the road.

“Music and Light Festival, every town in Polyhex does it. Ours is just local - the one in the central town is huge an’ that’s where bots usually are heading.”

“No.”  Something warmed in his spark - Jazz was probably going to be playing on one of those central town stages soon.  “I’m visiting a friend - Jazz - but it might be interesting to see.”

The mech’s optics brightened.

“You’re a friend of Jazzy’s?”  

“Yes, you know him?”

The mech bounced in place.

“He’s the bot that walked my grand-sparklings to school every day when their creators left them wit’ me!  Used ta come over and play ‘em ta sleep too.  He’s the kindest bot in the whole city.  I was jus’ wishin’ he was here ta help me wit’ this, but if he’s meetin’ a good friend, I think that’s better.  Tell him I said, hi, yeah?”

“Of course.”

The mech wasn’t the last to talk up Jazz.  The femme at the mega-credit station raved about how Jazz donated his time to the local school and taught music lessons cheap enough for bots to afford them.  Another said that no matter how sad he felt, when he walked by Jazz when he was playing at night, he felt happier.  Prowl stopped to help a couple of younglings hang a banner and mentioned Jazz again.  He was apparently “the cooooolest” and they’d been to one of his concerts in the park.

Prowl dreaded Jazz finding out about his own life, but he couldn’t stop smiling, thinking about his best friend being so well loved.

0-0-0

Jazz had given in and looked Prowl up on the net.  He’d expected a few articles about him, maybe some pictures.

He hadn’t expected how many forums would be talking about how he saved their lives.

“I’d be dead by now, if it wasn’t for Prowl,” one post read in a neighborhood forum.

“He helped me keep my sparklings safe,” said another in a forum for abused bondmates.

“He was an aft, but he was right, and he got me out of trouble,” was a most liked post on a finance forum talking about people who needed advice.

Jazz wondered what branch of the enforcers Prowl was in that brought him into contact with such a wide range of bots and problems.  

It sounded just like him though.  Stupidly brave, mechling was not a stupidly brave mech. 

At least one of them had gotten their dream.  

Jazz saw the Iacon Hall stage in his processor, the screaming fans, himself playing something brilliant and new and complicated.  Endless hotel rooms and money to burn.

Frag.

Jazz stared down into his cube and tried not to imagine Prowl’s face when he realized what Jazz was doing with his life.  He traced pictures in the fluffy foam top with the tip of a digit.

The door opened.

0-0-0

It was Jazz.  Dear, Primus.  For some reason, Prowl hadn’t expected the mech to look the same - that smug grin, those sparkling optics, he even still had the same visor, now out of date and out of fashion.

“Jazz,” he breathed, a smile breaking across his face.  “Jazz.”

“Prowler.”  Then he was standing and they were both caught in a crushing embrace, not sure who had started it.

“Let me order ya a cube,” Jazz said, reluctantly breaking away from the embrace.

“Okay.”  Prowl slid into the booth and discretely wiped his optics.  Jazz bounced up to the counter and waved over the mech.  They spoke and the barista turned to Prowl, smiling.  He said something to Jazz and then turned to make whatever concoction Jazz had ordered him.  

The mech turned with an extremely purple cube in his servo and instead of giving it to Jazz, walked around the counter and headed towards their table.

“Orion!  Hey - !”  Jazz grabbed for the mech.  He walked faster, slopping a bit of purple over his servos, a giant grin on his face.

“One Gravity special!,” he said, placing it before Prowl.  “On the house for a ‘friend’ of Jazzy’s!”  Then he winked and spun around, walk - sauntering back to his station.

“What was -” Prowl stared, but Jazz waved it away.

“Jus’ a friend who thinks he’s funny.  It’s good though, the special.”  Jazz sat and Prowl took a sip.  It was good.

They fell silent and Prowl felt something in him ease.  He’d missed Jazz.

0-0-0

“So,” Jazz said, as he licked the last of the foam from the rim of the cube, “how’ve ya been doin’?”

Prowl twitched and his optics dropped to the table.

“I am…well.  There is nothing exciting going on in my life.”

“Ya went inta the Enforcers’ Academy after university, right?”  Jazz hadn’t seen Prowl since secondary school when they had both been awkward younglings, still growing into their new frames.

“I…no, I was not accepted.”

Jazz felt his mouth drop open and hurried to hide the surprise from his face.  All those people on the data net -

“What did you do instead?” he asked quickly.  He wanted to know - but he wasn’t going to ask.

Prowl answered the silent question anyways, his voice flat and low.

