#jazzxprowl

(I am not fighting with this link any more, I'll fix it later 😠)

At the center was a spiral staircase leading up to the largest telescope, capable of capturing light from the deepest space. Oddly enough, the telescope was opened, as well as the service hatch. Prowl's gaze followed the service hatch through the glass ceiling outside.

And found the reason behind his sudden whim.

Jazz was sitting outside, precariously close to the edge. His back was turned, looking up at the starless night sky above. The narrow service hatch was built to send maintenance drones out to clean the windows, but Prowl supposed he shouldn't be surprised that someone as small and agile as Jazz could slip through it to get outside where no one could find him.

Prowl was neither small nor agile as Jazz, but he reached up to pull himself through the hatch as well, grimacing as each loud noise he made echoed across the Observatory. His logic circuits were going haywire, insisting that this was breaking regulations and an insane idea in every form, but he pushed through, eventually managing to clamber out on the roof next to the outside of the telescope. He straightened up, mindful of the glass under his feet and carefully keeping his gaze straight lest the vertigo hits him, and slowly moved towards his partner.

There was no reaction from Jazz, though there was no way he didn't hear Prowl's less than graceful climb through the hatch. Even when Prowl sat next to him there was no word from either of them. After making himself as comfortable as he could, Prowl stole a glance at his partner, who was supposed to have reported to the med bay after the briefing.

Jazz's visor was up. There were ghosts in his optics.

"Stop staring," Jazz suddenly snapped. The visor slid back down, swiftly returning back to the unflappable Third in Command who everyone relied on to keep a cool head.

Prowl knew better though. The Delta Squad had been Jazz's command, sent out on his orders. Now all that was left of the entire team was a single traumatised survivor.

"Sorry," Prowl said, looking away.

Jazz revved, clearly regretting his outburst, though he didn't apologize. "What are you doing here?" he asked after a moment.

"I could ask the same of you."

"You tell me first."

"I came to check on you," Prowl said. It was close enough to the truth, even if he hadn't realize it at first. "Now you tell me."

A puff of air hissed through Jazz's vents. "Had to get away for a bit."

"You could have at least finished your repairs first."

"What, this?" Jazz lifted his arm, where the plasma burn marks from the rescue operation still clung. "This is nothing. It didn't even scratch."

Prowl considered pointing out there could be other hidden injuries, but then decided it wasn't worth risking Jazz's ire at the moment. Not when he is so on edge, both figuratively and literally. There were other, more important matters to address.

"No one blames you for what happened with the Delta Squad," Prowl said carefully, watching his partner's reaction.

Jazz tensed, then sighed. The light from his visor dimmed. "That's what you think," he said.

"That's what everyone thinks," Prowl pressed on. "That's what Optimus thinks."

"Not me."

It was Prowl's turn to sigh. "That's why you're wrong."

Jazz didn't answer.

Gingerly, Prowl placed a hand on Jazz's knee. "You're thinking you should have gone instead of them. You can't be everywhere at once, Jazz."

Jazz stared at Prowl's hand, before placing his on top, clasping it. "I know," he said. Then he flashed a handsome smile. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine soon. I always do."

Prowl didn't doubt that Jazz would be fine for now.

But he had a sinking feeling that there would be many more nights like these, and if they continued, repeating over and over again...

The white minimalist decor extended to the rest of the apartment. In the bedroom, it had been classy, if a little stark. Now it was cold and depressing, and said some unflattering things about the mech who lived there.

Speaking of...

Jazz listened, but could make out no sign of his rescuer-slash-possible-kidnapper. He made his way through to the kitchen. This was a bit of a risk, helping himself to Prowl's fuel without being offered, but he needed the energon. He had to get as much as he could to heal as quickly as possible. For that, he was willing to risk Prowl’s wrath.

The kitchen was decorated like the rest of the apartment: in white. White walls, white floor tiling, a white table with two black chairs. The only decoration was a picture on the wall across from the dispenser; the Old Iaconian glyph for 'peace' drawn out in gold paint on black.

"Not much of an interior decorator," Jazz muttered to himself as he poured himself a cube of energon.

He was a little stuck on the apartment, mentally.  He’d never been in a living space so empty. It didn’t seem like a home at all. Even the shabby little room Jazz had been renting above the brothel had some decorations. He’d had a music system, pictures, little knickknacks he’d picked up to brighten up his day-to-day.  

