Relationships: Jazz/Prowl Rating: Mature Main Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Enemies to Co-Parents to Lovers, Mech Preg
Summary: In one universe, Jazz and Prowl are doting conjunxes with twins on the way. They could not be happier and more in love. In another universe, Jazz and Prowl hate each other. They cannot be in the same room without it imploding. A momentary blip in the spacetime continuum results in a short chance encounter between the two pairs that will have lasting repercussions.
First two chapters below:
[Chapter One]
Across the wide expanse of land, the sun glinted off a speeding frame. A plume of smoke trailed behind as Jazz pushed his pistons to the metal. He had to get to the Ark.
He had been on a patrol shift and had gotten distracted. The steady thrumming of the bass as his music played at max volume in his internal speakers, in conjunction with the thrill of speed, had a strong hypnotic effect, so he had lost track of time. In other words, he was late.
As he rushed, he finally saw two figures sitting outside the entrance. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were both slumped against the other in clear exhaustion. They must have finished with their latest punishment detail. To make up for their latest prank's havoc, Prowl and Red Alert had demanded they clean up the mess. One of the two had been sadistic enough to mandate the usage of detailing brushes rather than actual cleaning supplies. Jazz would bet shanix that Prowl's own mischievous streak was to blame.
Sideswipe raised a lazy servo in salute as Jazz rapidly approached the opening threshold.
"Jazz!" He heard both twins cry out his name in despair as he flew past. Angling his mirrors revealed the long streak of black tire tracks he had left behind. Oops. He would make it up to them later. He had more important places to be.
Not wanting to cause an accident, he slowed down just a tad but continued to zoom through the spacecraft's hallways. A trail of curses from startled Autobots followed in his wake.
He slammed through the Medbay's doors and transformed into root mode before hollering in heavy vents, "I'm here!"
"Jazz! Are you kidding me?" Ratchet growled back. "Not like I have patients who would appreciate some peace and quiet or anything." The medic gestured to Rewind, who was currently hunched over clutching his helm.
He had the decency to give a small apologetic wince. In retrospect, such a flashy entrance was not going to go over well with the CMO. Despite being out of breath, he mustered the strength to whisper, "Sorry, Rewind." He pointed at his own helm. "Hope you feel better soon."
Rewind, still grimacing in pain, gave him a little wave of the servo. He looked back at Ratchet, who just gave a small sigh and pointed at one of the examination rooms. "He's in there. I'll be there in a couple breems"
Jazz gave him a small thumbs-up and happily wandered over. He saw Prowl lying on one of the medical berths with several wires connected to his chassis and abdomen. It would be a frightening sight, if not for the fact that the Autobot tactician seemed to be enraptured with whatever datapad he was reading. While his face was neutral, Jazz could feel the small bursts of jittery energy flowing through their bond. They were both excited.
He took a small opportunity to appreciate the scene. Never in the history of Cybertron had a luckier mech than he been forged. The war had been horrible, but if there was one positive, it was meeting Prowl.
On Jazz's first orn on base, the poor bot had crashed into him because he was too distracted reading a datapad. What followed was an awkward 5 breems of Prowl apologizing and trying to convince Jazz to go to the Medbay to treat some minor denting. Jazz had been smitten right there and then. After a couple of shared fueling breaks, Jazz had fallen deeply in love with the shy but sweet mech. And, as they say, the rest was history.
Prowl was so entranced by the datapad that he didn't even react to the heavy ventilations announcing Jazz's arrival. Well that wouldn't do. He knocked a small little tune on the doorsill, immediately catching Prowl's attention.
Prowl's optics softened when they finally caught the saboteur's gaze. Although, after giving him a quick look over, they grew exasperated after taking in his current state. "There was no reason to rush."
Jazz, trying and failing to hide how exerted he felt, sauntered over to the berth. As he leaned in and slowly rubbed their forehead crests together, he said, "I didn't want to keep you waiting."
"I would have waited." Prowl gave him a small smile.
Jazz reached over to take the datapad from his lover's servos. He turned it on and was greeted with a sparkling care manual. He would know; he had been the one to gift it to Prowl after Ratchet had told them the good news. They had read it together during their off-shift joors. He shook his head in amusement. "You must have read this thing a hundred times."
"138 times to be exact." Prowl responded confidently, before snatching the datapad back and mumbling, "Besides, one can never be over-prepared, especially with something as important as this."