“They said my psych eval indicated instability in highly emotional situations.  I was offered a desk position in one of the political offices, but I declined.  My tactical processor was not designed for…politics.”

“That’s - that sucks, mech,” Jazz said.  He leaned back and vented deeply.  Poor Prowl.  The news must have devastated him.  “But, ya doin’ good now, right?  I mean -”

“I share a habsuite with two others and we’re saving up to buy it.  Credits are not plentiful right now.”

That explained the cheap paint.

“Is it a nice neighborhood?” Jazz asked, trying to steer the conversation to something positive.

“It is not bad,” Prowl admitted.  “It is close to work -”  He fell silent.

“Ya don’ have ta talk ‘bout it if ya don’ wanna,” Jazz offered.  “If -”

Prowl folded his servos neatly on the sticky table in front of him.

“I am a financial advisor and I run a small private security firm.”

“Oh.”

“I usually do small things - I work mostly with non-profit organizations.  We help mechs and femmes get financial independence.  Bots that have fallen below the poverty line.  My company only has three bots - me, Bulkhead, and Cliffjumper - and we only do piece work.”  Prowl was staring out the window, keeping Jazz out of view.

“You do events or -”

“Whoever needs some…security.”

“And you advise -”

“I was just hired by the Bonded Protection Home - financial abuse is very common.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“It is not…what I had imagined for myself,” Prowl said softly, looking down at his servos, shoulder hunched to make himself smaller.

It was the opposite of the sparkling Jazz had known.  That Prowl had always stood up, doorwings flared out, jumping in the middle of fights to defend whatever poor bitlet the bullies had decided to target.

He’d lost most of the fights.

“Ya mean all that hero business we talked about?  Running inta burnin’ buildings and saving people?  Going up against gangs and stuff?”

Prowl nodded.

“I…have had to accept that I am not a hero.”  He said it softly and Jazz saw his own shame mirrored in Prowl’s face, in his dim optics, in the twisting of his servos.

Frag that.

“Of course you’re a hero, dumbaft!”  Jazz slammed his servos on the table and the cubes rattled.  “Those bots save what - a couple dozen sparks a vorn?  Some showy heroics and a couple of traffic stops?  Ya using ya processor ta give people back their lives, Prowler.  Ya save lives every week - more than any a’ the enforcers could.  Ya special, Prowl.”  He reached out and took Prowl’s servo, squeezing hard.

Prowl was staring at him.  Jazz got the feeling that his enormously powerful processor was spinning in circles.

“That - you don’t understand - what?” he finally said, servos clutching at Jazz’s just as hard now.

“I think that’s amazing, Prowl, that you help people in so many different ways.  Jus’ like when we were bitlets.”

“Oh.”

Looking at it like that made everything seem…like something he could be proud of.

0-0-0

Jazz’s barista friend, Orion, came over under the guise of ‘cleaning’ to see if they were alright.  He smeared some of the spills around the table and then walked away, leaving the dirty rag and both their empty cubes.

“He must care about you,” Prowl remarked.

“He’s a nosey fragger that can’t stay outta any bot’s business,” Jazz grumbled.  He stacked the cubes and wiped the table probably.

“Is he a fan?” Prowl asked, letting his smile just peek out.  “The bitlets told me that everyone goes to your concerts.”

Jazz tensed and Prowl knew he’d said something wrong.

“Jazz?”

“I ah…they ain’t exactly concerts.  Not like tha’.  I jus’ drag my fiddle out ta the park every few months an’ play a few hours.  ‘S nothin’ big.  I - I don’ actually play professionally.  At all.”

That was…not what Prowl had been expecting.

“But you still play?” he asked.  Jazz’s optics were avoid his, darting over the small cafe.  A small, false smile was fixed on his face.

“Yeah.  Just…not as a career.”

“You chose something else?”  Jazz had lived for music when they’d been young.  Even as back when they’d met as toddling sparklings in preschool.

“Wasn’t really a choice.  I mostly do odd jobs.  I - well, it started as a way ta pay bills while I was workin’ on becomin’ a risin’ star and then, when I didn’t, it was all I really knew how ta do and -”  He laughed but it had a rough edge.  “I’ve got some steady gigs - jobs, I mean - like music lessons at the community center and they always hire me for the festivals.  I help some of the bots wit’ house and yard work that they can’t do.  Doesn’t make a lot, but the rent here is cheap.  I got my own habsuite - but it’s the size of a datapad.”  He laughed again.  “Not what I’d thought I’d be doing when I graduated.  Thought I’d be out, building up my name, getting contracts -”

“You’ve still made quite a name for yourself -” Prowl interrupted.  He couldn’t bear to hear that note of loss in Jazz’s voice.  The shame Prowl was only too familiar with.  Jazz was amazing - a brilliant musician and the kindest mech he’d ever known.

