Work Text:
Jazz made his way across the full bar, slipping through the bustling mechs and dodging stray kibble and wings with only a little effort. He stopped to slap a few important mechs on the back, occasionally accompanied by a well placed laugh or servo-shake.
Optimus’s faceplate crinkled around his optics as he greeted Jazz. His battle mask had always been useless when it came to hiding his kind smile.
Megatron grumbled but reluctantly allowed a servo-shake—a foolish move, honestly! He should know not to make any contact with Jazz!
Starscream gripped Jazz’s servo way too tight, only barely loose enough to not be worth notifying Ratchet. It hurt, but witnessing the way his sickeningly fake smile fell for a klik—when Jazz slipped a few rings into his servo—swiftly swept the pain away.
Jazz giggled evilly as he fled into the crowd, followed by Megatron’s enraged growl and Starscream’s defiant cry.
Peace may’ve been restored, but Jazz couldn’t help but lightly terrorize a few mechs. All in good fun, of course! He would rather kill Optimus than restart the war, and the Prime was a good mech.
He slipped in and out of a few more conversations, purposefully bumped into an invisible Mirage hovering awkwardly in a corner, and accompanied Blaster as he played DJ; he never lingered for longer than a few breem.
More than a few times, a pair of doorwings would catch his optics, and each time it was every single Praxian they had but the one he wanted to see.
Far too soon and yet far too late, the party started weaning, mechs started filing out, and few stayed back to help clean.
Gray doorwings faced Jazz as Bluestreak wiped down tables. A slightly overcharged Sunstreaker brooded not too far away, not helping his bartender boyfriend but looking more as if it was because he had no idea how to. Whether that was just the high-grade talking or something more complex and mushy, Jazz didn’t care enough to bother.
Jazz did spare some mercy and grabbed and tossed Sunstreaker a broom as he got himself a rag. Sunstreaker caught it but didn’t look any more sure of himself.
Jazz sauntered to an unwashed table near Bluestreak and started working, the perfect picture of a innocent, helpful bystander who would casually offer conversation-
He only faltered a little when Bluestreak immediately abandoned his post to assist a helpless Sunstreaker, but he just plastered on an easygoing smile and continued on with his own personal mission.
“Soooo, Blue! Where’s Prowl, do ya know? I haven’t see ‘im at all since I got back,” he asked very casually and subtly, wiping various icky substances off his table.
His plating rippled uneasily when his demure glance up revealed Bluestreak sporting one of the most exasperated expressions he’d ever seen on any mech, rivaling even Prowl’s. Was Sunstreaker that hopeless, or…?
“I dunno, Jazz. He’s probably in his office. Up going through datapads,” Bluestreak offered, cheerful voice expressing no trace of the same emotion his faceplates did.
He turned back to Sunstreaker and demonstrated both the right grip for a broom and how to sweep. Once Sunstreaker copied him well enough, he pecked his cheek and returned to his half-cleaned table.
Jazz shamelessly abandoned his rag to perch upon his table and lean towards Bluestreak.
“He’s not, though! That was the first place I checked! There, and e’ry other office I’ve caught him commandeering,” he insisted.
Bluestreak’s derma twitched into a smirk as he—somehow??—locked eyes with Jazz through his visor.
“…Have you checked his hab?”
///
Jazz stood outside the hab he had, completely genuinely, forgotten Prowl had.
His favorite tactician had quite literally lived in his office during the war, having gone far enough to install a berth in the back room, so Jazz didn’t feel too bad. He had usually dragged Prowl back to his place anyway.
But Jazz had been gone for a few decacycles to help with the restoration efforts outside of Iacon, and hadn’t seen Prowl since he had returned midcycle. Maybe three decacycles was enough for Prowl to invest in sleeping in a real berth.
Before Jazz could even lift his servo high enough to knock, the hab door slid open to reveal the gorgeous mech he had kept an optic out for the whole night.
His expression was warm, soft in the way it only was for Jazz. He stepped to the side of the door and beckoned him in.
Jazz took no longer than a klik after the door closed to throw his arms around Prowl’s neck and drag him down into a crushing kiss.
He couldn’t help but grin into it as Prowl settled his servos firmly on Jazz’s hips. The soft smile on Prowl’s derma definitely didn’t do their kiss any favors, either.
“Heya, Prowler,” Jazz said, running his thumb over Prowl’s cheek.
“Hello, Jazz.” Prowl pressed a kiss just above Jazz’s visor. He pulled back to look at Jazz sincerely. “I apologize for missing the party. I got caught up in going through my datapads.”