Jazz could teek the lingering anxiety swirling around in Prowl's field. He used his own to smother his partner in love and comfort. It probably looked a little awkward to the world outside, but Jazz leaned against the berth, and wrapped an arm around Prowl, careful not to mess with the wires. "Hey, everything's going to be fine. We'll figure it out together. Besides, we have Cybertron's best medic helping us through this." He placed a small kiss on Prowl's forehead.
"You're damn right you do." Ratchet interrupted as he entered the room.
The tactician and spy quickly broke apart to let the medic work his magic. Both of their optics followed the medic as he walked from screen to screen, reading whatever the scans had revealed. It was not their first appointment nor their second nor their third. If Ratchet was annoyed by their constant pestering, he gave no indication. Honestly, he was probably relieved that both Jazz and Prowl, who were notorious for avoiding the Medbay, were finally eager for medical attention.
Looking at the results, Ratchet said, "Everything looks good. You still have a couple more decaorns to go before your estimated emergence date. There shouldn't be any complications. Did you have any concerns?"
The diagnosis had not changed from their last appointment. That did not stop Prowl and Jazz from feeling an immense sense of relief.
"No," Prowl responded, "Carrier protocols have been increasing in intensity, but according to what I have read that is to be expected."
"That's fine." Ratchet assured. "Your coding might get more demanding in these final decaorns, so be prepared for increased fuel consumption, mood swings, processor fog, clinginess, and fatigue."
Jazz nodded his helm in understanding and placed a servo on Prowl's shoulder. "No worries. I got that covered." He perked up for the real reason for today's excitement. "Ratch, can we—"
"Don't even bother," Ratchet responded. The medic walked towards a churning machine and returned with a physical scan and handed it over to the expecting couple. He gave them a knowing smile. "You always ask."
Jazz felt his spark melt in awe. Twins. It had been a surprise when Ratchet first told them. Prowl had almost crashed in shock.
They were finally at the point in Prowl's carrying where the sparklings' frames had majorly developed. Looking at the scan, Jazz could make out the little doorwings furled on their respective backs. Each had a tiny little chevron that would one day develop as elegantly as their carrier's.
Prowl motioned for the scan. Jazz happily obliged. Cool blue eyes widened before they filled with tears. His face looked fondly in adoration. Placing his servo on top of his forge, he said, "They are so beautiful."
"I can't wait to hold them," Jazz said as he placed his own servo over Prowl's.
"The hardest part is always the waiting. Just keep taking it easy," Ratchet said.
Prowl carefully asked, "And by taking it easy you mean…"
"You aren't cleared for duty of any kind. I don't even want you sitting at a desk. Don't try me. I've already told Red Alert to lock your office."
Doorwings slumped in disappointment. "Surely simple paperwork should be fine."
"No." Welp. No arguing with doctor's orders.
"Thanks, Ratch. I'll make sure he doesn't even lift a finger." Jazz was secretly ecstatic. Never in the time that he had known Prowl had the tactician ever fully taken a break.
"You do that. Comm me if you need anything. Oh, and Jazz, please do try not to slam the doors on you way out." Ratchet quipped before closing the door behind him. Jazz gave a chagrined smile in response.
He felt a sense of helplessness run through the bond. Prowl was by nature an active mech. He liked keeping his processor occupied. Upon confirmation that Prowl was sparked, Optimus had immediately seen it appropriate to take him off active duty in the field. It was only because he had his sparklings to think about that Prowl had accepted the order without complaint. However, not one to sit idle, he had readily thrown himself into paperwork and administrative logistics. While mandated office leave was a dream for most mechs, it was an absolute nightmare for Prowl.
Prowl let himself slump in the berth. "My skills are more important now than ever before. It's bad enough that I could not accompany Optimus to the negotiations today, but as his Second-in-Command, you should be there alongside him right now."
"Optimus can handle himself just fine. He has Elita-One and Ultra Magnus with him. And, if I remember correctly, it was you that recommended Magnus go in your stead. Besides, from what I've heard, old Megsy and Screamer have actually been playing nice." Jazz responded.
"I suppose." Prowl pouted.
With no risk of the medic walking in, Jazz hopped on the berth and wrapped his arms around his conjunx. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be than sitting here by your side." Slowly swaying them to a tune of his own design, he reassured Prowl. "Come on. Our sparklings are almost here. Peace is on the horizon. And we finally have time to spend alone. Life couldn't be better right now." He could feel his assurances melt away the worries. And if he was holding Prowl close and swaying him to take advantage of his carrier coding, then he did not have to know. He pat himself in the back when he physically felt the tension leave the frame under him.
"I know that you are correct. I just worry."
"It's okay. We'll be fine. We've survived worse."
"I know…I love you."