“I ain’t famous.”

“Yet every bot I spoke to on the way here knew of you,” he countered.  “They talked about hearing your music and how it helped them when they were sad.  You made them feel happy and the sparklings were excited to hear you again at this festival that’s going on.  A mech told me you helped him take care of his grand-sparklings when their parents abandoned them.  Bots love you Jazz.”  He couldn’t hold back a laugh.  “They always do.”

0-0-0

Jazz blinked.  That was how they’d met, two sparklings in school, grumpy Prowl and Jazz who could chatter to anyone.  People had insisted that if Jazz could make Prowl his friend, he could make friends with everyone.  Bots loved him.

Jazz had loved Prowl.  He stared at him now, the best friend he’d ever had, and he could feel his world shifting.  Something was coming loose from the moorings.  Something was changing.

Prowl, who thought he wasn’t important and spent his days saving lives, was looking at him as if he was important, his optics soft, warm.  He spoke, quietly, love in his optics.

“I would love to hear you play.  I know it’s not the Iacon Hall, but -”

“Nah, I’d love ta play for ya, mech.”  Strangely enough, for the first time in years, that vision of himself, playing on that stage, seemed fuzzy and, well, silly.  It was just a stage.  He couldn’t even picture the crowd anymore - just a sea of strange faces.

He imagined playing to Prowl, sitting on his beat up couch, the upstairs neighbors calling down their favorites.  He imagined Prowl’s optics as he played their favorite tunes from their bitlet days.  He imagined a future with Prowl in it, visiting on the weekends, talking about their days.

It was…bright.

AU August Fic 15

Hanahaki Disease

“Oh,” Prowl said, looking down at the petals hidden in his closed servo.  “I’m not dying.”

Jazz opened and closed his mouth.  He swiped at his optics beneath his visor.

“What?”

0-0-0

Most of the time being Crystal-touched didn’t interfere with his function.  A few days pruning one of his potted crystals or propagating some seeds was all he needed to review his connection.

However…

Prowl may have forgotten - or conveniently ignored - the fact that he wasn’t just part of the crystals, they were a part of him too.

As a sparkling it had happened more often - stronger emotions, less control - and more dramatically.

He’d grown roots when his Aunt had come to get him after his creators lost custody for living openly as neo-Crystalists.  

He’d sprouted thorns up and down his arms when a roommate at college hadn’t taken ‘no’ for an answer.

A terrible, terrible night when he’d been overcharged, alone, and frightened in a new city - pranked by his ‘partner’ on the force - the sidewalks had suddenly glowed with luminescent crystal moss.

Then, one day, he’d looked over at Jazz, his partner, and realized he was in love.

And promptly had to leave to spit out the fully formed crystal bud that had decided to burst up from his throat.

It had not gotten better.  If anything, now that he realized one of the many reasons he enjoyed working on paperwork late was that he and Jazz could sit, elbow to elbow, and chat without their coworkers chiming in, he found his powers manifesting more.

When they walked together, the cracks in the sidewalk started to shoot out tiny, delicate tendrils of Walking Crystal, the eternal city weed.

Jazz complemented Prowl’s new desk plant without realizing that the ebony grown was coming from Prowl’s own palm.

Prowl had to walk around to the other side of his building because the communal garden which had previously held his own small plot and a few random sparkling’s science projects, was now reaching the third floor and drawing attention.

The worst of it though, was that he kept coughing up those fragging flowers.

A potassium-pansy when Jazz complimented him.  A delicate spray of rose quartz when Jazz sent him a silly message after work.  An orange orchid fell into his palm as he stood in the corner at the Officer’s Ball and his spark ached, as Jazz took another beautiful dance partner that wasn’t Prowl.

He tried everything - pretending he wasn’t in love with Jazz, avoiding Jazz, trying to fall in love with other, less perfect people, and even calling his cousin, the only other crystal-touched he knew.

Smokescreen had just laughed and told Prowl to call him when he’d gotten his helm on straight and stopped being an idiot.

It had all come to a breaking point late after a particularly boring patrol.

Jazz had been unusually quiet and Prowl had asked him multiple times if he was okay.  Each time Jazz had summoned a smile or a wry grin for the space of a few minutes and brushed off the question.  Each time, Prowl had coughed quietly and tossed the petals discreetly behind them as they walked.

