Sweet Treats for my Sweetspark
Rated PG for mention of possible intimacy and kissing.
Hope you like it, enjoy!
Sweet Treats for my Sweetspark
Prowl set down the datapad and gave Ratchet his full attention. He must have misheard over the dull roar of the midday crowd.
“They named a day after the human and made it a holiday of love?”
The CMO grimaced. “Don’t even get me started! Decapitation and sainthood seems to go hand-in-servo with these human occasions, and I’m not ready to untangle your circuits this early in the week.” With that, Ratchet swigged the last dregs of his energon and stood, nearly backing into an enthusiastically gesturing Sideswipe. The frontliner, happily enough, was more than glad to add his two cents after Ratchet had been righted and sent on his grumbling way.
“Ya know you’re supposed to give your special ‘bot a little something on Valentine’s tomorrow, right? I heard Spike say it and Carly agreed, so it must be true!”
As a logical mech, Prowl tended to credit others with the same attribute…but where Sideswipe was concerned, all logic typically flew out the window. Huffing a sigh, he picked up the discarded datapad and prepared to ignore the interruption. This was rendered futile when the mech shoved his face between Prowl and his work, and fixed an eerily serious stare upon the tactician.
“Sideswipe. Get off the table.”
“It’s a day of luuurve, copbot. Luuurve. You know who needs some luurve?”
“Not you. Get down.”
“Sides! Stop bothering the stick-aft and c’mon!” Sunstreaker evidently disapproved of his Mario Kart partner abandoning him mid-race.
“Jazz! That’s right, Jazz! Whatcha gonna do for your luuuver, Prowl? How ya gonna show him the luuur-”
“Remove your aft from my lap this instant.”
Sunstreaker stomped over but Sideswipe was determined to finish.
“Yeah, Prowl! Even you get to show your luurve. I betcha Jazz is gonna-”
The yellow twin reached the awkwardly positioned pair. His hand made contact with Sideswipe’s face and sent the irritating mech off of the officer and onto the floor. Relieved, Prowl left the rec room with a small, satisfied smile on his lips to the sound of general hilarity and one ‘bot vehemently cursing out his sibling. Once he had reached his office, however, he paused.
Jazz enjoys human holidays. He will be celebrating tomorrow, somehow.
His proximity triggered the door to open and he stepped inside, still thoughtful. Prowl seated himself behind his desk and took a datapad from the small stack.
And not in a ridiculous way, as I am certain Sideswipe would have all and sundry assume.
Gently, he set aside his perpetual work and drew an unobtrusive holographic cube near. It activated with a touch and displayed a three dimensional face, grinning with a Unicron-may-care glint in its visor. It had been more than a few weeks since the pair had had the chance to participate in a romantic interlude and both were feeling the strain.
The human ‘Christmas’, conflicting shifts, a particularly drawn-out Ops mission, and the everyday cares of running the Ark made more than a quick kiss goodnight or good morning impossible. Prowl knew that Jazz looked forward to the holiday for more than the day off the two had wrangled- the wily mech would have some kind of celebratory gift ready.
With a small frown, the tactician double-tapped the face into dormancy and slid it back to the corner it came from. Jazz was demonstrative, more so than he, and usually it was just fine. Both understood the other and no feelings were injured by Prowl’s quiet acceptance and a more enthusiastic thank you in the berth later, but something felt wrong this time. This time, it felt like he needed to do more than passively (though gratefully) receive the efforts of his lover. This time, he wanted to prove his devotion in a different way than a simple ‘thank you’. But how?
This required more thought. Prowl signed off on an early end to his shift, preemptively headed off Ratchet’s incredulous inquiry after his health with a short explanatory databurst, and headed for his quarters.
Thank goodness Jazz is still occupied with Mirage…
Jazz was having a ball.
“Raj, ya sly dog! Ah didn’ know ya had it in ya!” Mirage ducked his helm modestly, receiving his commander’s accolades with customary grace.