“‘S no prob.” Jazz nuzzled the side of Prowl’s helm, using the opportunity to take a sneaky peek around his hab, and- oh!
“What’s this?” Jazz asked, extracting himself from Prowl’s arms to fall onto Prowl’s couch and inspect the datapad laid across the small table.
It wasn’t one issued for work, clearly, its cracked screen and outdated style were starkly contrasting the other (definitely work related) datapads Prowl had stacked on his counter. Speaking of datapads, they were literally all the decoration Prowl’s hab had besides, like, two crystals.
But, anyway! Prowl hadn’t answered and was- was he fidgeting? The frag?
Prowl turned his helm away as he gripped his own thighs nervously. There was the faintest teek of embarrassment in his field that filled Jazz with elation.
“Prowler, babe, I’m gonna look through this,” he announced, and though Prowl didn’t seem thrilled, the tiiiiniest quirk of his derma and flushed faceplates betrayed that he was at least charmed by Jazz, and he would take what he could get and run with it!!
”I… Okay,” Prowl said, sitting all properly next to where Jazz had splayed himself out. He reached out to take the datapad, but Jazz hugged it to his chassis.
”Nuh uh! No secrets in this relationship,” he teased. “What’s the password?”
Prowl rolled his optics—which were full of love and affection and longing, of course—and sighed.
”CCPX-PRWL84,” he said, as if Jazz could remember all that…
He did. And typed it in immediately but had to give Prowl shit before snooping.
”Seriously? Baby, I was expecting, like, your mechlinghood crush’s name. Slag like that. Normal mech passwords, not a randomized combo of letters and numbers.”
”…That was my build number.”
Jazz couldn’t help the giggle he then viciously smothered. He didn’t want Prowl to feel too made fun of.
“Aw, mech. Your password was your name? That’s-“
”I wasn’t very creative. Let’s get on with it,” Prowl interrupted, yanking the datapad out of Jazz’s slack servos.
For just a klik, worry flickered within Jazz chassis, fear that he had been a little too mean. But Prowl shuffled infinitesimally closer to him, field calm, his spark settled.
Jazz craned his neck to get a good look at the mysterious datapad and- awww.
No, like, AWWW!!
Little imaginary sparks were floating around Jazz’s head as he crooned over image captures of mechling Prowl!!
Or, really, a newly constructed Prowl’s ID, given he was an MTO, but it hardly mattered when the adult frame stared with wide optics at the camera, full of the clueless wonderment all mechlings had.
”Awww,” Jazz crooned, fake caressing little sparkling Prowl’s helm with a digit. “You were such a cute mechlin’, Prowler. Look at your lil sparklin’ face! And your chevron grew! Your wings, too?”
He looked up at Prowl, brimming with curiosity.
”Yes, cold-constructs grow after we’re brought online. Our sparks personalize our frames enough to make it ours. That’s how you see mechs from the same batch look the same besides subtle differences in faces, kibble, coloring, or…” he trailed off.
”That how you got your tacnet?” Jazz offered, pushing reassurance at him through his field with the strength of a thousand mecha.
Prowl nodded stiffly.
”…Yes. Continue browsing at your leisure.”
No one ever needed to order Jazz to snoop twice! He did so with great gusto!!
After a joor of Jazz fussing over Prowl in various stages of mechlinghood with adult-Prowl snuggled against him and adding context, they got to when the war began.
The semi-frequent image captures halted to a stop. The only ones he had for vorn were of Prowl’s new Autobot ID—his optics visibly hardened and jaw clenched—and the IDs of his superiors.
Jazz scrolled through in silence until he got to a capture taken a decacycle after Praxus.
”Oh…” he breathed, staring at the capture…
…featuring a mechling Bluestreak, chevron stubby and wings held close and low, stubbornly clutching onto Prowl’s arm.
”You knew Bluestreak when he was little..?” he asked, turning to face- to face Prowl who’s intake had nearly dropped to the fragging floor.
”I… Jazz… Did you not know?”
”Nnnno?”
”I mentored him? I’m his mentor?”
“You’re WHAT?”
///
Jazz sat—properly, this time—on Prowl’s couch, clutching his shoulders, optic to optic, datapad abandoned on the table.
”I… Primus. Let me get this straight- I’m- I’m Blue’s stepmentor?”
”That’s what you’re taking from thi-“
”AND I DIDN’T KNOW?”
Prowl doorwings jerked up and back into an angry ‘V’ and he scowled.
”He visits me every few cycles. When he was a mechling he—on record, I know you’ve looked through everyone’s—was moved wherever I was transferred. With me. Sunstreaker came to me for permission to court Bluestreak. Whenever I invite you to my end of decacycle family dinner, he’s there. I have stated several times that if we are to work, he needs to like you. Are you dense on purpose?”