Prowl couldn't help but feel as if Jazz wanted to say something.  A few times he looked like he might, and then stopped himself.

“Prowl,” Jazz said suddenly, as they stepped back inside the brightly lit station, “I need to talk to you.  Now.  Will you come with me to the backroom?”  Then, without looking back, Jazz had booked it to the filing rooms.

Now Prowl was worried.  Jazz was careful to hide his accent around most bots - didn't want to deal with the prejudice of being a Poly, he’d said - but he never did it around Prowl.

Something was wrong.

When Prowl entered the narrow, dim filing room, Jazz was facing away from him, servos clenched into fists at his side.

“Close the door,” he said, his voice strained.

“Jazz?  Please tell me what’s wrong -”

He spun around.

“How - how dare you ask me that!” he shouted.

 Prowl’s mouth dropped open.  He took a step forward.

Jazz was crying.  The window light was casting strange shadows on his face, catching the glint of the tears whenever he moved his helm.

“How dare you act like - like everything is fine!  I’m your partner!  You should be telling me when something is wrong!”  

“Jazz, nothing is wro-”

His partner closed the distance so he could slam a heavy fist into Prowl’s chest, just above his spark.

“That’s slag!  I’m not an idiot!  Even the others have noticed!  I just -” 

Then something even more shocking than finding Jazz crying happened.

He wrapped his arms around Prowl and began to wail.

This was not something Prowl had any experience with.  He had probably been emotionally stunted by his rebellious youth and thus, had never had to deal with someone crying on him.

He wrapped his arms around Jazz cautiously, waiting for a rejection.  Instead, Jazz held him tighter.

They waited.

Eventually, Jazz’s sobbing lessened and he spoke.

“I jus’ wanna be there for ya, Prowler.  Whatever - whatever it is, I don’ want ya goin’ through it alone.”

“You are always there for me,” Prowl reassured him quickly.  This was going to be easy!

“Then why - then why didn’t ya tell me?”

“Tell you?”  Or not.

“‘Bout - ‘bout whatever’s wrong wit’ ya.  Don’ think I haven’t noticed ya runnin’ off and coughin’ and hidin’.  Whatever it is, Prowler, we’ll get through it.  I promise.”  He snuggled closer to Prowl which triggered -

“See?  I know something’s wrong.  An - an’ even if the medics can’t help - we’ll find something.  We can go ta my mate Ratchet!  He’s a miracle worker.  He can - “

Something clicked.

“Oh,” Prowl said, looking down at the petals hidden in his closed servo.  “I’m not dying.”

Jazz opened and closed his mouth.  He swiped at his optics beneath his visor.

“What?”

“I’m not sick - well, not like what you mean.”

“What?”  Now there was a note of anger in Jazz’s voice.

“I’m -” oh, this was harder to say than he’d thought.  Thank you lifetime of oppression.  “I’m crystal-touched.”

“Crystal - touched - like in the stories?”  Prowl nodded.  Jazz didn’t look too shocked, but the light coming from the window was fading.  Prowl wasn’t sure.

“But - why am I only noticin’ now?”

“I have been…you see, the crystals are part of me, just as I am -”

Jazz clamped a servo over Prowl’s mouth and glared at him.

“Tha’ sounds like ya tryin’ ta distract me and throw me off.  Why now, Prowl.”  He removed his servo and Prowl missed it immediately.

“I’m in love with you,” he said without thinking.

“You’re -”

“I’m in love with you - so in love that I keep trying to spit flowers at you and my garden is trying to take over my apartment building and I can’t walk past a single, tiny crystal seed without my spark throwing out so much love that it blooms into a three foot high tripping hazard in the middle of the street.”

“Prowl - I -”  Jazz lifted a servo and cupped Prowl’s face.  He leaned in.  Was he going to -?

He kissed him.  The world slid in and out of focus.  Prowl pulled back.  He had to tell Jazz everything - right now or he would burst.

“Jazz, I - oh scrap!”  Prowl leapt back.  Jazz stumbled and looked up at him.

“What?”  

Prowl pointed.

There, coming through the window, an overly enthusiastic riot of fushia Walking Crystal had broken in and was climbing down the wall, the individual growths surging forwards as they stood there watching.

“Oh,” Jazz said quietly.  “You really are…”

“I really am,” Prowl said, covering his optics with his servo.  Maybe if he just didn’t look, it would go away.

Jazz slid back into his arms.

“Well, at least it’s an improvement on the beige in here,” he said, resting his helm on Prowl’s shoulder.