“It was hardly a trial to plant the chip. I only wish I had the chance to personally witness their faces when all of their monitors show nothing but goat copulation and Deceptikitties.” Mirage couldn’t restrain the giggle when Jazz gave up any pretense of maturity and flat out roared with laughter. Sending the spy to collect the plans for Megatron’s latest superweapon was one thing, having him go the extra mile with such a hilarious sabotage was entirely another. Sometimes, Jazz loved his job.
Pulling himself together, he wiped the optic fluid from his cheeks and settled back.
“Ya just earned yerself a day off, mech. Enjoy the holiday tomorrow, an’ don’t let me catcha doin’ anything that even remotely looks like work!” Mirage was happy to agree.
“Hound will be most pleased,” he murmured. “It’s been a few weeks since we’ve had the time…”
Shifting forward, Jazz dipped his helm sympathetically. “Ah hear ya. Whatcha gonna do?”
“Hound wants to go for a drive, but I am sure that I can adequately convince him of merits of ‘staying in’ for the day. Perhaps I shall make him energon treats.”
Jazz’s smile became a bit fixed.
“Energon treats.”
“Yes, he enjoys them ever so much, and it would he perfectly appropriate on such a holiday as the human festival of love to gift him with my handmade confections. Have you ever made them?”
“Yah. Great stuff. Tell ya what, why doncha head on out and get started on that? I’ll letcha work on the post-op report later tonight, alright?”
A bit surprised and curious, Mirage thanked the saboteur and departed before the offer could be retracted. Jazz, optics concealed by the visor, gazed blankly into the empty space where his operative had stood and allowed himself to shudder.
Energon treats. The words opened up whole avenues of terrible, terrible memories. Fire, chaos, and rivers of melted energon flowed forth. Amid the recollection of screams and sirens, he heard a tap at his office door and hastily buried them back where they belonged- in the deepest, darkest pits of his mind. Bumblebee tripped in just as Good Ol’ Jazz returned to the forefront, erasing all traces of trauma.
“Boss, do we have any confectioners’ kits? I want to make some treats and I lost mine!”
Twitch. The smile stayed on, though it stiffened into an alarming leer. Bumblebee went still.
“…Yah. Check the back left corner o’ storeroom four, Ah think Ah saw somethin’ like a…confectionary kit there.”
He had never gone back to that particular spot.
The little scout decided that it was best not to ask, and sidled out before the expression on his commander’s face could get more horrific.
Jazz sucked a whopping gasp through his vents the moment the door shut and slumped down in his seat.
Energon treats. Spawn of Unicron, he really needed to get over it. It was epochs ago! It was different now! He was not going to be cowed by the memory of failure! He was the Jazzman, Special Ops extraordinaire, and no gooey treats would get the best of him! In fact, he’d prove it tonight and make a batch himself- he had needed something adequately special for Prowler, and the poor ‘bot had probably never indulged with them in his functioning.
His office was the perfect place to work. No one would disturb him, and in a few hours he’d be finished! With a song in his spark, the saboteur sauntered out the door and sashayed down the hall.
Carefully, Prowl slid the flat box out of his trunk and smoothed the dust away. It had been ages- literally -since he had last laid servos on the thing, let alone used it. He rested the heavy burden on his desk and blew the few clinging particles off the embossed glyphs denoting his ownership. His was one of the more expansive confectionary kits, and the possibility of it going missing or being stolen had been a concern when he’d purchased it. A confectioner could hardly sell wares if his tools were absent!
The latches clicked smartly open at his databurst, and smugly he raised the lid to reveal a treasury of items to make any energon treat connoisseur swoon. Scoops and miniature ladles, inert metal carving scalpels and files, presses and molds, trays and racks, droppers and frosters, field containment dishes and measuring apparatus for temperature and weight, all gleamed in pristine condition, ready for the day when he took up his art and gave form to deliciousness!
Prowl mused that he had grown a bit dramatic in his mind, but chalked it up to continuous contact with Jazz and set the thought aside to pick up a strainer. It was time to refine some low grade.
Servos twitched, leaving ripples in the dimly glowing liquid. Vents stilled against the possibility of the slightest spill, Jazz tipped the cube of low grade into the basic refiner from the accursed kit. His plan to treat the entire operation like he would the dismantling of a bomb had thus far rewarded him.
