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“Jazz. I would like to speak with you in my office.”
“Sure thing, Prowler,” Jazz said with a grin. “Just give me a couple kliks to wrap it up here.” Prowl nodded in acknowledgement and swept out of the rec room without another word. Jazz watched him go, optics lingering appreciatively on the shapely black aft and the finely crafted doorwings.
Windcharger let out a low whistle. “You're about to go tap that, aren't you.”
“If I told you that, I'd have to kill you,” Jazz teased, tossing back the last of his energon. Which didn't change the fact that yes, he sure as all Cybertron was, and if tradition held true, it would be one spectacular round of clanging. “Sorry, my mechs, but it looks like I'm out early. See y'all next shift.”
Sunstreaker snorted. “I don't get it. Sure, he's nice to look at, until you remember that it's Prowl. How do you even get your fans spinning?”
Jazz smirked and leaned across the table toward Sunstreaker, lowering his vocal output. “I'll let you in on a secret,” he offered conspiratorially. “Prowl's like the finest, centuries-old high grade. You break it out for special occasions, savour a cube or two, and put it way again for next time. Any more than that and you cheapen the experience.” Then he stood, engines already humming in anticipation, and exited the rec room.
The doors to Prowl's office, much like those of Optimus Prime's and Jazz' own, were usually open when he was in, so Jazz didn't have to ping for entrance but simply walked right in, giving a light rev of his engine to announce his presence. Prowl didn't look up from his work immediately, but that wasn't unusual with Prowl, and Jazz had long since learned not to be insulted. A remote command had the doors sliding shut, and that was enough to let Jazz know that Prowl was well aware of who was in his office with him.
Jazz waited, knowing that Prowl would address him when he was ready and no sooner. Finally, Prowl set down his datapad, passing a hand over the screen to shut it down.
“Jazz,” he greeted. “I appreciate you taking time out of your schedule on such short notice.”
Jazz smirked, letting his engine throttle up to an audible level. “For you, Prowler? I'm never busy.”
Prowl's lip components turned downward in a frown. “I didn't ask you here to interface, Jazz. I apologise; given our history, it must have seemed...”
The lazy purr of Jazz's engine faltered; he reset his audial receivers, wondering if maybe he'd heard that wrong. “Sorry, Prowler, did you just-”
“I apologise again for the misunderstanding,” Prowl cut in smoothly. “Please, sit.”
Jazz nodded, slowly, and sat down in the seat opposite Prowl's desk. “So if I'm not here to bang yer bolts?”
“Indeed. The opposite, in fact. I have been giving some thought to the nature of our relationship, Jazz. After several joor of analysis I have come to the conclusion that it would be best if we cut off all contact outside of the purely professional.”
“Cut off all contact,” Jazz repeated.
“I'm sure you can understand my position, Jazz. I cannot have favourites. I cannot allow myself to become blinded or influenced by emotional attachments.”
“Emotional attachments?” Jazz chuckled. “C'mon, Prowler, what we do is fun and ya sure know how to blow my circuits, but it's just groundin' some charge. It don't mean nothin'.”
Prowl's optics offlined and his doorwings stilled. “And that, more than anything, is perhaps why I believe it best that we end our arrangement.” He spoke softly, and when his optics booted back up he didn't look Jazz in the visor. “I would ask that you respect my decision in this matter.”
“Of course, Prowler. If that's what you want.”
“Thank you.” Prowl smiled, and his expression was relief and something else, something Jazz couldn't identify. The tactician showed emotion openly so rarely that even his open displays were hard to read. “That was all, Jazz; you may go.”
The office doors opened behind him as Jazz stood, but he didn't turn to leave immediately. “You'll let me know if you change your mind? We had some good times.”
“I'll let you know,” Prowl agreed, but it was clear from the set of his mouth that he would not be going back on his decision.
Jazz didn't go back to the rec room. He spent the rest of the night in his quarters, sipping his last cube of vintage Polyhexion high grade. Strong, smooth, well aged, a perfect balance of raw energy and silky flavour, and after tonight he'd never have it again.