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Out at the Gamma-Seven worksite, the construction sounds, dust and shouting narrowed into a single point.
Jazz had been halfway up a half-rebuilt support tower, saying something flippant to a pair of minibots about bracing angles and “no, seriously, you don’t wanna test gravity from there, trust me,” when the echo of Prowl’s earlier complex frustration-incredulity-compassion—still ghosting faintly down their bond—spiked into a white-hot jolt of pain.
He’d gone still. Paused mid-sentence. His EM field had flared, searching, then sputtered as the connection fuzzed at the edges.
Then Blaster’s voice had hit his audials and the words “JAZZ! Emergency relay! Prowl’s collapsed—spark irregularities—get your aft here yesterday!” had flooded his helm.
For three horrible kliks he didn’t move. Every part of him locked up as his processor tried to buffer fear.
Then his training and his instincts grabbed the controls and threw him into motion.
“Smokescreen, ya got the site!” he barked, already turning, already climbing down. “Lock it down, no fraggin’ heroics, keep everybody steady ‘til you hear from command!”
“Jazz, what—?”
“No time!” he shouted over his shoulder, transforming mid-stride. His alt-mode hit the half-packed road in a screech of tires. “Blaster, keep that feed open an’ patch me ta Ratchet, now!”
Dust plumed behind him as he gunned his engine to maximum safe output—then past it.
The only thing louder than his roaring engine was the frantic, choked-off echo of Prowl’s spark in the back of his own.
Blaster sounded like he was barely keeping his cool, something not typical of the Host bot.
“ : I'm tryin’, mech, but you know how Ratchet is when a patient is doin’ bad and I don't have the power to force it through!”
The demands of carrying on his frame had been much more than expected, the power draw more intense when coupled with still being the host for four different cassettes that relied on his spark and frame.
It had left him relying much more on said cassettes to reach the range he usually managed alone for communications as well as relying heavily on Soundwave. That he'd manage to abort a blackout with intense speed and reach out this far without a cassette to jump his signal off of was already making him unsteady but this was an emergency. Blaster had been able to feel his amica waver emotionally in their bond, he was not going to let the connection go, even if he couldn't connect him to the medic until Jazz was physically closer.
“: Eject pulled me out of a blackout to contact you and the sparkling isn't behaving for it.”
He could feel faint twinges in his spark, nearly lost in all the noise surrounding his many different bonds. It was distinct, however, closer than any of the others which made it just 'visible' enough to pick out. Out loud, outside of comms, he was already instructing his cassette to contact Soundwave. He didn't know how long he'd have to keep this going but the numbers didn't matter, he was doing it regardless.
Down the conjunx bond Prowl shared with Jazz, the pain hadn't abated even an iota as minutes passed, even with Ratchet likely already being on scene with the Praxian and shutting his frame down. It flickered and flared, the pain practically pulsing like its own spark beat.
Road hammered up through his tires, dipped; the air slamming him down—spoiler biting, hood shuddering as he poured his weight into the curve. A reflex, no instinct burned into his frame long before the war ever taught him fear.
A faintly acrid crosswind tried to nudge him off-line.
Suspension loaded. Unloaded. The sway was familiar, comforting—the precise, living give of finely designed components doing exactly what they were built to do. Rubber tore. Grip bit back. The road punched his frame and he punched harder.
Fuel detonated in his cylinders in tight, disciplined violence—boom boom boom—ignition fire driving pistons down, rods slamming power into the crank, bearings riding a razor of oil as valves snapped open and exhaust blasted free in a predator’s growl.
He rode the knife-edge of too fast and made it look easy.
“: Blaster—confirm Ratchet’s on 'im. Not en route. On 'im.”
The bond shuddered again, sharp and wrong.
“: Something's wrong,” Jazz said, calm and controlled and not. “ : Different wrong, ah need details.”
Third to fourth gear—slam.
The shift rang through his frame, spade teeth meshing with a solid clack, torque tearing forward like a released spring. His turbocharger spooled—whistle, whine, scream—the casing blooming into a cherry-red glow, heat shimmering, a molten halo glimpsed through hatch slats as exhaust fire fed the spin and his sensors prickled in protest.
Safe. Pushing hard, not stupid.
Throttle up. Pebbles pinged, pavement rippled, wind pressure shifted as he crested a rise. Hydraulic pressure hauled wheel assemblies into alignment, steering answering clean and immediate. A sharp flick kept his center line dead true—no wasted motion, no hesitation.
Speed wasn’t recklessness. Speed was control when you knew exactly how much you could take and demanded every fraction of it. His suspension compressed, rebounded, and compressed again. Tires sang, not shredding, not slipping, just singing— singing at the edge as the curve asked for more grip than the road could promise.
The turbo howled, glowing red-into-orange, manifold pressure climbing as compressed air rammed the intake full, packing the cylinders dense and hungry—and Jazz let the boost pour through him in a clean, brutal line from ignition to asphalt.
It was almost soothing—this.
Somewhere to pour the nervous, coiled, vicious energy. Somewhere honest. Mechanical. A place where force had rules and rules could be mastered —and broken.
Almost enough to drown out everything else.
Almost enough to forget the reason his spark was tight and burning and afraid.
He stayed on the throttle, riding the scream of his engine and the certainty of the road, because speed was the only thing that felt like it made sense anymore—and if he could go fast enough, maybe he could outrun the unfamiliar wrongness clawing at the back of his spark.
He shoved the panic down and sent only steadiness through the bond:
Ahm comin’. Hold on.
Blaster had heard Jazz in a lot of different ways and in a lot of different situations over the many vorns that they’d known each other, been friends, been Amica. He didn’t think he’d ever heard the Polyhexian sound quite like this before, even when sitting at the edge to the Well of Allsparks. It echoed ever so faintly down their bond but the very nature of an Amica bond was different enough that it wasn’t able to throw the Host off.
He felt helpless, powerless and guilty that his current carrying state left him unable to connect Jazz to Ratchet and let the other know for certain what was going on, that his conjunx was okay. That feeling echoed through his cassettes and through his own conjunx bond. Lightly waving away Eject’s concerned look and utilized the host connection to speak to Rewind directly and skip a step of needing to relay through Eject.
: Rewind says Ratchet’s with him and has already left the conference room they were in to go back to Iacon General. First Aid was called in to grab Barricade since he apparently went down too and…
Here, Blaster hesitates. He’s gotten more information, it’s filtering in rapidly now that he was hooked back into the network of comm chatter, and it wasn’t great. But he knew Jazz, knew that he wouldn’t want anything held back.
“ : Whatever is goin’ on, Ratchet’s asked for backup. Probably woulda called for Aid if any of the other nearby medics had alts capable of carryin’ Barricade back to the hospital. Knockout’s already responded.”
Of the remaining medics, Knockout was one of the fastest given he wasn’t a conventional medic- having a sporty speed alt was highly unusual for a medic but it meant he did get to patients fast… even if he couldn’t transport them anywhere.