"I love you too."
—-
As the most experienced operative among the Autobot ranks, Jazz was no stranger to torture.
Whether it be being a test subject in the hellhole that Shockwave called a laboratory, or having his mind invaded by Soundwave's mind reading tendencies, or even bearing witness to the weird displays of confidence that Starscream put on when he thought nobody was looking, Jazz was familiar with all methods of torture.
However, despite his experience, nothing could compare to the absolute torment, the absolute abuse, the absolute agony, the absolute torture that was having to sit and listen to Prowl drone on and on during the orn's morning meeting.
The worst part was that, unlike Shockwave's house of horrors or a Decepticon prison or the Nemesis itself, Jazz's presence was actually required in the Command Room, which meant he could not plan a quick escape. And to top matters off, 95% of the drivel that escaped the tactician's mouth was likely to be rejected by Optimus on principle alone, which meant that the abuse on his audials wasn't even justified.
He was grateful that he had a visor to hide the fact that his optics were dimming in boredom. He looked around to see how the rest of the officers were faring. Ironhide was fully recharging, Ratchet was half-way there, Wheeljack was pretending to take notes, Blaster was not even trying to hide his doodling, and even Optimus's ramrod posture was failing. The only one that seemed to be on top of things was Red Alert and that was because he never let his guard down. And still Prowl's endless verbal torrent continued.
If the Decepticons were actually smart, they would just let the Autobot Second-in-Command talk his faction to deactivation. Speaking of which, said mech seemed to finally realize that meetings were a group affair.
"—So, then, if we move a couple of battalions westward, we should be able to infiltrate from behind the battlelines. Ironhide, how many soldiers do you think you could spare for this?…Ironhide?"
Looking at the subtle shifts in Prowl's demeanor as he processed the circumstances surrounding Ironhide's silence, Jazz saw the exact klik that poor Ironhide was a goner.
With an unnecessary amount of force, Prowl slammed his fists on the table and barked, "Ironhide! Are you listening?"
The reverberating clang of metal on metal caused the frontliner to jump awake. Jazz winced at the sound. He brought a servo under his visor and rubbed at the top of his nasal ridge. A valiant effort at trying to assuage a forming helm-ache. The loud dull sound had shattered his patience because, against his better judgment, he dared to interject, "Mech, try say something worthwhile for a change, and you might avoid boring us into recharge."
When he felt icy blue optics dart in his direction, he remembered just whose wrath he had incurred. Yep. Full helm-ache now.
"Excuse me?" The tactician hissed out. His doorwings were spread tall and wide, and his face was contorted in an even deeper scowl than his usual one.
Were it not for the fact that Jazz was on the receiving end of the anger and nursing a throbbing helm, he might have found Prowl's twisted up visage amusing. As it was, he cursed having opened his mouth. Nevertheless, he was not one to back down, especially against the prissy, pretentious Praxian.
"Look around. You bored Ironhide to recharge, Ratchet is close to following in his pedesteps, Wheeljack finds multiplication tables more interesting, Blaster clocked out the second you started talking, and even OP is struggling." He could feel the others' glare at him for snitching. He had no regrets. He was banking on successfully distributing Prowl's anger equally, so he wouldn't feel the brunt of it alone. Let it never be said that the Autobots didn't believe in teamwork.
"You of all bots should be listening! In all my vorns, I have yet to see you actually follow a single mission order I issue. Are you incapable of following the simplest of instructions?" Prowl said haughtily.
Jazz revved his engine in annoyance. Who did the tactician think he was? "If you knew anything, then you would know that your orders are difficult to follow in the heat of battle. But, my apologies, I realize that you are usually too busy hiding behind a desk, while the rest of us are actually fighting, to know that." He snapped back.
It seemed he must have hit a nerve because he could see the tactician trembling in anger. It was a little funny to see just how easily he could rile up the Praxian.
"I am not hiding! I am making sure that your sorry aft stays alive while you mess around. And I will have you know that I am perfectly capable of fighting alongside the rest of you. My skill set just happens to be better suited to tactical demands."
"Hah! All I hear are excuses. With what little I've seen of your combat skills, you wouldn't even be able to protect a glitchmouse from a turbofox. Matter of fact, I don't think you could land a shot even if it was Devastator standing across from you."
"Why you little—"
"Enough!" Optimus said sternly.
Jazz relished in the fact that Optimus had—knowingly or unknowingly—interrupted Prowl. He knew just how much the mech liked to get the final say. Instead, he had to stew in his rage. Good.