Making it to the storage bay before ‘Bee had been a job and a half, but with his self-motivation blazing the way he had done it! ‘Bots had leapt to hug the walls in his wake, wondering what had gotten into him, but the kit was his!
The beginners’ kit had the easiest, most simple instructions known to Cybertronian. He was almost insulted, but once the tools were laid out in menacing array his abounding confidence had withered faster than an organic flower in fall. Now he blessed those sparkling-steps as the small machine wheezed, making ominous choking sounds as the energon drizzled into its mouth.
Jazz overcorrected the flow, and great dollops splashed in. He ducked. A heavy chunk-chunk-chunk started, tendrils of smoke hissing out of the little boiler. Jazz said a quick prayer to Primus as the whole thing took off and smashed into the back wall in a mighty explosion.
A moment later, someone hammered on the door.
“Jazz! Jazz! Are you okay?!”
From his shelter beneath the desk he winced as the remaining low grade boiled out of the half-shredded refiner and slopped to the floor. Evidently, this alarmed the well-meaning ‘bot outside.
“Help! Help! Attack!”
Now Jazz was alarmed. No one could witness this! He rolled out from the desk, sprang to his pedes, and poked his head out before Windcharger had the chance to whip Red Alert into a deeper frenzy.
“Hey, woah there mah mech! Ah’m jus’ fine. Jus’ doin’…stuff. Nothin’ teh get excited ‘bout- Ah’m fine!” He shouted at the various mecha toting blasters at a trot. “’S nothin,’ get back teh yer duties!” A few eyed the smoke trailing out the open door dubiously, but eventually he was once again alone.
Ping.
“Jazz, acknowledge! What happened? Was it Decepticons?!”
Sigh.
With expert confidence, Prowl swiftly dispensed the thick gel from the refiner. Making sure the tray was properly balanced and that the ropes of energon were aligned closely enough to meld into each other but far enough to spread was a simple enough task. Briskly scraping the remaining gel from the pan of the boiler with a metal spoon, he used the last dribbles to close up any gaps and give the first layer of energon a smooth, uniform appearance. Aesthetics were almost as important as the taste for a consumer, and these would be as perfect as he could make them. Jazz would be so thrilled! A rare smile lit his face as he slid the tray to the edge of the desk and began a new batch- this time, a lighter shade of red.
…come to think of it, where was Jazz?
Wrestling the possessed refiner from the wall had taken the better part of a joor, and had left Jazz with scrapes on his digits and bruises on his ego. The sad truth: he was no good at refining energon. He could appreciate it in all its varieties, but put him in a refinery and watch the whole thing burn to the ground. Low, mid, high, treats, sticks, syrups, flakes! His was the touch of the Unmaker when a utensil was put in his hand, and after the Fire of Kaon (which some credited as the work of the juvenile Decepticon movement) he had wisely steered clear of the whole mess. Following his training in all things sneaky and dangerous he had attempted to refine once more, but again created a catastrophe that was blamed on the Decepticons. Kaon had not withstood his culinary efforts a second time.
Ah, what a ‘bot does fer love, he mused as the rebuilt refiner shlorped and gurgled on the second batch of low grade. A bubble burst and spat a glob of sizzling energon directly into his optics.
Primus onna pogo stick, this ain’t gonna be easy! Smoke belched from the boiler and set off his office sensor.
Ping.
“-JAZZ ARE YOU ALIVE WAS IT DECEPTICONS JAZZ-”
Sigh.
A sheet of energon, so thin it was almost transparent, drifted slowly from steady servos until it landed precisely atop the previous layer, giving the contents of the tray a lighter hue of red. From the side, the thin stripes of deepest maroon progressing gradually to crimson to pale pink lent the energon an interesting texture not unlike the patterns of minerals tracing lines through layers of earth stone.