“ : It’s outta Rewind’s range. Of my crew, Steeljaw is the closest and I’ve already told him to head over. When Rewind can get back to me and dock, he’ll show me what happened, what led to this. We’ll find out what went down, Jazz, you have my word.”
It was like any sort of control on Prowl’s end was gone. They’d been working diligently on control over the bond since becoming conjunxed to not overwhelm or subsume the emotions of the other, but they’d had so little time. Jazz had already been the better of the pair given he had amica bonds to draw experience from but with how driven and dedicated Prowl was at… anything he set his mind to, really, they’d excelled the usual time markers.
This exact sort of thing was the entire reason why they’d waited until the end of the war to bond in the first place only the worry had been flipped with Jazz in the predicted position of pain and Prowl trying to weather it and rescue him at the same time. Given how conjunxed bots tended to offline either at the same time or shortly after one side, the risk they would be taking on outweighed their desires. They had simply been too important to be so selfish.
Prowl’s side of the conjunx bond was like a live wire mixed with a nuclear meltdown. The pain was overwhelming and the mech at the helm wasn’t anywhere near the controls. Worst of all was the irregularity, the unpredictability of when it would come next, making it impossible to brace for it. The shudder of Prowl’s spark echoed down the line of the bond- even unconscious as he had to be by now, the terror his very core felt was palpable despite being mostly eclipsed by the pain.
There was something though- something of the Praxian flailing to grab at the presence of Jazz between them, like trying to grab a sheet of drifting metal in the middle of a raging hurricane over the rust sea. Under it all, something of Prowl was aware of Jazz and trying to reach back, even if only for reassurance that he was there. Comfort.
Soundwave replaces Blaster's voice without warning, modulation flat and absolute.
“: Blaster disengaged. Relay assumed.”
Jazz doesn’t slow. His processor slots the incoming noise neatly parallel beside road telemetry.
“: Medic Ratchet: connected. Transmitting.”
“: Prowl’s stable...ish,” Ratchet’s voice follows, tight but controlled. “Spark rhythm’s irregular but holding. Frame’s cooled enough to stop the cascades. Whatever you’re doing, and I know you're doing something, keep doing it.”
A stricken tightness leaves Jazz he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“: A’ight,” he replies, voice low, steady. “A'ight,"
---
The shuttleformer drops out of the sky like a promise kept.
Jazz bleeds speed with surgical precision, tires screeching once before clanking pedes replaces the rolling thunder of asphalt. Transformation rolls through him in smooth, practiced segments—panels locking, systems downshifting. Hot engine components slide into close contact with chipped plating, heat biting where clearances tighten, and Jazz hisses sharply through his vents as residual warmth flashes along his frame before cooling systems catch up.
For the first time in nine joors, he stops moving.
The sudden stillness is almost unbearable.
He pushes himself up and into the shuttle’s hold, letting his engine cool while his processor doesn’t. Instead, he turns inward, fully now, servos metaphorically cupping the bond like something fragile and alive.
"Ah’m almost there, love,” he whispers to no-one. “Rest. Ah got the watch.”
He syncs his spark output deliberately, slow and even, continuing as a living stabilizer. The pain still ripples back at him, sharp and wrong—but now there’s space around it. Room to vent.
Beneath him, the shuttleformer’s turbines spool up with a deep, gathering rumble—power building, vibration threading through deckplates as they lift and turn toward Iacon.
---
Iacon General smells like rust penetratives and hot metal and pain.
Jazz hits the floor already moving, optics snapping to Ratchet like a lock finding its key. The medic looks exhausted, plating scuffed, servos still faintly stained with coolant—but his posture is solid. Grounded. Sure.
Jazz nods once, sharp. “Where?”
Ratchet turns wordless, gesturing, leading him down a quiet corridor.
They stop outside a room sealed in soft blue light. Ratchet doesn’t open it right away. He turns instead, voice lowered until it barely exists in detectable range, meant only for Jazz. As he speaks—careful, deliberate—his expression shifts. Weariness softens. A knowing and unmistakably proud smile takes its place.
Jazz listens.
And the world shifts—
—tilts—
—then staggers into a new alignment.
Every system seems to pause at once, power rerouting somewhere deep and vital. His spark flares hard enough to steal his vents, his strength, not with pain but with a fierce, incandescent rightness that crashes into him all at once.
His servo comes up to his chest, pressing flat over his spark chamber as if that might contain the surge. Details streak into sharp clarity. Dust streaks his plating. A shallow chip in his paint catches the corridor light. His engine misfires once, twice, then settles into an unsteady idle.
Ratchet watches him through it all—then, quietly, he steps aside.
The door slides open and Jazz takes his place beside a black and white form.
-----
After such a harrowing ordeal, it was reasonable for Prowl to still be unconscious even after Jazz had traveled so far continuously for hours. It was typical for him to be under for hours following a sudden crash and this was well beyond the scope of what was ’usual’ for him. His paint has been scorched in spots under or around where his vents were located along his frame with the amount of heat his frame had been attempting to manage, his chevron having gotten the worst of it since it was his frame’s go to heat dump first.
His self repair nanites would take care of this… eventually… on its own. But, given the news Jazz had just received from Ratchet, Prowl’s frame had a lot more things to worry about and prioritize at the time being. Even unconscious, Prowl still looked… exhausted. Like he hadn’t recharged well since his conjunx had left for his most recent job location.
There was the sound of the door to the hospital room opening, First Aid stepping in slowly. He was maybe the next medic under Ratchet who had worked on both Jazz and Prowl the most and the reason why he was the one in here now after he and the other medics on deck had pushed for Ratchet to go home. Prowl was out of the absolute worst of it, they knew what had been the cause, and they knew how to take care of him. It was hard to convince any medic that their patients were safe in another medic’s servos. But, they’d managed with the additional help of a carrying Rodimus who very much wanted his other conjunx home.
So, here First Aid was in his stead, hopefully not about to be stabbed by a newly informed sire to be who was else the ex head of the Autobot SpecOps division.
“It’s just me, Jazz.” Aid said softly, holding both empty servos up. “Just here to remove the medical stasis we have Prowl in- we were waiting until you made it so that he could wake up with you already here. He’ll likely be pretty confused on everything that happened.”
He gestured with his helm over to a small table by the unconscious Prowl containing two cubes. “Those are for you both. Medical grade for Prowl, regular for you. Ratchet’s orders.”
Though the medic wore both a mask and a visor, the smile was readily apparent in his glyphs as he made his way closer, a hatch on his arm popping open so that he could unspool a hardline cable.
“We all wanted to let you tell him the good news.”
Lifting the stasis from Prowl took under a klik and, with a small wave, First Aid left the couple alone once more. Given just how many things needed to boot up and run in Prowl’s helm, waking up was never a quick thing. After a crash even more so, and after a medical event of that scale and severity? It was taking him a decent chunk of time to wake up.
