#startywrites

With their height differences being so great, a bot could assume a few things that The Autobots' Second and Third in Command struggled with when it came to the berthroom: awkwardly placed limbs, finding properly sized bedding and making enough furniture to accommodate both of their frame types.

And a bot would be wrong as they'd crossed those hurdles centuries ago, thank you very much.

Let Jazz get one thing straight: partners of different size classes made them all the better to hug with, yeah?

And then some, but that was besides the point.

Learning to sew to make their non flammable (and later, flammable) bedding the right size for the coziness and resourcefulness of it all? Check.

Getting a properly fitted berth with the help of Hoist and Wheeljack? A-check.

…Did they need to check if that was flammable, too? Eh. That was for future Jazz to figure out.

Having some custom made furniture from Mirage, the Terror Twins and Hoist? Give him a new checklist because that datapad was destroyed sometime after those four got ahold of it.

They did get some stunning pieces out of it, though.

Nice work there, fellas.

But the thing they still struggled with that kept Jazz awake, staring up at the ceiling as his conjunx curled around him like a purring cybercat? Spooning.

For all of his skill in being a compact, deadly, speedy saboteur with a know how of vent travel and weaponry of all sorts, Jazz's shorter arms and legs made him both perfect to hold when he wanted to be held and a mech's worst nightmare when he didn't.

It also made it all the harder for him to reciprocate said holding of his beautiful conjunx and berthmate, Prowl.

The winged mech towered over him with those long, long legs of his and gave him a near perfect view of those headlights.

Wasn't he the luckiest mech on the planet?

And did Jazz mention his darling Prowler liked being the little spoon too, sometimes? It had been one night cycle when they had been cuddling on the couch where Prowl had told him he wanted to be the little spoon, finally. Jazz had known his conjunx had never been asked what he wanted in his previous relationship, so he had waited till Prowl was ready. And it was happening!

He'd spent the rest of that evening wrapped around the Praxian as best he could, swearing he'd try to perfect the art of spooning both here and in berth.

Prowl had said it was alright, really, that he had just mentioned it because he had felt comfortable and safe and liked holding and being held by Jazz in any capacity. That it had felt nice, though.

That the Praxian had liked being the smaller one for a change.

What was a mech supposed to do but try his damnedest to make that dream a reality for his sweet 'junx, a mech who really didn't ask for much of anything for himself, when he had said it like that?

This had led to a week and some change of plots, schemes and general mischief making on behalf of the resident Spec Ops leader.

The first night cycle, Jazz had waited for Prowl to drop into recharge before slipping out of his partner's arms and slowly shifting around the berth as he thought of how to hold him.

He had attempted the usual Prowl did for him but in reverse: laying on their sides with their legs tangled together.

His conjunx switched between his side and his front, but usually stayed still while deep in recharge. Perfect plan, in theory.

The mech's doorwings moved backwards, but it had still been an odd fit for Jazz to get between them and the roof of Prowl's alt mode with his own bumper in the way.

No amount of arm or leg around Prowl's side or hip had helped him there, as much as he'd tried. And, oh, believe him, he'd tried for nights on end. He had tried it so many different ways, but with none successful, Jazz was starting to get twitchy.

After the sixth day cycle had burned his hidden optics, Jazz had to admit, it was harder than it looked to spoon someone so tall.

Not impossible. Not in any way easy, but not impossible. He just needed a new plan. This one involved pillows, and lots of them.

It had been easy collecting them from around the Ark. His blueprints were perfect for getting into berthrooms undetected and dropping them in the right spot. Don't fret, he'd return them later…maybe.

Hiding them around their hab had proven just the tiniest bit more tricky, but he had managed.

Jazz's latest stint on the seventh night cycle had been… well, he ain't proud of it. Not his finest work there, no. Not at all.

He'd tried getting between Prowl's wings as his lover laid on his front — who was he to tell his baby that it'd mess up his backstrut sleeping like that, after such a long day? — but that had only gotten him a sharp, twitching side of a doorwing to the faceplate.

His Prowler had mumbled a sleepy apology as Jazz quietly started bleeding energon onto everything.

It had dripped over his bumper, onto the sheets and down the side of his partner's wing before the mech had smacked him with a palm in an attempt to check for any injuries.

Jazz hadn't flinched, hadn't shown it at all that he had gotten a two for one busted lipplate and nosebleed combo from a sleepy conjunx. He had handled worse in open combat.

White hot pain-shame had pulsed through the bond, anyway, as he saw his pretty Prowl open his optics and look at his hand.

When the overhead lights had flicked on…hm, well, Jazz knew in his spark that he never wanted to see his 'junx's face look like that ever again. Let him just leave it at that, yeah?

He absolutely hated making Prowl worry over him. And yet...

This night cycle couldn't end like this. It just couldn't.

Jazz's poor spark (and processor) couldn't take another defeat. He needed a win.

C'mon, Jazz, get it together.

In the arms of a now (mostly) calm, sleeping Praxian and with his lipplate and nasal ridge now patched over till Aid would visit, he was ready to try this one more time.

Or, well...he didn't want to even think about it.

Prowl was as still as the dead as he began piling pillows around his frame.

What an angel.

He had placed one underneath and over a doorwing to reduce the pressure and keep any more stray faceplates away before sliding down that strong, sleek, shiny frame.

Now, his own venting starts slowing down some as his forehelm and hands rest on his conjunx's lower spinal strut and hips. Cozy. As easy as breathing, if he even needed to breathe.

Just a little more…if he could just slip his arms around and under that beautiful bumper and slide a warm leg between his—

"What are you doing, Jazz?"

Slag. Silvertongue Jazz, go.

"Ah, nothin'…what're you doin', sugar?" He tries casually.

Gods dang it.

His conjunx starts shifting, but easily finds himself temporarily trapped in Jazz's cozy, squishy prison.

Prowl sighs. "…I was recharging, dear, and then I felt you move across the berth. Are you alright?"

"Yep!" Clearly swatting his side of the bond of its lingering calm-panic, Jazz couldn't help but keep doubling down on this. "Really, babe, just go back to sleep. Don'tcha worry your pretty helm about me."

"Darling..." Prowl says. Even from down here, Jazz was feeling that turquoise blue gaze. That, and the worry thrumming through the bond was absolutely eating at him.

Would it really be that bad if he told his sweetspark? They talked about almost everything.

Sighing, Jazz starts to admit defeat. And then, he just can't stop laughing once Prowl tells him that he had been aware of his scheming around the fourth night cycle and had wanted to see him succeed and get comfortable.

That he would ask for the next few days to work from their habsuite to let him recover from his self imposed sleep schedule.

(Or lack thereof.)

Delirious, giddy and thoroughly sleep deprived, Jazz hadn't realize he was crying until he had heard Prowl's cute little beep and was back in his arms. It could've been this easy! Wait, seriously?

His optics start shuttering as soon as those white servos begin petting his audials affectionately. He really was as sweet as sugar, his Prowler.

He hears him more than sees him now, comfortable and safe in that warm embrace.

"Of course, you silly mech. I know you struggle with recharging fully with your nightmares. Rest, my lovely Jazz. I will be here."

No need to tell him twice. In no time at all, he is pressing himself to Prowl's back, wrapping himself under and around those wings and hip. If he starts attaching his magnetized digits to his lover's waist to be a makeshift fanny pack, well, who could blame him?

He was the big spoon now.

Jazz feels himself easing into his first peaceful recharge in days, drifting to the sound of his conjunx's voice as he makes some calls to the HC and Aid.

If a bot needed him, either of them, go ahead and ask them again later as Jazz would be attached to his 'junx for the foreseeable future.