AU August Fic 25

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!

I only have 6 more chapters to go!  Fuck, I still have 6 chapters to go...

How do people do these things in a month?

AU August Fic 13

Reboot/Refresh

The enforcer burst into the salon like a full police raid and the technicians scattered.  He wore the official Enforcer paint and the decals - those would be a pain to scrub around if he was here for a full wash and wax - and like all enforcers, he wore a thunderous scowl.

Jazz sighed and stood up from the check-in counter.  It was late and he had a gig to get to in two hours because he was an idiot trying to work two jobs while studying for his PI license.

“Hello,” he droned, “welcome to Fix-it’s Fixes.  What can I help you with today?  Would you like to know our rates for a -”

“I want a full frame repaint,” he interrupted.  His voice was hoarse and low, less pushy enforcer looking for discounts and more exhausted bot after a long day.  

“Sorry, all full frame repaints need to be scheduled in advance.  We can give you a standard package this evening and tomorrow -”

“How long does it take?  To remove and repaint?” he interrupted again.  Jazz brightened his patented ‘dealing with afts’ smile.

“It would take a full two hours for us to paint and dry you and that’s not even considering the color and design consultation.”

“How long just for paint removal?”

Jazz blinked.

“Just under a half an hour, but if we don’t paint you, you’ll be walking around in your bare metal until tomorrow.”

Something complicated and familiar crossed over the Enforcer’s expression: shame, grief, a touch of anger.

“Then just take it off,” the enforcer said, stiffly.  “I’ll pay full price.  I need this paint off.”  

To his right, some of the technicians were stepping back out - most of them were cleaning up their workstations this late - and watching the pair of them surreptitiously.  

“Mech, I can’t advise that -”

“Then I will pay double.”

Oh, this was bad.  This was like that time four very overcharged bots came in and his supervisor made him give in to their demands of “neon flames and etchings all around!” and then they’d tried to sue.

“I don’t think -”

“If you don’t help me,” the Enforcer said, lowly, “then I am going to go buy one of those home-paint kits and melt half my plating off.  I am not good at this.  Please.”

The please got him.  Fraggit.

“Okay,” Jazz heard himself saying.  He saw Coppercoil out of the corner of his optic slamming her servo to her face.  Frankly, he agreed.

“I’ll take you back, it might take a moment for the paint blaster to turn back on, though.  Hey - Iridescent!  Take over here, okay?”  The mech nodded and the permanent halo of reflected rainbow light bobbed.

“This way.”  Jazz motioned the enforcer to follow him and slipped into the back.  He pointed to the lockers on one wall and then to a low bench in the middle of the room.

“You can put your stuff in there - mods, stickers, ornaments - and then have a seat on the bench.  I’m going to need to tape you up so the sand doesn’t get everywhere,” he said as he grabbed the spool of white electrical tape off the wall.

“Please be careful of my left doorwing, I smashed it last week and the welds are still setting.”  Jazz peered down at it and winced at the sloppy network of welds and staples.

“Ouch, what happened mech?”

“I was in Iacon when the Primal Ship was attacked.  I was treated in the tents before I continued my investigation and the gap between the field triage and being brought to the hospital allowed an infection to set in,” he intoned flatly, as if Jazz couldn’t see the scars from how many anti-vials had been slammed into his helm, probably in a desperate bid to keep him from overheating.

“Damn mech, that’s rough. You were investigating it?  I heard that -”  Jazz stopped and tried to remember.  “Oh, hey!”  Something clicked.  “I know you - you’re the bot they called Shadow, aren’t you?  You broke - Primus, so many cases.  You -”

Oh.

The mech kept his optics fixed on the lockers across from them.

“I was engaged upon the case investigating Lord Sentinel Primes’s murder.  When I declined their offer of an easy wrap-up I was demoted.  I resigned this morning.”

Jazz had read about it in the papers.  Officer Prowl accused of evidence tampering.  No one had believed it - it was too out of the blue, too convenient, and too neatly done.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure there is no love lost between you and the Enforcers.  We - they - are not well liked.”  Now there was a pressure pot fit to boil dry.

“Nah, too much corruption in Polyhex and nearly as much here in Praxus.  We all followed ya cases, though.  My twin - Ricochet - got caught up in the money laundering scheme a few years back.”  It was easier to talk about nowadays, with Ricochet working an honest job with Carrier to keep an eye on him.  “He talked about ya, said ya were a good one.”  He’d recounted a story of how Prowl had ripped into one of the officers for being rough with them and fired one on the spot for aiming a kick at Ricochet when he thought no one was looking.