With exhaustion evident in his tone, Optimus diplomatically said, "I think it is for the best if we close for the orn. Prowl, compile a summary of today's meeting and send the appropriate missives. Ironhide, send a report on current munitions and the state of our current formations. Ratchet and Wheeljack, send any material requisition forms to Prowl. With that being said, you are all dismissed."
Jazz rushed out of the room with the majority of the others. Only Optimus and Prowl stayed behind. He did not know from where the Prime pulled the patience to entertain the sour mech's presence for longer than was necessary. He was truly a saint among them, just not for the reasons most believed.
Trailing behind Ironhide and Ratchet, he caught bits and pieces of their conversation.
"That's what you get for falling asleep." He heard Ratchet tell Ironhide.
"You're one to talk. You've done it before too. Just so happens I have rotten luck." Ironhide blearily rubbed his optics. "I've had bombs serve as better wake-up alarms than that little fragger's screeching," he huffed. "What a way to start the orn."
"Tell me about it. Mr. Stick-up-his-aft gave me a throbbing helm-ache," Jazz interjected, joining the conversation. "Ratchet, be a sweetspark and pass me a pain chip."
The medic scowled. "Give me a good reason. It's your fault he got so rattled up towards the end." Despite his words, he unsubspaced a small chip and begrudgingly handed it Jazz's way.
He quickly slotted it into a random port, eager to alleviate his suffering. He let out a small sigh of relief. He blew Ratchet a small kiss, receiving yet another scowl in return.
A servo grasped his shoulder, and he tensed before recognizing the EM field.
"Mech, whatever happened to snitches get glitches?" Blaster lamented in faux betrayal.
Jazz bitterly retorted. "The only glitch here is our Second-in-Command."
Blaster gave a hearty laugh at that. "Come on, cheer up. You only have to do this again tomorrow, and the orn after that, and the next."
"Don't remind me." Jazz grumbled. It was in that moment that he was profoundly thankful that he had advocated for an office in the Spec Ops division, which was far away from Prowl's office in the Primal Chamber of Command. Save for their usual meetings and the occasional mission, he did not have to cross paths with Prowl often. Thank Primus for the little miracles.
"Wanna grab a cube before our shifts officially begin? We still have a couple joors."
Jazz nodded in acceptance. A warm cube of energon sounded like heaven right about now. Plus, it'd been a pretty busy decaorn, so he hadn't had time to catch up with Blaster. Breakfast with his best bud was bound to turn his orn around for the better.
No sooner had Blaster and him entered the Rec Room than he received a message flagged as urgent in his HUD. Curious, he opened it to see, and felt his spark drop.
From: Commander/Chief Tactical Officer Prowl
To: Commander/Chief Special Operations Officer Jazz
Subject: [SHIFT SCHEDULE CHANGE - EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY]
Previous shift start time at 1100 joors
Updated shift start time at 0800 joors. To remain in effect until further notice.
Jazz glanced at his chronometer. It was 0758 joors. For a klik, his processor conjured up an image of the Praxian smirking in victory, which caused his frame to heat up in resentment. He audibly groaned before exclaiming, "Get fragged Prowl!"
───── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────
[Chapter Two]
Prowl woke up with the worst bout of nausea he had ever experienced.
While he was sure he was lying down, his internal gyroscopes seemed to suggest otherwise. Ratchet had not been kidding when he had mentioned that the side effects of carrying were bound to get worse as he reached the end. Mustering all the strength he could manage, he propped himself up but stopped as he took note of his surroundings.
He was in his habsuite, and he was in his berth, but it was eerily empty. Jazz had an early shift, so he was not surprised to see that the saboteur was absent. What was missing, when they should not have, were all his other possessions.
His berth, that Jazz had lovingly loaded with the softest blankets and fluffiest pillows, had nothing but the singular pillow under his servos and the thin sheet wrapped around his body. The walls, which had been covered in some of Jazz's posters, were noticeably bare. Likewise, the shelves that once held the little trinkets from their various travels, were filled only with datapads.
His TacNet was quick to churn out an answer. The Twins (85%). Prowl groaned and gently let himself fall back. He was sure that making the Twins clean the Ark with only a detailing brush would have dissuaded them from further mischief for the foreseeable future. Considering the desolate state of his habsuite, he had apparently miscalculated. Leave it to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe to catch him by surprise. He prayed that the Twins had simply hidden his belongings somewhere.
Cradling his forge, Prowl felt his tanks grumble. He checked his fuel levels and noticed he was sitting at a low 23%. He grimaced. His fuel consumption rate was off the charts, which was to be expected when he was fueling for three. He looked over to the berthside table, but like everything else in the room, it was empty.