But wake up he did. There was the soft hum of electrical components thrumming back to life from the thick silence, joints clicking as they twitched. His door wings, carefully pillowed behind him, were the most animated- the most truthful they ever were when the Tacnet had yet to power on fully. Almost immediately they attempted to sweep downwards in an expression of pain and discomfort as the various aches and strains lingering in his frame registered, only to be stopped by the pillows which… made them attempt to move more in an expression of confusion.
With a hiss of static, his vocalizer powered on and Prowl groaned softly, facial expression now matching the ones his door wings were attempting to make. Optics lighting up a dim, pale blue, he managed to reach the mostly awake stage. The sterile walls and ceiling of the hospital were the first thing he saw through a muddled backlog of HUD notifications, alerts, and warnings.
The next was the one he most loved in the universe.
“Ja…azz?”
A quiet easing passes through Jazz’s plating as seams relax by degrees, servos unclenching from where they had curled into unprompted fists. His vents cycle twice, the second draw lingering before smoothing out.
He's sprawled into the chair beside the medberth, posture collapsed in a way that's all exhaustion and trust. His torso angled, helm tipped forward so his dimmed visor sits level with Prowl's face. Road dust still clings to his plating, worked into the seams from a sprint he never slowed in. His helm drops against his shoulder pauldron, elbow joint braced on the edge of the berth as he swipes a gentle, calibrating thumb along the curve of Prowl’s jawline—tracing the tiny lined creases in the mesh.
The melody of Jazz’s mind deepens into vast, rolling reverberation—blue and boundless, like drifting through space at the edge of a planet’s glow. He’s tumbling, slow and unanchored, a visor full of stars, yet exactly where he needs, wants to be, held by nothing and needing nothing more.
Blue, blue, blue. That blue. The streaking underbelly of comet trails, of the iridescence of an oxidized weld. Ionizing sulfur. Lightning plasma.
Its peace. Its life. Its right.
It's the blue of his Prowler's optics.
"Ah'm here, love." He says, quietly. "Dun gotta guess how ya feelin righ'bout now."
With how close they physically were at the moment, with Prowl’s guard currently being absolutely obliterated, the way he relaxed both in frame and in the bond was painfully obvious. His door wings even managed a slight flutter from their lightly pinned position behind him. He had no idea what was going on, what had happened, why he felt so horrible and was clearly in the hospital.
Things hurt. A lot of things hurt. Prowl didn’t even have to glance at his short term memory storage to know some, if not all, of the last hour or so of his memory had been damaged by heat- this sort of pain was too familiar. Rising from a medically induced stasis was too familiar. He had crashed. The deep ache in his spark though… that was certainly a new one. Unfamiliar in a way that would have made him panic. But…
But Jazz was here. And that meant that regardless of what had happened, now matter how bad it had been, that it was alright, because they were together. Jazz’s very presence meant safety.
“Like slag.” He rasps, reaching out with his sluggish em field to mesh with Jazz’s own whilst also leaning into the servo stroking at his face. Seeking familiarity, seeking clarity, seeking comfort. “What… what happened?”
"Yeah,” Jazz murmurs, matter-of-fact. “That tracks.”
His thumb stays at Prowl’s jaw, pressure adjusting by fractions as his field settles in with Prowl's—steady, attentive, reading the ache there.
“Short version: Barricade came in ta tha' strat meetin' lookin’ for a fight. Ya gave 'im one. Ya smoked ’im. He deserved it.”
A beat.
“Do ya need Aid to come back?”
Barricade. He remembers Barricade. Remembers… anger. Hurt, the emotional kind. A deep hurt. Remembers it going cold. From there it gets… fuzzy. The pain, though, it was hard to forget that when it had been emanating from his very spark. One trembling servo reaches up to rub the plating above his spark. Compared to what it had been, this was a dull ache.
“No… no, I do not think anything else can be done about the remaining issues at the moment. I believe your close proximity is the best remedy I can have, considering the source of the pain.”
The longer he was awake, the more the Tacnet booted up and claimed the usual stupidly high about of bandwidth and processing capacity from him. Not for the first time, Prowl wished he could keep it off- or at least throttle the damn thing into taking up less energy and focus to maintain. “Overheating, the tacnet crashing… that is not something that has ever caused my spark to- to hurt so badly.”
Fear descended into his em field like a dark fog. “I’ve never felt pain like that before. Jazz- I-”
His plating rattled against his frame which made him wince at the pain the action caused. “What happened? Do the medics know?”
Jazz hums in assent, visor steady in a muted blue glow, casting soft light over Prowl’s face. He drinks in every line of it — the way those icy blues keep tryin’ to hold focus through pain and fear and doubt. Keen optics. Sharp. Optics that kept an entire faction afloat through cycles where even Jazz’s own self-assuredness guttered and failed.
He studies the scorched tines of his chevron next, slow and reverent, counting damage like landmarks — cataloging the before with deliberate care, so he’ll know how to measure the after when it comes.
Jazz has killed. He has maimed. He has hacked his way through the minds of mechs, of ships, of entire government regimes. Former Spec Ops Commander Jazz of Polyhex. Autobot TIC. Meister. Ricochet. Thief. Saboteur. Soldier. Leader. Lover. A million other faces. A million other masks.
And now.
Now he sits with a new identity settling into his spark — huge and terrifying and far more frightening than any dungeon duct rescue run he’s ever been stupid enough to survive. He’s at the edge of a cliff with no railing, and the drop below is home, in Prowl’s hexagonal optics apertures, endless and familiar, always and forever - his everything.
A low melodic hum slips from him. The chord progression leaks into the bond, waves of pulsing F#m -> D -> A -> E underlain with steady reassurance. Ambient, looping, hypnotic. Soothing.
He's nervous.
Prowl’ll have him clocked instantly.
He opens his intake.
“…Yeah,” he says at last, voice lofted but thin at the edges. “Ratchet gotcha figured out, Prowler.”
His optics return home. Report out, soldier.
“Ya'd been runnin’ hot all day. Redlinin’ without realizin’ it. Not tha' ya would - that's nearly ya everyorn. But, Barricade lit the fuse—” a pause, sharp and dangerous, “—we’ll talk ’bout tha' later. Ya crashed his smart aft, then ya hardlined and dragged 'im back from somethin’ worse.”
A huffed vent, wet and unsteady. Risk of rambling increasing. He knows it.
“Don’t even know if ah agree with tha' call,” he murmurs. “Ah’ve got thoughts ’bout your dear old batchmate… but ya did what ya always do.”
His thumb hovers near the chevron, not touching.
“His tacnet flailed. Threw junk code like shrapnel. Yer frame did everythin' right — contained it. Specs say ya shoulda walked away with nothin’ but yer normal fatigue fallout.”
His voice drops. Goes quiet and soft and weighted.
“But yer spark was already workin’ a job it hadn’t told the rest of ya about. Before ya even stepped pede inta tha' meetin’.”
Jazz’s vents hitch — a sound like a flooded intake.
Blue floods the bond. Wide. Endless. Alive.