“I am glad.”

Prowl still wasn’t looking at him, but the rigidity in his frame - so tight Jazz could see the stress fractures webbing out from his joints - lessened.

“Gonna start taping.  Let me know if I need to stop.”

If Jazz’s servos were a bit gentler than usual, Prowl didn’t notice.

0-0-0

Jazz gave him a wrap-around visor for his optics to keep them from getting scratched and led him into the sandblasting chamber.

“I’ll comm ya if ya need ta move or anything, okay?  Just stand wit’ ya arms out and I’ll operate the blaster.”

“Understood.”  Prowl appreciated the clear directions.  His helm had been elsewhere for the past week.  Today had been -

He put the visor on and held out his arms.  The grit of the sand was jarring, but at the same time, it felt good.  Like he was pulling off a mask he’d been wearing for too long.

With every pass of the sandblaster, Prowl relaxed.  He looked down to watch as the strips of gold peeled away from his chestplate and fell to the ground in ragged curls.

He’d been so certain that the strange pressure in his spark would be eased by becoming an Enforcer.  Finally somewhere for the love and the anger to go instead of spinning inside him.

He wanted - he wanted to wrap himself around everyone and keep them safe against his spark.  He’d thought that’s what enforcers did.

The intricate lines on his servos had been blasted away.  

He’d never write another report again.  Never search through the stacks for just the right file to solve a case.  He’d probably never see his coworkers again either.

He’d ripped his decal off after stepping out of the station for the last the time.

The last time.

The sandblaster softened the edges of the blank patch and then erased it all together.  

By the time his pedes were bare, gray metal, Prowl was well into a panic.

Not an enforcer.  If he wasn’t an enforcer, what was he?  What was he going to do?  He didn’t have a job anymore.  He had nowhere to belong now.

What was he going to do?

0-0-0

Jazz opened the door, and half caught the trembling mech.

“I gotcha, Prowler.  You’ll be alright.”  The plating against his chest was gritty with sand - he could feel it scratching his own paint away - but he just held him as tightly as he needed.

Eventually, Prowl pulled away.

“Thank you.  I will be on my way now.  According to the time, you’ve been closed for twenty minutes already -”  He took a step forwards and stopped when Jazz put a servo on his chest.

“It’s already late and I can’t let ya leave the store wit’ out somethin’.  Lemme give you a quick paint, mech.  You can come back for a polish tomorrow.”

“I do not even know what paint I would choose,” he argued.  “It’s not something I thought about in…forty-five vorns?  I think?”

“Do ya trust me?” Jazz asked, only half teasing.  He wanted to do something for this mech who had tried so hard to fix the system for all of them.

Prowl flinched.  “I trust no one,” he said lowly.  “But I doubt anything you do will harm me now.”  

Jazz heard the unsaid “nothing can harm me now” and winced.

“Don’t worry, mech.  I’ll take care of ya.”

Jazz picked up the sprayer and three cans of paint.

0-0-0

Prowl stared down at himself.

The colors had been switched around, the lines moved so they didn’t match the enforcer’s patterns anymore.  Jazz had pulled the black back and removed the accent colors.  Along each edge he had painted a swirling, spiky pattern, less like the ever popular (and overdone) flames and more like a thorny crystal vine.

It was small enough to be subtle, but not so small as to go unnoticed.  Jazz wanted him to have something he’d be proud to show off after having to give up his enforcer paint.

“It is…more than I could have hoped for,” Prowl said at last.

“I’m glad.”  Jazz smiled and leaned back, one servo on his hip.  “But ya gotta show it off, mech.  Wanna meet me for lunch tomorrow?  Burst-Over’s cafe on 2nd Street?”

Prowl looked up quickly, optics wide.

“I - “ he started.  Then he just nodded.  “I find myself at a loss and soon, with too much free time on my hands.”

“Oh?”  The inkling of an idea was twirling in the back of Jazz’s processor.  “Mech, have you ever considered private investigating?”

AU August Fic 27

Adoptive Family

I tried to do something a little different here and I’m not sure if it worked how I wanted it to.

Warning: Discussions, but no depictions of terminating pregnancy, torture, trauma

Prowl was woken by the cry of a sparkling.  He pushed himself up and squinted at the door and the crack of light underneath.  Either he was waking up very late or someone had broken in and left a sparkling.

Again.

Prowl rolled off the cot with a thud.  Ow.  It wasn’t great for doorwings - too hard and too narrow.  He wasn’t going to waste credits on trying to fix it - it was supposed to be a temporary situation.