Each sheet, left to cool until it had reached the point of lowest flexibility, had been gently popped up from its cooling rack and laid to rest on its predecessor before the last of its viscosity had fled. The tacky layers finished hardening atop each other, binding them together as all cooled and became brittle. The resulting sheet of energon was thick, heavy, and ready for shaping. Prowl watched the final layer develop a light dew of condensation. When the drops crystalized, he activated his lowest powered energy scalpel and began to cut.
Ping.
“-PROWLDECEPTICONSINTHEARKSETTINGJAZZONFIRE-”
He reset his optics, then set aside the blade. Surely not. Jazz would not stand still to let them. He decided to ask, though. Just in case.
“Jazz? What is going on?”
Fzst-“Oh uh, Prowl- Ah’m just working on somethin’. Why yah askin’?”
He smiled. Evidently, his lover was fine.
“It’s nothing. Is Inferno still working on the wiring in medbay with Hoist? Please send him to relieve Red Alert, it’s shift change and he still hasn’t left the security hub.”
“Will do, babe. Ya gonna come over t’night?”
“I have some work to finish before tomorrow. Shall I meet you then?”
“Sure thing, sweetspark. Bright’n’early!”
“Very well. Goodnight, Jazz.”
“G’night, babe. Love yah.”
“And I love you.”
Prowl returned to his work with a lighter spark, already anticipating the surprise on Jazz’s face.
In the mech’s defense, it had been a long day and a very fraught evening. Jazz pried picked morosely at the lump on the tray with numb digits. The instructions promised that the gel would pour out in a stream, not fall out in a blob! Maybe he had left it cooking too long? Was that the problem? The instructions had said to leave it alone until it had mostly hardened, but how hard was it supposed to get? After the crystals had formed, he decided that it must be time- only to discover that the whole thing had seemingly fused with the tray itself, and would not be removed by anything short of blaster fire. He knew better than to shoot it, though. Kaon wouldn’t burn a second time on the green hills of Nevada. Instead, he slid one of his energy daggers from a thigh holster. You could cut treats with that, right?
He flicked it to its highest setting and jammed it under a corner of the lump.
The resulting explosion could be heard from five corridors away.
Again, there was a mech pounding at the door. Blaster, it seemed, was determined to get in even if he had to make a new door with his fists.
“JAZZ! Mech, are ya alive in there?!” Jazz, no fool, had learned from the first time and was already rolling from cover and opening the door before the last shout echoed down the hall. His face was wreathed in smiles and dripping energon.
“Blaster! Mech, Ah know yah like tah see meh, but now ain’t a good time. I’m testin’ stuff.”
“Yer testin’ stuff.”
“Yep.”
“Do yah…need help with yer testin’? Like, Ratchet?”
“Naw. Ah’m gonna be done here real shortly, man.”
“Ya…killin’ anything in there, buddy?”
“Mech, do ya really wanna know?”
“…naw. Ya sure I don’t need to get-?”
“Master Blaster, Ah got this. Thanks, but some stuff a mech just gotta do alone.”
The tape deck was unconvinced, but correctly interpreted the stubborn glint in his friend’s visor. He nodded, backing away as the door slid shut. Then he commed the one mech who could out-stubborn Jazz any day of the week.
Each treat had been cut into an ovoid, with sloped edges to display the deeper reds merging with lighter colors. The top of each treat was delicately carved with a glyph; one was the symbol for music, another bore the Cybertronian numeral four, yet another carried Jazz’s own personal identifier. Soon the words love, hope, laughter, beauty, forever, and together all had their own canvas. Around each glyph were traces of fractals, an equation Prowl knew Jazz found particularly pleasing. Varying depths of knife strokes left deeper and lighter flushes of color on the pale pink treats, mesmerizing in their variety and complexity.
He had just finished sweeping the shavings and chips from the carving tray when he received the comm from Blaster.
Jazz glared balefully at the jagged shards of energon.
“Puce.” He deliberately removed his visor, tried to wipe off the spatters- quickly abandoning the effort when it left bigger splotches -and replaced it. They were still puce, and a nauseating shade at that!
“Ah don’ think yer s’posed teh be puce…” He picked up the battered remnants of the instructions, dented and scorched from the epic struggles and subsequent explosions. He found the description of the finished product and read it carefully. Addressing the sad little chunks, he remarked, “Yer s’posed teh be red. Or pink, if Ah cooked yah a bit too long. Don’ say nothin’ bout puce.”