He whispers — in wonder, in worship, in too many bundled tectonic feelings to parse past the blaze of his spark. “Yer carryin’, love,”
It took an almost embarrassing amount of time for the sentence to register. He toggled the settings for his audials to reset them- twice- and then replayed his immediate short term memory thrice to make sure he’d actually heard what he thought he’d heard.
It was impossible. It had to be. They’d virtually stopped trying, he’d stopped checking his spark in the mirror every other day. Even though Jazz might not have, Prowl had given up hope. It had hurt too much to keep hoping and having that hope beaten and battered constantly. It was why Barricade’s comment had hurt so much- because deep down, he had agreed. That he’d been too broken to give Jazz the sparkling he deserved. More than deserved.
But Jazz wouldn’t lie about this, right? Jazz lied, had in fact lied to Prowl numerous times during the war. But- that was different. At least as much as he could recall in his current state, in matters of the spark, in matters of their relationship, he had never lied.
Prowl didn’t think Jazz would ever lie to him about this. It would shatter Prowl irrevocably if he did.
“I-” Though his vocalizer had cleared of the usual static from waking up, it fritzed back through now as his emotions spiked. It showed in the monitors still attached to him in how it affected his frame. If the medics didn’t know what was going on, what Jazz was telling Prowl, they likely would have rushed back into the room to check on him.
“I- Did I- I think I heard you correctly. You- you wouldn’t lie to me about this. You wouldn’t- you wouldn’t dare to.” Though his optics did not get much brighter, his frame too stressed for it, their color did shift from a pale blue to being closer to white. “So I must- I must be-”
Prowl’s voice became so quiet, so full of fear that this wasn’t real but hope blooming for the first time in so long. “I’m really carrying?”
The whole world—the planet under reconstruction, the bones of a hurting god, the war's long echo, all of it falls away—shrinks down into this single room. The soft hum of Prowl’s systems. The minute details.
And Jazz—who has always moved, always adapted, always filled silence with sound—just doesn’t.
He holds still, and lets it wash over him.
The weight of it presses behind his optics: Prowl, brilliant and burning and relentless, carrying something new. Jazz has danced across battlefields, outrun explosions, trusted instinct over certainty more times than he can count—but this? This makes his spark feel suddenly too hot for his frame.
Jazz’s thumb doesn’t leave Prowl’s jaw. If anything, the touch grows more careful, pressure adjusted by micrometers, like he’s afraid of startling something sacred. His EM field folds in around Prowl’s as shelter, warm and close against a storm of feeling.
“Yeah,” he vents, hushed.
He lets the word rest there. Simple. Absolute.
“Ah’m not lyin’ ta ya. Not about this.” His next intake catches—quiet, then steady. “Look a' me, love.”
His visor stays level with Prowl’s optics. No teasing, no deflection. Just truth.
“Yer really carryin’.”
A pause - long enough for Jazz to smooth calm through the bond like ripples laid flat.
His servo shifts, moves to hover near Prowl’s spark chamber without touching, reverent, almost disbelieving. Two digits wiggle faintly at the end of the motion—idle, unthinking—like his frame is counting something before his mind gives it words. His mind is calm, the kind of resounding peace that lives in temples and under deep oceanic pressure. He wonders, distantly, if this is anything like what the Matrix felt like when it spoke to Optimus.
Then he whispers, velvet-soft, as if naming a new star:
“Two.”
If it weren’t for Jazz deliberately steadying him with both his field and across the bond, Prowl might have had a spark attack and crashed again. As it was, the Praxian was visibly rocked by first the confirmation and then the news that it was not just one but two sparklings.
”Twins?” His vocalizer was a mess of static but it wasn’t hard to figure out what he was questioning. “I- Split sparks? Like Sideswipe and- and Sunstreaker??”
He knew they were rare, as far as he knew none of the other groups in this trial had split spark bitlets on the way. Thundercracker was the only oddity in carrying a trine’s worth of sparklings but it was already connected to being a seeker and how that particular frame type worked.
It wasn’t until one of his servos pressed against the one Jazz had hovering over his spark chamber and pressed them both to the over warm metal that he realized how badly he was trembling. His conjunx wasn’t lying, he wasn’t. He believed him, it would break him to not believe him but… Prowl looked around the room, trying to find a mirror or just about anything reflective so that he could look for himself.
There were things he knew he should be able to look in his own coding, things that should have activated and changed as his systems realized he was carrying. There were reports, told by the carriers and verified by medics that said as such. But- but his processor, his entire frame really, was still reeling from such a severe crash. It would take too long for him to muddle through it when he needed confirmation now.
“Jazz please, please I need to see them- I- I NEED to see them for myself- were they hurt? By the crash? Primus, did I manage to hurt them already?”
"S'all good Prowler - hold a klick."
Jazz shifts, reaching with his left servo - bracing with the right. A quiet shuffle sounds.
"Ah gotcha - Aid's ahead of ya."
Jazz lifts up a polished plane of metal, silver and gleaming. He angles it towards Prowler's bumper - those sharp lines and curves resolving into view.
Serenely, Jazz huffs gently "See fer yerself."
Prowl triggered the transformation sequence for the plating over his spark chamber so quickly, he tagged a note on his HUD to mention to Ratchet or First Aid about possibly having knocked something out of alignment in his haste. Soon enough, the golden glow of his spark light bathed the room, doubled up thanks to the reflective surface Jazz held up.
Prowl went so far as to open the chamber itself, as it would when preparing for a merge, just to see more clearly beyond the opaque material of the window. His spark, his soul, was bare to the room but he didn't care- his optics were locked onto the mirror and- searching.
For a horribly long moment he thought that Jazz might have actually lied to him. Then one little ball of white light orbited into view. And after a beat, another ever so slightly smaller spark followed, kept in orbit around the corona of his spark. He watched them circle in and out of view around his spark at least a dozen times in silence before his mind accepted that this was real. They were real.
Prowl didn't think he'd ever seen anything so beautiful before. They were so small, so vulnerable, but oh they were there. A sob catches in his vocalizer as a servo slaps over his intake to try and keep the noise contained even though it was only Jazz in the room with him. Jazz and their twin sparklings.
Oh.
Bathed in the light of his conjunx's soul - intelligent thought drained out of him as solvent in a washrack.
To be trusted with that sparklight even in passing…
Illiterate awe and resounding melody replace that space in his helm.
♫ 'Oooooooooooh, I saidddd oooooOOOooooh - you shouldn't hesitate' ♫
Prowl's spark chamber spiraled open - and what had been a tumultuous cascade of fear twisted, curled, bloomed into something bright. Oh - so bright.
The mirror nearly slips from suddenly distant and numb digits as two, two starbursts revolve into view.
Bright flaring white, shredding visible light of variable frequencies and wavelengths (lambda = 283 - 792nm) Jazz greedily cycles through infrared, ultraviolet wavelengths capturing stills for Prowl. He reached micro and is suddenly struck by great need. He needs - he needs to see them, himself - unfiltered and unprocessed.