He wondered briefly if this was even really Prowl's apartment, or if he had just broken into some place for sale-- No. Suspicion was good;   that was a little too close to paranoia. But what sort of person could walk into an apartment like this and think “yes, this is home, I am happy and relaxed in this space”?

"Good morning."

Jazz jumped, slopping the energon over his hand.

"Sorry," Prowl said, having the good grace to look properly apologetic. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you. Let me get that."

Prowl took a step forward and Jazz automatically took a step back. If Prowl thought Jazz was going to stand there and let him lick it off, he had another thing coming. Nothing grossed Jazz out as much as being licked .

They stared at each other.

Slowly, Prowl extended a hand, reaching for a drawer. This time, when he took a step forward, Jazz let him. The other mech opened a  pulled a cleaning cloth out and handed it to Jazz, who took it and began to hurriedly scrub at the energon on his hand.

Prowl opened his mouth to say something.

"Sorry," Jazz said. "I didn't hear you. When I came out, I mean. I'm not the kind of bot to go sneaking around people's homes, usually."

"I'm quiet," Prowl said.

"Bet that comes in handy on the job," Jazz said.

"I prefer to use it to startle my colleagues and frighten new recruits."

Startled, Jazz looked up. There was the faintest hint of a smile on Prowl’s lips.  

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a joke.”

“I never joke. It’s bad for my digestion.”

Jazz smiled. Prowl was funny. Who would have guessed?

"How are you feeling?" the officer asked.

"Better.”

"Do you mind if I take a look at your arm? I want to see how the patch is progressing."

Jazz silently held his arm out. Prowl placed his hands on it and leaned in to examine the wiring. Jazz waited for Prowl's fingers to slide to sensor nodes or trail down his arm. It didn't. Those hands remained strictly professional, touching only where necessary.

"It's not incorporating as fast as I'd like," Prowl said, "but the damage was extensive."

He straightened and met Jazz's gaze.

"I don't suppose you'd like to tell me who did this to you."

Jazz snorted.

"I am a police officer," Prowl reminded him.

"Nobody cares what happens to people like me.”

"I care. If there's someone out there who hurt you, he needs to be brought to justice.”

Justice. This confirmed Jazz’s previous assumption. Prowl believed in the system. Believed in justice, and probably honor. Definitely not a serial killer, almost certainly not aiming to trap Jazz as a personal interface mech.

If Jazz could get an explanation for that locked cabinet, he might be able to actually relax around Prowl.

"There's no justice for shareware, Prowl. You're a cop. You should know that. So what do you do for fun around here?"

“What?”

“Fun. You know what fun is, right? What do you, Prowl of Tyger Pax, do to achieve it?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Yes,” Jazz said brightly. “I am.”

Prowl’s optics narrowed. Jazz smiled widely.

"I read, mostly,” Prowl said, giving up. “Or go over case files."

Bonded to the job. Three for three.

"What do you do when you have friends over?"

Prowl didn’t answer right away. Jazz could actually see the mech trying to think up some sort of answer or excuse.

Mm-hmm. Exactly as Jazz had expected. No friends, or at least only work friends. Lonely, almost certainly did not admit that to himself, probably referred to himself as “independent”.

Was that what Prowl had rescued him for? Not a pleasure bot but a companion, someone to talk to? That was a cushy gig; might even be worth sticking around for.

Jazz needed to say something before the silence went from “embarrassing” to “humiliating”.  

"Everybody has a hobby, Prowl; there’s gotta be something. ”

"Well..." Prowl hesitated. Jazz quirked two fingers in a "come on" gesture.

"I don't suppose you enjoy strategy games?"

Jazz detected a note of carefully hidden, desperate hope. It was enough to break your spark.

"I like all kinds of games. You know Iacon Twenty-two?"

Prowl's optics lit up.

The game board was made of polished steel. That was expensive. Jazz wondered why Prowl shelled out so much for one if he never got to play.

Prowl's hands deftly placed the pieces on the board. Though it didn't show on his face, Jazz could tell Prowl was excited. It was all in the doorwings, really.

They settled on opposite sides of the kitchen table.

"Guests first," Prowl said.

For the first few minutes, they played in silence. As the game went on, they both began to relax, and soon conversation flowed. A new aspect of the game evolved -- for every piece played, a question had to be asked and answered.

Jazz turned a piece over and over in his hand, considering his choices.

"What made you want to be a police officer?"

He placed the piece down on the corner of the board. Prowl frowned at it.