He chucked the sheet of metal at a wall, where it stuck.
“Bet it means yer toxic.”
A familiar ping tickled his receptors and in a flash Jazz had leapt over the mess on the floor, swept the puce monstrosities into a desk drawer, and parked his aft in front of the door. He arranged himself in the most provocative pose he could muster then allowed the door to slide open just wide enough to display his own fine self. As the faceplates of the mech outside registered, he purred.
“Hey, babe. What can ‘th Jazzman do fer yah t’night?”
Prowl had not been unduly alarmed. Blaster was prone to exaggeration, and Jazz was probably in the midst of some ops task or another. Surely he had not actually been setting off bombs or interrogating Decepticons in his office!
When he reached the door and saw the smoke curling out from the edges, however, he was forced to reassess.
Words could not describe how relieved he was that the door opened to his ping. Then Jazz’s appearance caused his spark to flutter and not in the usual, pleasant way.
Wisps of smoke trailed from under every piece of armor. His visor was overbright, indicating high levels of stress. His smile was more manic than merry, his servos dented. Every inch was scorched and dripping with…puce energon? Prowl would believe that his lover had been blown up and poisoned, but the field he emitted held no indications of pain- only frustration and oddly enough, defeat.
“Jazz, you are smoking.”
“Ah know Ah’m hot stuff, babe, but thanks-”
“You have smoke coming out of every seam!”
Jazz glanced down at himself, then slumped against the doorframe for support rather than display.
“Babe, Ah’m tryin’ but Ah jus’ can’t. Ah gotta face it, Ah jus’ can’t.”
Prowl felt his alarm increase a few notches. This was not typical Jazz behavior. He could, and frequently did, do anything he set his mind to. No matter how intimate the relationship, admitting to anyone that he was unable to do something was not a good sign. He took a step closer, and allowed himself to be drawn into a smoky, sticky, overheated embrace. The door slid shut behind him.
Jazz sighed.
“Ah wanted teh make yah a special gift fer tomorrow, but Ah jus’ can’t make energon treats. Ah tried real hard but…”
Touched, Prowl pressed a kiss against the frowning lips he loved so dearly. The owner stilled then reciprocated with easy acceptance. Tenderly, the two held each other in the wrecked office, swaying a little because Jazz had blown a balance fuse at some point. After a minute or two, Prowl pressed his forehelm to Jazz’s. The smile he loved was back, albeit a bit dimmer than usual. He nuzzled it.
“Love, I am so pleased by everything you do for me every day. You don’t have to do these things for me, but you do.” He laid his head on his lover’s shoulder, hiding his optics from the suddenly much more interested gaze. Vocal expressions of love were…not his thing. “I can…hardly tell you how much I feel for you, how grateful I am and-” A black pair of hands captured his face, raising it for a series of pecks.
“Babe, yah know Ah only want th’ best fer mah sweetspark. Ah wish Ah had some sweet treats teh give yah, but Ah guess Ah’ll have teh make it up in other ways.”
Prowl stared at the saboteur as his engine gave a suggestive rumble, then hummed back with a sly grin. Jazz swallowed, clutching him a bit tighter.
“Yes, we should return quickly. This time I have a treat for you, Jazz…”
The End.
Hope you like it, enjoy!
Sweet Treats for my Sweetspark
Prowl set down the datapad and gave Ratchet his full attention. He must have misheard over the dull roar of the midday crowd.
“They named a day after the human and made it a holiday of love?”
The CMO grimaced. “Don’t even get me started! Decapitation and sainthood seems to go hand-in-servo with these human occasions, and I’m not ready to untangle your circuits this early in the week.” With that, Ratchet swigged the last dregs of his energon and stood, nearly backing into an enthusiastically gesturing Sideswipe. The frontliner, happily enough, was more than glad to add his two cents after Ratchet had been righted and sent on his grumbling way.