Jazz's early shifts did not deter the saboteur from treating him to breakfast in berth. He would usually leave Prowl's preferred energon blend on the table, just in case he woke up with severely low tanks. He shook his head in annoyance at the Twins' antics, but knew they meant no harm.
There was no way around it. He would have to go into the Rec Room to pick up his own cube.
Receiving a low fuel level warning on his HUD, Prowl resolved himself to get out of berth and head on down to the Rec Room. Nothing against the Autobots, but the Rec Room tended to be busy at this time of orn, and ever since his carrying had become public knowledge, the troops would constantly fuss over him. He appreciated the sentiment, but he really did enjoy just sitting in the quiet from time to time. Especially since he knew that with his sparklings coming soon, moments of solitary silence would be far and few between.
Prowl folded his singular sheet and placed it on top of his pillow. He walked outside and stumbled, catching himself on the doorsill. There was something different about the hallway. Everything looked the same, but it just felt slightly off. There were more dents and scuffs than there should have been. Carrier coding was probably to blame.
With a small shake of his helm, he made his way towards the Rec Room. As always, the halls were busy as bots went about to complete their duties and rush to their shifts. Prowl had grown accustomed to constantly being bombarded with fretting to take it easy, so he was pleasantly surprised to see that he was being given a wide berth. In fact, if he didn't know better, he would say that bots were actually going out of their way to avoid him. Optimus had probably told the troops to give him space to breathe. He would have to thank his leader later.
The rowdiness of the Rec Room carried down the hallway. Lowering the sensitivity on his doorwings, he braced himself to enter. The chatter of the soldiers wrapped around him as he walked over to the dispenser. Blaster was currently filling a cube.
"Good orn, Blaster."
He must have startled the red-and-yellow-plated bot because Blaster quickly turned around with wide optics.
"Prowl, good orn?" He said with a questioning lilt towards the end.
Prowl gave a little nod and reached for a cube of his own. As he placed it in the dispenser, he noticed that the color was slightly off. Perhaps the Science Division had tinkered with their usual blend. He knew they had been working on more cost effective recipes. This is why he hated being off the roster.
He turned back to Blaster. "How is Rewind? Is he doing alright?" As somebody who seemed to nurse a helm-ache every other day, he couldn't help but sympathize with the archivist, who also struggled with chronic helm-aches due to the sheer amount of data he managed.
Apparently, his concern was not well-received because Blaster immediately tensed up. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Prowl was caught off guard. It was very rare that the good-humored communications officer would snap at others. Perhaps he had bumped into him at the wrong time?
"My apologies. I meant no offense. I was just curious if he was feeling better after his latest check-in with Ratchet." He tried to backtrack.
Blaster shot him the nastiest glare that he had ever seen grace his face. "Why would Rewind be in the Medbay? What's it to you anyway?" Prowl was stunned beyond words. He had never seen Blaster behave so hostile towards him. He didn't even have the time to compose a response before the cassette host grumbled, "Whatever," and stormed off.
Prowl was not sure what to make of that interaction, but Jazz would probably be the best equipped to handle whatever Blaster was going through. He sent a quick message to Jazz:
From: Prowl of Praxus
To: Jazz of Polyhex
Is Blaster alright? I ran into him on my way to pick up some fuel. He was not receptive to my inquiries surrounding Rewind and seemed to be in a poor mood.
Hopefully, Jazz would be able to support his best friend. He hoped that Blaster was not feeling overwhelmed by the delegation of tasks that had fallen on him after Prowl had been removed from the roster.
He received a notification:
[ (1) Message to Jazz of Polyhex failed to send. Comm number not found.]
Prowl stopped in his tracks, his doorwings drooping. It wasn't unusual for Jazz's comm to be turned off, but that was only when the saboteur was on missions. Something that should have been impossible, since both factions were currently adhering to a ceasefire agreement. He felt his prior unease return. Had his conjunx received message that things had gone poorly on the negotiations table?
He could tell his current anxiety was starting to cause the sparklings to stir. He had to relax. Stress was not good for them. Jazz was fine. He could still feel his side of the bond. It was just silent but that wasn't abnormal when he was on duty. He cradled his forge. Everything was fine.
As expected, the Rec Room was full this time of orn, so there were no empty tables or booths. Out on the periphery, he saw matching blurs of red and yellow. That would be a good starting point for tracking down his missing habsuite belongings.
He pulled out a chair and sat down. There was an angry rev that went unnoticed as he relished in the instant relief in his struts from standing. "Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, would either of you care to explain why I woke up to an empty habsuite?"