Jazz's visor disengages with a pneumatic hiss - an all too controlled servo comes up to pull it away. Careful - as if to avoid breaking the spell.
With how rare it was for Jazz to remove his visor and bare his optics, Prowl had created a specific alert for the sound of him taking it off. It was the sole reason he’d even noticed as the high priority alert pinged on his HUD, otherwise he would have remained staring at his own spark as the two tiny sparklings wheeled in and out of view in time with his spark beat. Prowl’s helm lifts as his gaze is torn away from the mirror and meets the fractals of Jazz’s optics.
His venting hitches in another suppressed sob, one servo still covering his intake. Unable to speak, emotions overwhelming him, he isn’t even able to concentrate well enough to speak via comms. Instead, Prowl reaches for their bond itself- able to speak through it at such close proximity.
Jazz.
Jazz.
They- they’re real- there are two??
He was trembling all over, plating faintly rattling. The light of his spark visibly wavered from the force of his emotions. His one free servo reached forward searching for one of Jazz’s.
Needing stability, needing to be grounded and reassured that this really was reality and he hadn’t fried his own processor and wound up in the Well. Through it all, the two little lights continued to orbit their carrier’s spark, unaware of the tumultuous emotions they were causing by simply existing.
Jazz doesn’t pull away from the surge through the bond. He lets it hit him full on — the disbelief, the tremor, the sharp spike of is this real or am I broken again — and answers it the only way he knows how.
By seeing.
Gold floods his optics.
Gold through a silken veil.
It fractures the instant it hits his lenses, caught in the fine rutile needle inclusions spider webbing through sapphire — thin golden filaments scattering the glow into six, eight, twelve ghosted rays.
At regular intervals, a first — then a second — wash of nascent pearl-white eclipses that indomitable gold.
Two halos.
Two paths.
Never crossing. Never colliding.
Perfect.
Bitties - his. Prowler's. -
Jazz’s vents pull in slow as the light strobes and refracts, gold breaking into white prismatic threads that skate across his vision and stitch themselves back together again around Prowl’s spark. - lingering enough to draw the optic - to lose himself there, to drift in that light.
Heh Cybertron to Jazz - focus here, mech.
Jazz shutters his optics heavily for a moment - cutting back into his own helm and looks back to his conjunx's faceplate.
“Hey there, Prowler,” he murmurs, steady. “Ah got ya. Yer safe. They’re safe.”
He shifts the mirror sending reflected light scattering and flitting across the room. His servo closes around Prowl’s the moment it reaches for him — firm, steady, unmistakably real. Jazz leans in close enough that the gold-white paints both of them, reflections sliding across his plating in broken, beautiful bands.
“Two of ’em,” he breathes, wonder threading his voice. “An’ they’re okay. Ratchet checked.”
His thumb sweeps slow, grounding circles against the back of Prowl’s servo as he lets calm flow across the bond in measured waves — rhythm, certainty, presence.
“Ya not imaginin' this,” Jazz adds gently. “An’ ya didn’t fry yerself into tha Well.” A ghost of a smile curves his mouth, soft and fierce all at once. “Promise.”
Prowl didn't quite know what to feel right now. He was relying solely on the buoyancy from Jazz's presence both physically and within their spark bond to keep even just his helm above water. How was one supposed to feel when they finally gotten the thing they had wanted most in the universe for months not just once, but twice over? What was he even supposed to do now?
There had already been parts published and made available to those within the study of things they've calculated for the carriages themselves, new data being added as they learned more from the mechs already progressing with their sparklings. None had Dropped yet but for those who'd sparked first, it was rapidly approaching. Prowl had become so disheartened and depressed with his own lack of results, however, had meant he'd done everything possible to avoid reading about it because it would only have hurt more to see on what he was missing.
How long had they been there? Why was one smaller than the other? Ratchet had supposedly checked on them and deemed them fine but Prowl couldn't believe that his frame had gone through all of that slag without their being some sort of repercussions. Prowl didn't even register that he was still crying, one servo still over his intake to muffle his sounds.
Jazz feels it, not as words — but as that familiar grasping for control, to wrap the unknown with order: no solutions available, more data needed kind of way in the bond. The tacnet itch. The spiraling why why why who what when how humming under the fear. Fear for their newfound sparklings. He clocks the way coolant wet Prowl’s optics as they keep flicking back to the sparks, the fractional stuttering sob in his vents, the servo still shielding his intake like that might keep the universe from hearing him break.
Jazz lets a slow, steady wave of certainty, of stability roll through the bond — present, anchored, not alone.
“Ah know,” he murmurs, low and even. “Prob feels like every subroutine’s screamin’ fer answers.”
His thumb presses a tap, tap-tap-tap rhythm against the back of Prowl’s servo.
“Ah got questions too,” Jazz admits softly. A beat. Careful.
“Ah can get Aidy, if ya want.”
While for others, being given more stimulus (taps against his plating, questions, fields, bond activity) might have only overwhelmed them more, for Prowl it was the opposite. The more diversions given to his processor, if done correctly, the more he calms or stabilizes as the entirety of his considerable bandwidth isn't stuck on just one thing. It meant not all of him could panic at once.
At least, sometimes. There was a point where giving him more would only hinder- it was a fine balance. One that not many attempted to master.
Feeling his attention fracture to different stimuli allowed him to focus on the last thing that Jazz had mention. "First Aid?" Prowl murmurs, servo lowering a bit from his intake so that he could be heard more audibly. "Not Ratchet?"
Jazz hums understandingly.
“Ratchet ain’t gone ‘cause he don’t wanna be here, call came through on the back end of his shift.” he says quietly. “He damn near had ta be pried outta this ward. Rodimus was a breem away from comin’ down 'ere an’ forcibly remindin’ our dear CMO that recharging is, in fact, mandatory fer continued functioning."
A soft huff ghosts through his vents, fond and tired all at once.
“Aidy an’ the team’ve gotcha covered now that the worst of it’s ova.”
Jazz’s thumb taps once more against Prowl’s servo, steady and patient.
“Way ah see it,” he murmurs, “Aidy can help answer questions right now — calm, slow, no rush.” A pause, warm. “Or we can wait fer our OG ta wake up from his beauty sleep an’ get it straight from the source.”
His bare optics stick to Prowl's, unwavering.
“Either way, ah’m right here. Ya tell me what ya wanna do, love.”
"I..." Static briefly laced this vocalizer once more as his helm shifted to look down at bit more at himself at the gold and white spark light shining from his open chassis. Prowl felt vulnerable in a way he'd never had before, even all throughout the war. His optics lift to meet Jazz's own again; he could get lost in the seemingly endless fractals of Jazz's optics if he allowed himself.
"I- I think I would prefer to- to wait for Ratchet." It feels like admitting a weakness, a perfectly qualified medic team was right there but he wanted to wait for the CMO to return. Ratchet just... knew his frame. He trusted the older mech deeply and, when thinking about it for more than a moment, trusted his sparkling's care to him.