He wasn’t high on the list for housing with the New Cybertronian Restoration Act.  He technically could recharge in the backroom of his office - on the awful cot - and he had no dependents.  Prowl understood.  Still, it made it difficult at times to separate work and home when your home was your office.

Prowl opened the door ready for almost anything.

He was not ready for a mech, dinged and scratched to the pit, covered in uneven welds, with obvious spy mods running, holding one of the smallest sparklings Prowl had ever seen.

Prowl paused and pulled up his battle computer - something he hadn’t used since his days as an enforcer before the war.  He was going to need more than just his social service degrees to walk this path.

“Hello,” he said softly, servos soft and open, arms loose by his sides in plain view.  

The mech turned and looked him up and down, keeping the bitlet close to his chest and out of sight.

“‘M not that bad, mech,” he said with a tired grin.  “Ain’t gonna shoot ya.”

Prowl nodded, but didn’t change his posture.  Bots often thought they were in control, whether or not it was true.  He took two slow steps and sat down in his office chair so he wasn’t towering.

“I am Prowl, what help do you need?”

The mech laughed, harsh and loud.  His visor flashed and shorted out briefly.  Prowl caught sight of the mech’s optics - and pinged Rung to see if he was available today.

“Ya don’t pull any punches, do ya?  I’m here ta - ta - I read about ya in the papers on the shuttle here.  It says ya straight.  Helm of Protective Services, right?  I need - I read about ya instituting the new laws for fosters and the new support laws for families.  Sounded good mech, real good.  I thought, if I could trust anyone ta -”

As he spoke the mech’s optics darted around the room in a pattern - door, vents, backdoor, vents - over and over again.

As he spoke he stroked over the tiny helm resting against his torso.  There was a miniature yawn and the tiny open mouth revealed equally tiny fangs.

“I’m here ta - I’m - frag.”  There was no heat in the curse, just exhaustion.  Prowl decided it was safe to nudge him a bit.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning and work your way up to it?”  He knew why the mech was here.

“Yeah, yeah.  ‘M Jazz, well, I was Commander Jazz during the war.  Spec Ops Helm for most of it.  Tried to keep ourselves to ourselves and there weren’t much of us ta begin with.”  He shifted on the couch and tucked one leg under himself.  Good, he was prioritizing comfort over the ability to make a quick escape.  Prowl started writing his initial report for Rung.

“We were running a last mission, just me an’ a couple of the others.  Everyone who hadn’t already been called back.  It was a really weird mood, ya know?  We were so close ta the end, an’ so scared we wouldn’t make it - well.  Had a bit too much high grade and a bit too much thinkin’ and one thing led to another.  Nothing woulda come of it - wasn’t like that.”  His voice trailed off.  Had he wanted it to be like that?

Jazz shook himself slightly.  

“They were my friends and my bots and the people I was supposed ta take care of.  Mission went wrong and they got killed and I got caught.”  He looked up an waved a servo at Prowl.  “Wasn’t my first time gettin’ caught or hurt or anythin’ like that.  I got the training and the mods ta withstand a lot.  More ‘n any of them would have so…probably better they didn’t get caught.”

War logic, Optimus and Rung had called it.  Impossible situations that required a twisted logic to get through.

“So they go through all the regular stuff - guess it wouldn’t be regular to ya,” Jazz said and flashed a true smile at Prowl.  Prowl returned it.  Jazz’s voice was turning even and his frame was relaxing.  Going into ‘report mode’ most likely.  His servos never lost their gentle attention.

“Didn’t realize I was carrying until one a’ them wanted ta see my spark.  They liked that sort of thing - thought it ‘demoralized me’ and slag.  I tried to slam it open - show ‘em it didn’t matter ta me.  But I couldn’t.  Wouldn’t let me override it.  I got them…distracted, with something else and when I was alone I ran a diagnostic.

“Our high-grade night had been productive!”  He laughed and flashed a smile down at the sparkling.  “I tried ta reabsob the sparklet, but I was too weak.  My spark was startin’ ta destablize and without a medic, I couldn’t do anything.”  

Jazz fell silent and Prowl could see his processor running - trying to pull him back into the memory, trying to re-solve all the problems he’d gone through -

“That must have been frightening for you,” Prowl said.  Jazz jumped and looking around the room, his scan - door, vents, door, vents - starting up again.

“Yeah.  Knew none of my mechs had survived an’ no bot knew where I was.  Had ta get out before they found it, before it emerged and they could -”  He was venting faster now and Prowl scooted his chair slowly out from behind the desk, watching his reactions.