“Ya know you’re supposed to give your special ‘bot a little something on Valentine’s tomorrow, right? I heard Spike say it and Carly agreed, so it must be true!”
As a logical mech, Prowl tended to credit others with the same attribute…but where Sideswipe was concerned, all logic typically flew out the window. Huffing a sigh, he picked up the discarded datapad and prepared to ignore the interruption. This was rendered futile when the mech shoved his face between Prowl and his work, and fixed an eerily serious stare upon the tactician.
“Sideswipe. Get off the table.”
“It’s a day of luuurve, copbot. Luuurve. You know who needs some luurve?”
“Not you. Get down.”
“Sides! Stop bothering the stick-aft and c’mon!” Sunstreaker evidently disapproved of his Mario Kart partner abandoning him mid-race.
“Jazz! That’s right, Jazz! Whatcha gonna do for your luuuver, Prowl? How ya gonna show him the luuur-”
“Remove your aft from my lap this instant.”
Sunstreaker stomped over but Sideswipe was determined to finish.
“Yeah, Prowl! Even you get to show your luurve. I betcha Jazz is gonna-”
The yellow twin reached the awkwardly positioned pair. His hand made contact with Sideswipe’s face and sent the irritating mech off of the officer and onto the floor. Relieved, Prowl left the rec room with a small, satisfied smile on his lips to the sound of general hilarity and one ‘bot vehemently cursing out his sibling. Once he had reached his office, however, he paused.
Jazz enjoys human holidays. He will be celebrating tomorrow, somehow.
His proximity triggered the door to open and he stepped inside, still thoughtful. Prowl seated himself behind his desk and took a datapad from the small stack.
And not in a ridiculous way, as I am certain Sideswipe would have all and sundry assume.
Gently, he set aside his perpetual work and drew an unobtrusive holographic cube near. It activated with a touch and displayed a three dimensional face, grinning with a Unicron-may-care glint in its visor. It had been more than a few weeks since the pair had had the chance to participate in a romantic interlude and both were feeling the strain.
The human ‘Christmas’, conflicting shifts, a particularly drawn-out Ops mission, and the everyday cares of running the Ark made more than a quick kiss goodnight or good morning impossible. Prowl knew that Jazz looked forward to the holiday for more than the day off the two had wrangled- the wily mech would have some kind of celebratory gift ready.
With a small frown, the tactician double-tapped the face into dormancy and slid it back to the corner it came from. Jazz was demonstrative, more so than he, and usually it was just fine. Both understood the other and no feelings were injured by Prowl’s quiet acceptance and a more enthusiastic thank you in the berth later, but something felt wrong this time. This time, it felt like he needed to do more than passively (though gratefully) receive the efforts of his lover. This time, he wanted to prove his devotion in a different way than a simple ‘thank you’. But how?
This required more thought. Prowl signed off on an early end to his shift, preemptively headed off Ratchet’s incredulous inquiry after his health with a short explanatory databurst, and headed for his quarters.
Thank goodness Jazz is still occupied with Mirage…
Jazz was having a ball.
“Raj, ya sly dog! Ah didn’ know ya had it in ya!” Mirage ducked his helm modestly, receiving his commander’s accolades with customary grace.
“It was hardly a trial to plant the chip. I only wish I had the chance to personally witness their faces when all of their monitors show nothing but goat copulation and Deceptikitties.” Mirage couldn’t restrain the giggle when Jazz gave up any pretense of maturity and flat out roared with laughter. Sending the spy to collect the plans for Megatron’s latest superweapon was one thing, having him go the extra mile with such a hilarious sabotage was entirely another. Sometimes, Jazz loved his job.
Pulling himself together, he wiped the optic fluid from his cheeks and settled back.
“Ya just earned yerself a day off, mech. Enjoy the holiday tomorrow, an’ don’t let me catcha doin’ anything that even remotely looks like work!” Mirage was happy to agree.
“Hound will be most pleased,” he murmured. “It’s been a few weeks since we’ve had the time…”
Shifting forward, Jazz dipped his helm sympathetically. “Ah hear ya. Whatcha gonna do?”