“Ya got it, babe. No worries.”
Jazz’s thumb gives one last gentle tap. “Ah’ll send ’im a note — but ah suspect he’ll be down 'ere the klik Rodimus lets 'im up."
Gold and white light plays across his plating, reflected in those bare sapphire fractals. His vents ease, slow and measured, before he speaks again — softer now, thoughtful. Careful.
“Hey, Prowler,” he murmurs, voice pitched low so it doesn’t jar against open systems. “Can ah ask ya somethin’ ’bout earlier?”
Rather than answer out loud, a small wave of curiosity flows through their bond along with the feeling of Prowl somehow managing to send the emotional equivalent of a ping of Affirmative down the bond as well. It was a very unique him thing, according to others whenever asked- most bots were able to just say the word 'yes'.
"Do ya - hmmm. Didja feel different? Earlier, last coupl' orn?"
It took a moment for Prowl to really take in the question and then another longer moment to be able to even answer it. “I missed you.” Was the simple answer that flowed first from the bond. The heaviness that accompanied it greater than it had been in a while, the depth more akin to how it had felt when they reunited after Jazz had been undercover for a longer stint- not like he’d only been gone a few cycles.
“Sensitive.” Came next answer but more heavily tied to emotions rather than physical sensitivity. As far as he could recall, he hadn’t really felt different frame wise… which, considering how poorly he tended to take care of himself when left to his own devices, wasn’t a good sign honestly.
Jazz chews on that. Nods in thought.
"Think ah know a bit of what ya mean there,"
Silver optic ridges crease in thought.
“Yeah,” he adds, voice pitched thoughtful now, “ah keep wonderin’… ain’t there s’posed ta be, like—”
He makes a vague circling motion with his servo. “—a pop-up? A protocol ping? Some kinda congratulations, ya just leveled up ta creator alert?”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Doesn’t quite make it to a smile.
“‘Cause all ah got was static in my helm an’ a hair-trigger temper.” He glances aside, embarrassed but honest. “Felt like ah was runnin’ with tight suspension with nothin’ to chase n' nowehere ta go.”
A beat. His gaze drifts back to Prowl, steadier now.
“Somethin’ was missin’,” he finishes quietly. “…Somebots was missin’.”
Prowl’s gaze drifts down again to his open spark chamber, only able to see the reflected light off of Jazz's chassis now that the mirror had been lowered. "Them. I wanted you near because of them."
At the mention of a seemingly missing protocol, his door wings lower as much as they are able while pressed behind him and his posture just seems to... Deflate. "My fault. Carrier protocols supposed to trigger Sire's. Processor didn't recognize the shift."
“Ah don’t know enough ’bout all this, love,” he murmurs. “Ratchet’ll walk us through it. Ain’t worth ya stressin’ over it right now, babe— not while yer still runnin’ recovery. N' remember, sometimes subroutines wait ’til you’re safe enough ta spin up. But anywho, we should get ya settled. Get ya comfy, get ya some fuel and relax till ya fav medic hauls his boxy aft down here."
It might help if his entire frame from his processors to his very struts wasn't currently so... disconnected. Fuzzy. It was very likely that if it weren't for the strong conjunx bond that he and Jazz shared that the spark issue would have killed him entirely or, at the very least, caused him to lose the twin sparks. While he sends a pulse of apology for not being able to explain himself better down the bond, his field is rife with frustration aimed inwards.
“Why don’t we get ’em tucked back in, hm?” he suggests quietly. “Seal ’em up nice an’ snug, let yer frame rest. Ah’m right here — ah ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
A softer breath, certainty threading through the bond connecting their entangled sparks.
“N' neither are they.”
Emotions warred within, palpable in his field and in the bond. While he did very much want to shut his spark chamber and put several layers of armor between his vulnerable sparklings and the outside world, Prowl was also afraid that if he stopped looking… it would really prove just to be a dream.
He had to trust Jazz. Trust that this was all indeed real and that the sparklings were healthy and stable in spite of everything. Well… at least trusting Jazz was as easy and automatic as venting. With a thought, first his spark chamber closes followed by the slow and smooth transformation of his chassis slotting itself back into place.
“Whatca thinkin' in that big ol' dome of yers? Can feel ya tickin' away."
“My fault we didn’t notice. Stopped checking. Hurt too much. Could- could have lost them due to my negligence.” He still didn’t seem capable of speaking out loud and was sticking strictly to their bond.
Jazz doesn’t argue right away, his mind a whirlwind of thousands of words, thousands of feelings, thousands of lines. Fear: for those he cherishes. Rage: at those who have wronged them. Directionless guilt: for himself, for being unable to shield Prowl, for not being there. Helplessness: for his lover's spark. For those two beautiful newsparks. Above it all and threaded through, love, such adoration and devotion. The maelstrom writhes. He lets the weight of Prowl's flagellation settle in his struts.
Prowl, Prowl did not deserve this pain. Prowl did not deserve this storm.
Gently — steady as a metronome — he presses back through into the bond, and uses their entangled sparks to speak.
“Hey.”
“Prowl.”
A pause.
Jazz shutters his optics and surrenders, pushes the bond open further and lets Prowl in, lets the light loose.
“Ah ain’t seein’ negligence,” Jazz murmurs aloud, amid the rush. “Ah’m seein’ a mech who went through the Pit an’ came out still holdin’ everythin’ that mattered.”
It felt… odd, disconcerting almost, to see Jazz of all mechs seemingly at a loss for words. This close, with the bond so open on both sides, it almost felt like a merge. There were so few layers and so little distance between not just their sparks but the sparklings as well. Much like he often does during emotional situations, he follows Jazz’s lead and leans in to the bond more as well.
“It was an unnecessary, avoidable trip through the Pit. If I had only been more vigilant…” He was trying not to linger and dwell, he really was, but it was so hard knowing what he could have lost.
Jazz doesn’t pull back from that — doesn’t soften it into platitudes or cut it off before it can finish forming. He acknowledges the pain. He lets Prowl’s words land, heavy and sharp, and then he answers from the same place they came from: the bond, open and bare.
“Ya couldn’t have known, and it’d been longer than everybot else — ya didn’t have a statistical reason ta think anythin’ had changed fer ya. Ah know that processor of yers,” Jazz sends gently, “ah know ya were hurtin’ and thinkin’ in equal measure. But ya here now, with them. Safe. Hold that close, babe. Just like ah will.”
Prowl’s expression crumbles and he just... lets himself feel. Past the tacnet pressing down on his already aching processor, past his usual difficulties with emotions, past it all and down into who he is at his core. At his spark. Grief, self blame, doubt, anger, pain. Prowl lets himself feel it, lets it push into the bond to share the burden and then he...
Lets it go.
Stops fighting to hold onto it. It bleeds from his field, from his expression, from his frame, and ends up leaving him slumped more into Jazz's hold and relying on his conjunx to keep him upright. What's left is an exhaustion that runs deep and physical pain from how badly the overheating and crashing had affected him but underneath that is a slowly growing joy.