“Jazz, do you know where you are?” he asked, stopping just a klik away.

“Yeah,” he panted, “yeah, mech.  I’m here.  Jus’ rememberin’ it all.  So, ah” Jazz finally took one servo off his sparkling and rubbed it hard over the shoddy welds on his thigh.  “‘M here.  I got out - wasn’t easy, had ta weld myself back together after I got outta the chains -” that explained the welds on his joints, “- and got myself onto the plains ta hide while I waited for a shuttle.  I knew I didn’t have a lot of time or a lot of fuel ta spare.  I sped up the bitlet’s development as much as I could - probably why he’s so small - stealing fuel where I could.  Shuttle came to restock the Decepticons and it got me ta a neutral port.  Kept hopping shuttles until I made it back ta Autobot space.  He emerged in the cargo bay of the shuttle I was stowed away on just outside of Rings.”

Jazz swiped at his optics under his visor as he neared the end of his story and Prowl inched closer.

“I heard about ya and how ya keep things on the straight and narrow and knew I had ta bring ‘im ta ya.  Find him a good home, yeah?  He deserves it.”

Jazz’s voice broke and he curled around the sparkling.

A complicated situation like this needed a complicated solution.

Prowl loved complicated.

“Commander Jazz, may I ask you some questions?  I will respect whatever decision you make, but I would like more information.”  He was in front of the mech now, close enough to see the flicker in his visor and the grief in the optics behind it.

“I can’ have him, mech.  Not safe ta be around.  Barely - haven’t - recharged in weeks gettin’ him here.  I’m running a stabilizing program ta keep me from reactin’ too fast and hurtin’ him.  I can’t.”

“Would you want to keep and raise the sparkling if you could?”

There was a long silence.  Prowl focused on keeping his field calm and wide open.  No judgment, no rush.

Jazz nodded.

“I wanted ta…after the war, but -  Mech, I can’t.”

“Not right now, no.  I agree with your assessment.  You have just come out of a milinia long war, you were recently tortured, you are showing very obvious signs of PTSD and trauma responses.  At the moment you are not able to care for an infant and I - please don’t take this as an insult - am not sure you are fully capable of caring for yourself.

“However, these types of situations are what the foster care system is designed for.  If you do want to retain custody of the sparkling, we can place him in a foster home in the morning and you can stay in contact while you focus on getting yourself back to stable place.  Once everyone is in agreement that you are well and capable of caring for a sparkling, we will look at setting you up with resources and a new habsuite.”

Jazz was shaking his helm.

“Nah, mech.  This isn’t - I ain’t some civilian.  I knew what I was doin’ and it was stupid, gettin’ sparked up so close ta the end of the war.”  He was turning his face away now.

Powl rolled forwards until their knees bumped.

“Do you believe that emerging a sparkling was a punishment?” he asked, making Jazz’s helm jerk back up.

“Wha - no!  He’s - he’s a good bitlet.  It’s not his fault I was stupid -”

“Are you punishing yourself by giving him to us for adoption?”

“I - no?”  He seemed to shrink more, pressing into the softness of the couch.  “Maybe?”

Jazz hunched over. Then he leaned down and kissed the sparkling’s tiny helm.

“I don’t know.”

“May I hug you?” Prowl asked.  His battle computer suggested that Jazz found comfort in physical contact.

“Yeah,” Jazz croaked, looking up, his visor flickering off to reveal his optics.

Prowl shifted so his legs bracketed Jazz’s and pulled him forwards.  The mech trembled and Prowl squeezed him harder.

He used the sparkling words - it was amazing how well they still fit, even grown bots.

“You are not alone.  You don’t have to figure everything out.  Let me help.”

“Okay.”

The floodgates opened and Jazz collapsed into his arms.

0-0-0

With Jazz recharging in Prowl’s backroom cot, Prowl pulled a well-used sling from his subspace and settled the tiny - so tiny! - sparkling inside.  The bitlet yawned and curled against him.

Then Prowl sat down at his desk and started making calls.

He set up a wellness check with First Aid in the morning.

He found two fosters that could take the bitlet long term - and right here in the city.  He would decide which one with Jazz in the morning.

He made Jazz a set of appointments with Rung and set him up with some of the groups that met to talk about the war.  Ironhide led what he called a “hit ‘n talk” training which was very popular.

Commander Jazz had lost so much to this war.  He’d been alone.  It was about time he got pulled back into a family.

And wouldn’t you know it, Prowl’s theoretical new apartment building still had a few vacancies according to their datanet site.

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.