Both Twins glared at him, and Sunstreaker growled, "Why the frag would we know?"
Had something happened while he was recharging? It seemed that the entire Ark was in a foul mood.
"Is this because of your latest punishment detail? I apologize if I overstepped." Maybe he had overdone it with his little mischief. He expected the Twins of all mechs to at least see the humor after the fact. He never would have expected the hostility both were emitting.
Bringing the cube to his dermae, he recoiled when a strange smell reached his olfactory sensor. They definitely changed the energon blend. He decided to put his cube down.
Sideswipe's face displayed outraged confusion. "Is this your idea of a joke?"
Prowl's attention shifted back to the frontliner. It was now his turn to feel confused. "Pardon?"
"You literally had us on cleaning duty and the earliest shifts for decaorns simply because we accidentally broke a window during training."
The tactician tilted his helm trying to recall that detail. His TacNet sifted through his memory banks, but even it could not access the memory they were referencing. He knew that forgetfulness was a side effect of carrying, but there was no way he would have ever assigned such a severe punishment for what seemed to be a simple offense. It was just not proper Autobot procedure.
He tried to plead his case. "You must be mistaken. Even if you had broken the window on purpose, per the Autobot Disciplinary Code, the most that could have been assigned was three orns. Windows are easy to break and are not difficult to replace."
"Then why the Pit," Sunstreaker hissed as he got closer to the tactician's face, "Did I spend the last decaorns scrubbing the walls until my paint was stripped."
Sitting face-to-face, Prowl could teek the raw anger and dislike swirling in the golden twin's field. He understood why Sunstreaker was considered one of the most fearsome warriors in their faction. But this particular disposition was usually aimed towards the Decepticons, not members of his own faction. He certainly never thought he would be on the receiving end.
Protective carrier coding kicked in. He hunched his shoulders and let his doorwings fan out. Instinctively trying to make himself look bigger, while curling in on himself to protect his forge from a perceived threat. After a few kliks, he saw confusion and shock flit through Sunstreaker's expression. He tried to stammer out an apology.
A scoff from Sideswipe broke their one-sided stand-off. "I think it would be best for you to find another seat." Eager to escape the situation, Prowl gave a hesitant nod and stood up. He gave a small wave that was sadly not reciprocated. A sudden wave of vertigo that was intensified by the surrounding noise crashed into him. He slowly stumbled out of the room into the much more quiet hallway.
He was so disoriented that he almost walked into somebody.
"My apologies." He huffed out, trying to reorient himself.
"Prowl?"
Recognizing the voice, he looked up to see Wheeljack looking at him with some concern. While he once would have bristled at being fussed over, after his less than optimal run-ins with Blaster and the Twins, Wheeljack was a welcome friendly face.
"Wheeljack, good orn. How are you?"
"Uhhh, I'm good. Thanks for asking?"
They both looked at the other in a silent awkwardness. Wheeljack finally broke the silence and gestured in front of him. "So…are you also on your way to the Command Room."
"Why would I be on my way there?" He responded. There was no need for his presence. If anything, he was surprised that Wheeljack hadn't mentioned that he should probably be in berth.
"For today's meeting? The schedule has Optimus and all the commanding officers as being in attendance." Wheeljack said uncertainly. His optics narrowed in suspicion as he seemed to look Prowl over.
"Optimus is back?"
"Yeah?"
If Optimus was back, then that meant that negotiations had wrapped up, for better or worse. Prowl was not supposed to attend any meetings as part of his medical leave, but surely such an occasion merited his presence. Wheeljack didn't seem to be suggesting otherwise. Rather, it felt like the engineer expected him to be there.
Well, if this was an oversight on his part, then Prowl wasn't going to complain or pass up the opportunity. "Shall we head down together then?"
"Sure."
They both began the trek to the Command Room. It appears that in his typical excitement, Wheeljack was walking in much longer and faster strides than Prowl was able to keep pace with.
"Wheeljack, apologies, but would you mind slowing down?"
Helm fins flashed a color that seemed to belie the engineer's confusion. "Sure." Prowl could feel Wheeljack's gaze as he seemed to give his frame a quick look over. "Is something wrong?"
"No. A slower walking pace is to be expected of mechs of my condition. Ratchet said everything's fine. I apologize for the inconvenience, feel free to go ahead if you are in a hurry."
Wheeljack gave him a wary glance. "Well, if Ratch says its okay, I'm not going to argue."
Thankfully, the engineer did slow down.