“Hound wants to go for a drive, but I am sure that I can adequately convince him of merits of ‘staying in’ for the day. Perhaps I shall make him energon treats.”
Jazz’s smile became a bit fixed.
“Energon treats.”
“Yes, he enjoys them ever so much, and it would he perfectly appropriate on such a holiday as the human festival of love to gift him with my handmade confections. Have you ever made them?”
“Yah. Great stuff. Tell ya what, why doncha head on out and get started on that? I’ll letcha work on the post-op report later tonight, alright?”
A bit surprised and curious, Mirage thanked the saboteur and departed before the offer could be retracted. Jazz, optics concealed by the visor, gazed blankly into the empty space where his operative had stood and allowed himself to shudder.
Energon treats. The words opened up whole avenues of terrible, terrible memories. Fire, chaos, and rivers of melted energon flowed forth. Amid the recollection of screams and sirens, he heard a tap at his office door and hastily buried them back where they belonged- in the deepest, darkest pits of his mind. Bumblebee tripped in just as Good Ol’ Jazz returned to the forefront, erasing all traces of trauma.
“Boss, do we have any confectioners’ kits? I want to make some treats and I lost mine!”
Twitch. The smile stayed on, though it stiffened into an alarming leer. Bumblebee went still.
“…Yah. Check the back left corner o’ storeroom four, Ah think Ah saw somethin’ like a…confectionary kit there.”
He had never gone back to that particular spot.
The little scout decided that it was best not to ask, and sidled out before the expression on his commander’s face could get more horrific.
Jazz sucked a whopping gasp through his vents the moment the door shut and slumped down in his seat.
Energon treats. Spawn of Unicron, he really needed to get over it. It was epochs ago! It was different now! He was not going to be cowed by the memory of failure! He was the Jazzman, Special Ops extraordinaire, and no gooey treats would get the best of him! In fact, he’d prove it tonight and make a batch himself- he had needed something adequately special for Prowler, and the poor ‘bot had probably never indulged with them in his functioning.
His office was the perfect place to work. No one would disturb him, and in a few hours he’d be finished! With a song in his spark, the saboteur sauntered out the door and sashayed down the hall.
Carefully, Prowl slid the flat box out of his trunk and smoothed the dust away. It had been ages- literally -since he had last laid servos on the thing, let alone used it. He rested the heavy burden on his desk and blew the few clinging particles off the embossed glyphs denoting his ownership. His was one of the more expansive confectionary kits, and the possibility of it going missing or being stolen had been a concern when he’d purchased it. A confectioner could hardly sell wares if his tools were absent!
The latches clicked smartly open at his databurst, and smugly he raised the lid to reveal a treasury of items to make any energon treat connoisseur swoon. Scoops and miniature ladles, inert metal carving scalpels and files, presses and molds, trays and racks, droppers and frosters, field containment dishes and measuring apparatus for temperature and weight, all gleamed in pristine condition, ready for the day when he took up his art and gave form to deliciousness!
Prowl mused that he had grown a bit dramatic in his mind, but chalked it up to continuous contact with Jazz and set the thought aside to pick up a strainer. It was time to refine some low grade.
Servos twitched, leaving ripples in the dimly glowing liquid. Vents stilled against the possibility of the slightest spill, Jazz tipped the cube of low grade into the basic refiner from the accursed kit. His plan to treat the entire operation like he would the dismantling of a bomb had thus far rewarded him.
Making it to the storage bay before ‘Bee had been a job and a half, but with his self-motivation blazing the way he had done it! ‘Bots had leapt to hug the walls in his wake, wondering what had gotten into him, but the kit was his!
The beginners’ kit had the easiest, most simple instructions known to Cybertronian. He was almost insulted, but once the tools were laid out in menacing array his abounding confidence had withered faster than an organic flower in fall. Now he blessed those sparkling-steps as the small machine wheezed, making ominous choking sounds as the energon drizzled into its mouth.
Jazz overcorrected the flow, and great dollops splashed in. He ducked. A heavy chunk-chunk-chunk started, tendrils of smoke hissing out of the little boiler. Jazz said a quick prayer to Primus as the whole thing took off and smashed into the back wall in a mighty explosion.