Joy at finally succeeding in something he had wanted so badly but had given up on. Joy that the two little ones had survived such a tumultuous time that led to their discovery. Joy that he was able to start this journey together with the one who mattered most to him in the entire universe. It started small, he didn't have the energy for it to really overwhelm him like the more negative emotions had, but it was more than strong enough to be felt by Jazz.
Jazz feels it the instant the pressure breaks.
That sharp, grinding tension in the bond— the one that always tells him Prowl is holding himself together by dentae and willpower alone— just… releases. Like a clutch disengaging. Like tension finally allowed to bleed out of overheated lines.
Jazz exhales, something wound tight in his chest finally loosening.
“There it is,” he whispers, more to the bond than the room. “Ah feel it too.”
He shifts just enough to make Prowl more comfortable, careful of battered systems, careful of everything. His thumb resumes its slow, grounding circles, now at Prowl’s shoulder seam— a familiar rhythm, a promise encoded in motion.
His helm tips, resting lightly against Prowl’s.
“Two lil sparklets,” he murmurs, awe still threaded through his voice. “An’ one helluva strong carrier.”
It was so much easier to draw comfort from the little things Jazz did once he had let go of the other emotions. So much easier to relax and let himself be wrapped up in the steady presence of his conjunx and their bond. It allowed the knowledge to truly sink in for the first time. He was carrying. He was sparked. With twins! Nestled right up against his spark in a slow, calm orbit.
Normally, his frame always reacted to being around his partner in some way, though typically in subtle and minor ways as he was always conscious that someone could be watching and looking for weakness. One had to know what they were looking for to spot it. Right now, however, Prowl put no such effort into such subtlety and caution.
His plating relaxed and opened up a bit from where it had been clamped against his protoform from stress and other overwhelming emotions. Given a bit more freedom and range of motion with leaning forward, his door wings flicked forward, arched up, and then lowered back to neutral position before starting up the pattern again. The most telling of his actions was a very soft purring of his engine.
"Sparklings, Jazz." Prowl managed to whisper out loud. "Yours. Mine. Ours. Two!"
Jazz laughs — a soft, breathy sound that slips out before he can stop it. It vibrates through his chest plating and spills into the bond, warm and bright, wrapping around Prowl’s unfurling joy.
“Ohhh,” he vents, grinning wide now, unable to hide it "Two! Prowler we gun be overrun."
His thumb stills for half a beat, then taps gently—right where Prowl’s spark chamber rests beneath closed plating.
He tilts in low, helm tucking in under Prowl's chin, door wings giving an excited little twitch of their own accompanied by a quiet mirthful huff.
“Hey there,” Jazz murmurs, voice dropping instinctively, reverent and bright all at once. “Hey, lil bitties. Ah’m Jazz,” he tells them softly, like they can hear him just fine. “An’ we been waitin’ on ya longer’n ya know.”
The bond flares — delight, wonder, pride — spilling over as he pulls back just enough to look at Prowl properly, optics glowing fractured blue with something downright feral in his joy.
“Two of ’em,” he says again, incredulous and thrilled. “Smokey an’ Blue are gonna lose their ever-lovin’ processors when they hear this. Bee’s gonna short out. Ah can already picture it.”
Prowl manages a small laugh, the feelings being passed back and forth in such close capacity infectious and serving as an amplifier that further buoyed his own mood. His venting briefly stalls when Jazz briefly tucks his helm in and speaks directly to the sparklings orbiting his own spark before looking at him with those captivating optics. Something almost primal in nature flares hard at the sight of his partner, his bondmate, his conjunx sweetly claiming the sparklings as his with such ease.
“The twin’s reaction may rival Bluestreak and Smokescreen’s once they learn that it will be a set of twins like them.” Prowl contemplates out loud in response. Feeling emboldened by Jazz, Prowl tilts his own helm a bit further until his optics can zero in on where he knew his spark chamber to be, a still unsteady servo reaching up to rub at the plating gently above the area.
“That, little ones, was your sire. I know you cannot possibly feel it yet but he is…” Optics raising to meet Jazz’s own, the smile he gives him is a little private thing meant just for him, his door wings fluttering. “So very happy to learn of your existence. My name is Prowl. I… I am your carrier.” It felt surreal to say that out loud, not in his dreams.
Jazz stays where he is, helm settled against Prowl’s chest, listening to the warm hum of Prowl’s spark and systems—the steady rhythm thrumming through plating and into his own frame. He shutters his optics for a long moment and lets the sound anchor him, lets the quiet stretch so Prowl can sit with the last word he’s spoken.
A wry, almost disbelieving smile curves his mouth as the pseudo-mission-tension finally has nowhere left to aim, draining out of him in a slow vent. His shoulder pauldrons sink by a fraction, like gravity remembered he exists, even as he remains angled instinctively between Prowl and the door.
“Ya ain’t wrong ’bout the twins,” Jazz murmurs softly. A beat—thoughtful, fond. “Huh. We’re gonna need ta figure out a different way ta refer ta ’em, ain’t we. We gun have some hellions of our own soon.”
Finally, he shifts, slow and careful. The visor slides back into place with a soft hiss and click. He pulls back just enough to press a chaste kiss to Prowl’s center crest before reaching for the energon cubes waiting by the wayside.
"I believe that Sideswipe will argue that we find a different way to refer to our twins, since they have been here longer and held claim to the nickname for longer as well." Prowl chuckles softly. He feels a twinge of sadness when Jazz slides his visor back on, missing seeing his optics already, but understanding that his partner probably would like to be able to see clearly.
He doesn't pay much attention to where Jazz was reaching or for what, taking the quiet moment to begin attempting to reorient his systems after such a cataclysmic crash and overheating event. Hoping that, the more he put back into order, the more likely he'd be to finding the carrier coding and subsequent protocols that has so far been missing before Ratchet could be summoned back.
Jazz leans just far enough to snag the cubes, a small hitch rolling through his shoulder assembly before his servos smooth out again. He draws them back into his space, turning them idly in his grasp while his optics flick across the labels on instinct — med-grade. Stabilizing mix. Then the standard blend. His.
Prowl’s cube shifts into his nearer servo without thought while he hooks the second closer with a curl of his digits. They linger a fraction longer than usual around the containers, grip adjusting in minute increments until the weight settles right.
“Ha, yer definitely right on that one, Side's ain't gun let that go fer sure."
He eases back into place, rotates Prowl’s container so the intake port faces correctly, and gestures it toward him.
With a small gesticulating shrug: "Ratchet’s orders, apparently.”
A pause — not waiting, just there. Present.
Prowl can’t help the grimace his expression becomes when he spots the med-grade blend. It’s one he’s well acquainted with, unfortunately, but that doesn’t mean he’s ever acquired a taste for it. It is purposefully as bland as possible to ensure it can be accepted by just about any Cybertronian system- how something can taste of nothing and still taste bad will always confuse him.