Being in Wheeljack's presence was usually marked by the engineer's excited chattering about his most recent projects, but he was unusually quiet. Maybe this was a sign that he was waiting for Prowl to take initiative.
"So, I noticed the energon in the Rec Room dispensers was different. Did the Science Division's prototype for a new blend finally get approved for widespread consumption?"
"What?"
"The energon. It looked and smelled different."
Wheeljack abruptly stopped. "Are you sure? I had a cube earlier and everything looked the same. Besides, only Skyfire has been focused on fuel alternatives, and his progress has been lacking due to resource shortages." Wheeljack took an awkward downward glance at Prowl and said, "Maybe it has something to do with your…err…condition?"
"Perhaps." There was a small chance that his aversion to the energon was a result of his random cravings. Carrying mechs had been known to do weirder things. If he continued to remain adverse, he would have to ask Bumblebee for some of his recipes, so he wouldn't purge his tanks. It was a much better alternative than the med-grade energon that Ratchet would happily provide.
The thud of heavy pedesteps behind him caused him to glance back. A familiar stern and red-plated bot was slowly approaching. Ironhide seemed surprised to see him.
"Unicron swallow me whole, I never thought I would see the day that Proper Prim Prowl was late to a meeting." The frontliner drolled.
Ironhide was a jesting mech, so Prowl took his little jab in stride. It was true after all. He knew he drove Jazz insane with his incessant need to be 45 breems early to meetings to prepare in advance.
He nodded his helm in acknowledgement at Ironhide as he initiated a servo clasp with Wheeljack.
"We must have lost track of time. Prowl here says he's been having difficulty walking due to his condition."
Ironhide turned towards him and asked, "Condition? And do pray tell what possibly could have happened to our local desk jockey? Pulled a back strut reaching for your datapad?"
For a klik, Prowl assumed that Ironhide was poking fun at his most recent restrictive medical leave. However, he got the feeling that there was something more to it as the combat specialist gave his frame the same scrutiny that Wheeljack had given it prior.
"Did you get a frame change?" Ironhide asked earnestly.
"No?"
"You look different." It looked like the frontliner was going to say something but stopped himself. That restraint fumbled as fast as it had been mustered as Ironhide almost immediately said, "It looks like you gained mass overnight."
Well, yes. Putting it very simply, carrying mechs tended to gain mass both to collect the resources for their sparkling's frames and as said frames developed inside them. Did Ironhide mean to say that he had gained an abnormal amount of mass since they had last talked?
Prowl quickly assessed himself. His bumper and abdomen had grown to accommodate his twins, but Ratchet had assured him that he was fine. In fact, he had been too small at the start because vorns of war had left its mark as malnutrition. He had needed to put on extra mass to make sure the twins would enter the world safely. Ironhide, as a commanding officer, should know this, as he had signed off on Prowl's request for additional rations.
But, while on the topic, he took the second to look at Ironhide, to really look at him. If anybody had altered their frame, it must have been Ironhide. As a frontliner, Ironhide was a bulky mech by default, but his overbearing chassis actually looked reduced. He looked sleeker. More angular.
And because Prowl had yet to fully master tact— despite being conjunxed to the most sociable mech around— he blurted out, "And you look leaner." He internally winced because that was in no way an appropriate response to Ironhide's concern over his well-being. Before he could apologize, the offended mech started to laugh in that familiar deep rumbling sound.
"Late to a meeting and cracking jokes? Where's the real Prowl, and what did you do to him?" Ironhide said in amusement.
The door to the Command Room suddenly opened. Ratchet peeked his helm out. "Sorry to interrupt, but some of us are actually trying to get work done."
Prowl felt his doorwings waver in chagrin at the reminder that he was late. To be fair, it was difficult to be early to a meeting that he had only been made aware of a couple of breems prior. But, as Jazz said, better late than never.
He stepped forward and slightly lowered his helm. "Sorry Ratchet. I'm afraid I held Wheeljack and Ironhide back."
Ratchet's scowling face faltered for a second. His optics narrowed in confusion as he looked over Prowl's frame. Whatever he found, he kept it to himself. Perhaps he was debating if Prowl was in good condition to be present.
"Just get in here."
He walked in to see that everybody was already seated. He felt his spark soar as he saw Jazz sitting down. He was whole and in one piece. He was fine. Prowl had been worrying about nothing. He went to take his seat next to his conjunx and shot him a small smile.
Vorns of being together had taught Prowl how to read the saboteur's smallest tells. Even the visor covering Jazz's beautiful optics was akin to clear glass to him. Experience told him that Jazz was currently angry. In fact, the saboteur looked disgusted to see him. Prowl felt his smile falter.