“No!!” Jazz defended, “Not on purpose! And, well… I thought it was just ‘cause you two are, uh, some of the last… Praxians… But, also, you aren’t, uh, offiiiicially classified as his mentor on any records?”
Prowl stared at him, mirroring almost the exact same expression Bluestreak had thrown at Jazz earlier and- Primus- It’s because Bluestreak got it from Prowl, because Prowl was his mentor.
“I was in Iacon when Praxus was bombed. I was old enough, mentally stable enough, and qualified enough to take care of a traumatized mechling; the last of my state. Legality took a backseat in raising the last of my kind. Praxians take mentorship exceptionally seriously. Bluestreak’s original mentor was touring him through Praxus when the bombs fell. Obviously, since Bluestreak is the only recorded survivor-“
”I get it, I get it!!!” Jazz cried, shaking Prowl by the shoulders. “I’m stupid as frag, I’m sorry! I’ll love him as my own!!”
Prowl shoved him aside—probably perfectly calculated so Jazz landed softly on the couch without hitting his helm on the armrest. He picked the datapad back up and scrolled for a moment, briefly hesitated, and turned the screen to Jazz.
Jazz crooned as he was blessed with the image of a smiling Prowl being tackled by a Bluestreak freshly graduated from the mentorship program. He also seemed to have just started training, too, given the faux-shotgun magnetized between his wings.
How proud Prowl must’ve been..
How could Jazz have not known Prowl had raised a whole mech?? What kind of partner was he???
”I started looking through these because I was going through my datapads,” Prowl began out of nowhere, tracing the cracked edges reverently.
”I watched Bluestreak grow older, into a grown mech, and I… seem to have forgotten that time doesn’t discriminate. I’ve aged as well.” His nose wrinkled in mild distain.
And… well. He had.
Jazz remembered when he first met Prowl, the new tactician brought in from some nowhere branch after the old one died. He blew everyone’s processors to bits when they watched him sort and consider all points of data in a plan, all possibilities. He raised their chances of survival chances per battle higher than they’d ever seen.
Prowl was stoic and a little bitchy, but made an amazing conversation buddy when you wanted to really get into something. For Jazz, he became something more, a thousand vorn later.
He had gotten older, though. It was a slow progression over megacycles, but the Prowl in Bluestreak’s graduation capture was only a few decacycles younger than the Prowl he had first met.
Stark lines were etched into what used to be smooth faceplates; along his mouth, across his forehead, between his brow ridges… His natural nanites had dulled a tad, his wings were larger yet held just slightly lower as the effort to keep them ridged grew harder over time. His optics had grown a tad glassier, a sign that all the time he’d spent using them had damaged his sight in some way.
Prowl had aged, and Jazz bet that if he saw an old capture of himself, he’d spiral a little, too.
But Prowl had grown as a mech, too, in that time.
He laughed more! A hearty chuckle that melted Jazz’s spark could be heard in the privacy of his hab quite often. Occasionally it would carry through the rec room when he sat with Optimus and Ironhide, attracting Jazz to their table no matter who he was talking to.
He was kinder, he had learned to understand empathy a great deal more. He had raised a traumatized mechling into a capable young mech, despite having lost his citystate at the same time.
“I dunno, Prowler, I kinda like myself an older mech,” Jazz teased, cupping Prowl’s face in his servos and kissing his chevron. He appreciated Prowl holding back from mentioning that Jazz was older than him- he could handle that later.
”I like what you’ve grown into, baby. Don’t shame my mech. He’s kind, ultra-intelligent, strong…” he playfully slid a hand down to squeeze Prowl’s bicep. “And so is his bitlet. I guess also my mechlin’, if he forgives me for not knowing I’ve been dating his mentor for, like, a million kilos.”
Prowl turned away slightly, a small smile threatening to upturn his derma.
“Hm. Thank you, Jazz,” He said, pressing a kiss to an audial horn. “Fear not, my spark. He will find it within himself to forgive you.”
Prowl’s heavy servos settled on Jazz’s hips again, thumbs dipping into the crevices where hip met waist. When Jazz turned his helm up to gaze lovingly into his kind and beautiful lover’s optics, he was met with the evil sliver of a mischievous smirk.
…No. Love was dead.
”It seems I like my mech older, too-”
Jazz relished in Prowl’s surprised yelp as he tackled him off the couch and crashed onto the hab floor. He jabbed an elbow into Prowl’s stomach and spat colorful insults at his horrible and cruel partner in quick succession.