But… he feels his spark spin a little faster as the thought of the twin newsparks serenely orbiting his own. They need his frame to be at peak condition. For them, Prowl was certain he’d already do anything if it meant they would be safe and healthy. Which, unfortunately, included drinking the bland med-grade prescribed by his medic.
With a sigh, he lifts a servo, waiting for it to stop trembling before carefully pressing it to the cube Jazz held so that it could be guided to his intake. His field ripples with distaste but he obediently takes slow, measured sips of the energon while monitoring his systems on his HUD that were reflected upon the monitors he was attached to.
Jazz watches Prowl fuel, like its a delicate operation.
His visor tracks the cube, the angle of Prowl’s servo, tracks each measured embattled sip. He knows its nasty. He knows, and he feels it. He counts sips without realizing he’s doing it.
“Blegh. Med-grade’s nasty,” he murmurs finally, tone light, like this is just another shared annoyance instead of a prescription critically tied to self-repair. “Ah swear they engineer that stuff ta taste like regret.”
Jazz looks down at his own cube.
Holds it.
“Tell ya what,” he adds, looking up and rolling his shoulder joint once, subtle stiffness clicking through before smoothing out. “Once Ratchet clears it, ah’ll get ya somethin’ real delectable. Magnesium, cobalt, mmmmhmm... chewy copper globules… crunchy iron bits, if that’s what ya feelin’. Ah’ll hunt down the good stuff.” A corner of his mouth quirks. “Anythin’ ya want, Prowler. Dealer’s choice.”
He fidgets then, slower than before, tugging Prowl's blanket up, one pillow nudged. Another adjusted by a careful inch. His palm skates briefly, reassuringly, over Prowl’s chest plating, a check more than a touch, before he finally straightens. His vents ease, quiet and even now, visor angled toward Prowl as if nothing else in the room exists.
The thought of a mineral treat or energon goodie was appealing after having to ingest something so unpleasant to the palate was nice… he let his processor drift to think about what he might want. Prowl isn’t able to think about it for long as Jazz’s subtle gestures catch his attention. They’re… not necessarily odd, he’s used to lingering paranoia fueled protective movements from the former SpecOps head. But these movements are the typical vigilance that he’s used to.
It’s centered around… Prowl’s optics brighten a few shades. Himself. But why… Luckily, at this point the TacNet had been booted up enough to connect the wires. The newly realized carrier couldn’t help the faint smile. “… the coding has activated, hasn’t it? The sire coding.”
Jazz huffs with a smile— short, tired, a little crooked at the edges.
“Oh yeah,” he says, voice rough with worn-down circuits and too many emotions in too few cycles. “No doubt there, babe. Ah don't feel outta control, tho. Just...dialed in?”
His visor angles toward the door automatically. Then back to Prowl.
Conflict sits right there in the line of his frame.
He wants to fold in. Wants to press close, tuck helm under Prowl’s chin again, listen to that spark and just exist in it for a while.
“Ah wanna curl up right there,” he mutters honestly. “But ah also wanna stand guard like some kinda overclocked sentry turret hard drivin' be damned.”
Most would associate Prowl with hard lines, calculations, and cold anger. But those who knew him better, who cared to see beneath the surface veneer, would know how deeply he tended to care about things. Other Mechs. In the Praxian’s opinion, none saw that better than Jazz. And here, still letting himself feel the joy of knowing two tiny sparklings were currently orbiting his spark, those soft edges of Prowl and that warm and caring center had never been more apparent.
After finishing majority of the foul tasting medgrade cube and placing it back on the side table, Prowl reaches up with both servos to cup Jazz’s helm and gently shifts it so that he’s focused on him rather than the door. Already it’s apparent the energon was helping with how his servos are more steady than before. This close it’s so very easy to see how exhausted he is from the whole medical emergency that had been followed by a planet shattering revelation. But his optics… this sort of happiness and love in his expression had been seen so little by even by his conjunx that it could be counted on one servo.
“Jazz.” Prowl’s voice is even softer in this moment. “I know it is difficult to do so, especially now, but I would ask that you relax with me. There is no need to stand sentinel here, we are on a high floor with windows too small for entry for a flight frame and several medics who would rather deactivate than let harm come to their patients.”
The smile he gives him is full of equal measures of exhaustion and happiness. One servo lets go of his helm to pat at the exact spot above his spark Prowl knew Jazz had eyed earlier in invitation. “So, with that in mind… would you please rest with me?”
Jazz leans into the touch, helm tilting before he forces himself to pull back. His visor sweeps the medroom one last time, jaw actuator working like he’s arguing with ghosts only he can hear.
He comes back to himself then, rattles his plating with a shake and smiles, worn, road dust and Primus knows what other grime streaking his frame still and eases himself up onto the medberth with his Prowler.
“Yer real unfair, y’know that?” he murmurs as he settles closer, curving to Prowl's shape, his voice gone low and velvet — but threaded through with tired relief. “Weaponizin’ logic an’ sweet talk at the same time.”
Jazz’s helm dips, tucking beneath Prowl’s chin like it belongs there — because it does.
For a klik he goes very still, like he’s assessing the new configuration, now that proximity-monitoring has replaced perimeter-defense in his mind.
His shoulder pauldrons then sinks, settles. His door wings give a faint, tired flutter — then drift down and still, like the last page turned for the night.
Normally, Prowl would have been opposed to cuddling when Jazz so clearly needed a long shower and a good buffing. He wasn't fond of dirt and Primus only knew what else getting into his own seams and platting but... In this situation, he was more than willing to make an exception. It wasn't as if Prowl didn't need the contact just as much as Jazz did.
Carefully raising one servo, he splays it in the space between Jazz's door wings and slowly begins to stroke the available plating in smooth and broad swaths. His engine kicks up in a soft purr, just enough to lightly vibrate their intertwined frames.
"Rest, Jazz. All four of us will still be here tomorrow."
"Hmmmmmf, four. Four. Four s'alot there Prowler. That is...hmff, s'lot. Did good. S'when didja get so dang cozy comfy? S'not fair."
“I don’t think many would call me comfortable.” Prowl laughs quietly, moving gingerly to make himself a bit more comfortable whilst not shifting Jazz in the process. It was nice the berths in medical bays tended to be so large. “That maybe something unique to you.” And possibly, hopefully, their sparklings as well.
"Hmmmmmm...well, ah think we jus' added two ta ya count, m'not alone anymore heheheh."
There is a tired, happy rumbling hum. The bond sings true, all warmth, all safety and reassurance. Jazz's barely perceptible Spec Ops systems start cycling down and a whisper is pressed to warm plating:
"Ah love em, and we aint even properly met. Hnnnmmm... love ya babe."
“I love you too, Jazz.” After pressing a gentle kiss between Jazz’s two audial horns, door wings lightly fluttering, Prowl lets himself sink into the bond once more. Lets it guide him and ease his systems into winding down. In barely any time at all, he’s asleep once more.