Self-doubt bubbled up. Had he done something wrong? His last interaction with the saboteur had been as they cuddled up in his little makeshift nest to recharge for the night. Jazz had been so happy. Genuine happiness and adoration had flowed freely through their bond. Nimble servos had helped to work out all the aches in his frame. Prowl could still vividly remember Jazz placing a kiss over his forge, before he sang their little family into recharge.
Something must have happened. That was the only explanation. Had the negotiations turned sour? He turned to take a glance at Optimus's face. Even with his battlemask on, it was clear to see that Optimus was in a relaxed state. There was nothing on his face that would indicate that something bad had happened. So what could have his conjunx so agitated?
Optimus's booming voice broke him from his thoughts. "Thank you for your prompt attendance. Let us begin." The Autobot leader sat down.
A full breem passed without anybody saying or doing anything. The silence was filled only by quiet whirring.
Optimus cleared his throat. "Prowl?"
It was at that moment that Prowl realized all optics were on him. He felt a sense of dread forming in his tanks. He felt like he wanted to purge. Was he supposed to have prepared something ahead of time? Wheeljack had not mentioned anything. It's not like he had received a missive.
"Yes, Prime?" He hesitantly responded.
Optimus looked at him with a dumbfounded expression. He managed to collect himself and said, "I believe this is usually when you would read us the day's agenda."
A pit opened up in his tanks. How he hated potentially disappointing the Prime. He looked around to see the others staring at him in expectation.
"I do not currently posses an agenda of today's meeting. I didn't even know my presence was required until this morning." It pained him to get the words out. Being unprepared was not becoming of him. He felt his doorwings droop behind him as he sat in shame at having failed to execute what had been expected of him.
"Prowl, what are you talking about?" Red Alert asked. "In what scenario, would the Autobot Second-in-Command's presence not be required in a High Command meeting? Moreover, you are literally in charge of writing the damn orn's agenda. Why are you acting like you haven't done this a thousand times over?"
Prowl looked at his friend, optical ridges scrunched in confusion. "Red Alert, I haven't been in charge of compiling the agenda for the last couple of decaorns in compliance with my medical leave."
Once he had shared the good news of his carrying with Red Alert, the security director had gone overkill with security defenses for him. Pit, Ratchet had worked in cahoots with Red Alert to prevent him from accessing his workstation!
"Besides, I don't know what you are talking about." He pointed in Jazz's direction, which prompted a nasty glare. "The Autobot Second-in-Command is currently present."
Various commanders spoke at once, but only one voice processed in his helm.
Jazz revved his engine, face contorted in anger. "Mech, I have no clue what game you are playing right now, but stop wasting our time."
It was only because Prowl was unable to process the fact that Jazz had raised his voice at him that he instead clung on to the end of what Ratchet was saying.
"Medical leave? What the frag are you on about? I haven't cleared you from duty."
"Ratchet, you were present for my latest check-in." He stammered. Afraid of further aggravating Jazz, he tried to discretely nod his helm towards him. "Ask Jazz he was there."
Both Ratchet and Jazz looked stunned. Jazz's visor brightened in outrage, whereas Ratchet just looked bewildered.
"The frag I was!" Jazz shouted as he quickly stood to his pedes. Pointing a finger at Prowl's chassis, he said, "I don't know what you are plotting this time, but you are not dragging me down with you."
"Enough!" Optimus bellowed.
Nothing was making sense. Jazz had never before gotten this angry with him before. Even when the saboteur was displeased with him, he had never turned to expletives or yelling. His doorwings were completely lowered and flickering erratically.
He could feel the sparklings start to stir in displeasure at his current circumstances. At their current developmental stage, they had already grown accustomed to their sire's voice. If Prowl was uneasy in the presence of his angry conjunx, his poor twins were probably terrified to hear the voice that had sang them lullabies distorted in rage. That beautiful voice that used to sing the sweetest of notes now sounded worse than the shrill screeching of metal.
Prowl could feel himself get more wound up by stress. This was not good. He had to do something.
He remembered that Jazz was a tactile mech, who relished in and relaxed with small touches. Later, he would blame his overwhelmed processor for his grave miscalculation. He reached forwards and gently clasped the saboteur's servo, hoping to soothe him.
A bright over-flared visor almost blinded him. He could feel the fiery bitter backlash of a field swirling in anger.
His conjunx opened his mouth. The words that came out made the energon in his lines chill.
"If you want to keep that servo, you better let go right now."