"Individuals succeeding at the expense of others, or preying on those weaker than them have always frustrated me. I can't stand any sort of injustice. It was only logical to make this my career. Though that's not what I started out doing."

Prowl placed his piece, locking Jazz into one of three moves, none of which was tactically advantageous.

"Your accent tells me you're not from here. Where are you from originally?"

"Iacon. A lifetimetime ago.” He placed his piece. "You said that law enforcement wasn't what you started with. What did you start as?"

"A medic," Prowl said. Jazz looked up, startled.

"So that's how you knew how to patch me up," Jazz said, running a hand over the welding marks.

"It comes in handy," Prowl said.

"It’s a pretty big leap from medic to cop."

Prowl shrugged.

"That was the life my mentor wanted for me. I was never happy with it, but I wanted to make him proud. Then about a month before I finished my education, I realized that if I went through with it I would be miserable for the rest of my life. I left, and joined the force."  

“What did your mentor think?”

Prowl shook his head.

“My turn first. You say you’re from Iacon, but your playstyle isn’t Iaconian. Where did you learn?”

“Group of friends taught me how to play. They were from all over, and I picked up what I knew from them. I’m a quick learner.” He set his piece down. “ Now tell me what your mentor thought.”

"He disowned me."

Jazz jerked in his seat, knocking several pieces off the table.

“ Primus .” He scrambled to gather them up. The knowledge was shocking enough, but the way Prowl had said it was even worse. As if it was a simple fact, as if Prowl didn’t care .

Prowl placed his piece.

“So what do you do for fun?”

“Really?” Jazz managed. “You’re just...just gonna drop that bomb on me and keep walkin’?”

Prowl looked slightly puzzled.

“I don’t follow.”

“Your mentor disowned you! For doing what you wanted to do!” It was a mentor’s responsibility to take a newspark and teach them the ways of the world, to help educate them, and if not love them then at least care for them and their happiness.  To have one reject their charge entirely was...was...

“Yes, he did. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

“Upsets me! He’s your mentor, shouldn’t it upset you ?”

Prowl shrugged his wings.

“It was a long time ago. We were never particularly close. He was not particularly kind. I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I think that something would have made him disown me eventually, even if I had become a medic.”

“But...But…”

“I appreciate your concern,” Prowl said, “but it was a long time ago.”

He smiled, but it was a small one, purely for the sake of putting Jazz at ease.

Jazz’s own mentor had died a long time ago. When it had happened, Jazz had mourned her bitterly. Now, though, he was sometimes glad that she was gone. At least now she would never see what he’d become.

Why was he even concerned with what had happened in Prowl’s life? He barely trusted Prowl. He barely knew Prowl. He pushed the feelings away. It wasn’t his business.

“You asked what I do for fun, right? I watch movies. I play games. I used to be a musician."  Jazz snapped his mouth shut. Why had he said that? What had possessed him to tell Prowl that? He never talked about his old life, not ever. Was it because of what Prowl had said?

"I almost played the lyre," Prowl said, casually, as if Jazz's hand wasn't so tight around his game piece his joints were starting to ache. Jazz looked up, startled out of his reverie.

"Almost?"

"It was a respectable instrument for the charge of a mentor from a respectable profession."

"But?" Jazz place his piece, stealing three of Prowl's and turning the game in his favor. Prowl frowned at the board.

"I wasn't against it at first, but it very quickly became evident that I do not have an ounce of musical talent in my frame. Every week, the tutor would come to the house and I'd sit there for an hour and get scolded for every wrong note. And they were all wrong. No matter how perfectly I put my fingers, no matter how hard I tried, it sounded horrible.

"But my mentor wouldn't let me stop. ‘I do not tolerate failure from my charges’, he said.”  

The more Jazz heard about this mech the more he hated him.

"Then what happened?"

"One day things went very badly. The tutor told me that I wasn't trying hard enough, that I was lazy and disrespectful and would never get anywhere in life. As soon as he left I lost my temper and told my mentor I was quitting. He was giving me the lecture about failures, and I snapped and told him that I was quitting, and then I could be the first person in his charge to succeed at being a failure. And then I threw the lyre out the window."

Jazz was so delighted by the mental image that he almost missed Prowl moving a piece into an attack position.

"That's not all," Prowl said, with a smile of his own. "The tutor was standing right under the window.”

" No ."

"Oh yes. Hit him right on the head. Knocked him out cold."