A moment later, someone hammered on the door.
“Jazz! Jazz! Are you okay?!”
From his shelter beneath the desk he winced as the remaining low grade boiled out of the half-shredded refiner and slopped to the floor. Evidently, this alarmed the well-meaning ‘bot outside.
“Help! Help! Attack!”
Now Jazz was alarmed. No one could witness this! He rolled out from the desk, sprang to his pedes, and poked his head out before Windcharger had the chance to whip Red Alert into a deeper frenzy.
“Hey, woah there mah mech! Ah’m jus’ fine. Jus’ doin’…stuff. Nothin’ teh get excited ‘bout- Ah’m fine!” He shouted at the various mecha toting blasters at a trot. “’S nothin,’ get back teh yer duties!” A few eyed the smoke trailing out the open door dubiously, but eventually he was once again alone.
Ping.
“Jazz, acknowledge! What happened? Was it Decepticons?!”
Sigh.
With expert confidence, Prowl swiftly dispensed the thick gel from the refiner. Making sure the tray was properly balanced and that the ropes of energon were aligned closely enough to meld into each other but far enough to spread was a simple enough task. Briskly scraping the remaining gel from the pan of the boiler with a metal spoon, he used the last dribbles to close up any gaps and give the first layer of energon a smooth, uniform appearance. Aesthetics were almost as important as the taste for a consumer, and these would be as perfect as he could make them. Jazz would be so thrilled! A rare smile lit his face as he slid the tray to the edge of the desk and began a new batch- this time, a lighter shade of red.
…come to think of it, where was Jazz?
Wrestling the possessed refiner from the wall had taken the better part of a joor, and had left Jazz with scrapes on his digits and bruises on his ego. The sad truth: he was no good at refining energon. He could appreciate it in all its varieties, but put him in a refinery and watch the whole thing burn to the ground. Low, mid, high, treats, sticks, syrups, flakes! His was the touch of the Unmaker when a utensil was put in his hand, and after the Fire of Kaon (which some credited as the work of the juvenile Decepticon movement) he had wisely steered clear of the whole mess. Following his training in all things sneaky and dangerous he had attempted to refine once more, but again created a catastrophe that was blamed on the Decepticons. Kaon had not withstood his culinary efforts a second time.
Ah, what a ‘bot does fer love, he mused as the rebuilt refiner shlorped and gurgled on the second batch of low grade. A bubble burst and spat a glob of sizzling energon directly into his optics.
Primus onna pogo stick, this ain’t gonna be easy! Smoke belched from the boiler and set off his office sensor.
Ping.
“-JAZZ ARE YOU ALIVE WAS IT DECEPTICONS JAZZ-”
Sigh.
A sheet of energon, so thin it was almost transparent, drifted slowly from steady servos until it landed precisely atop the previous layer, giving the contents of the tray a lighter hue of red. From the side, the thin stripes of deepest maroon progressing gradually to crimson to pale pink lent the energon an interesting texture not unlike the patterns of minerals tracing lines through layers of earth stone.
Each sheet, left to cool until it had reached the point of lowest flexibility, had been gently popped up from its cooling rack and laid to rest on its predecessor before the last of its viscosity had fled. The tacky layers finished hardening atop each other, binding them together as all cooled and became brittle. The resulting sheet of energon was thick, heavy, and ready for shaping. Prowl watched the final layer develop a light dew of condensation. When the drops crystalized, he activated his lowest powered energy scalpel and began to cut.
Ping.
“-PROWLDECEPTICONSINTHEARKSETTINGJAZZONFIRE-”
He reset his optics, then set aside the blade. Surely not. Jazz would not stand still to let them. He decided to ask, though. Just in case.
“Jazz? What is going on?”
Fzst-“Oh uh, Prowl- Ah’m just working on somethin’. Why yah askin’?”
He smiled. Evidently, his lover was fine.
“It’s nothing. Is Inferno still working on the wiring in medbay with Hoist? Please send him to relieve Red Alert, it’s shift change and he still hasn’t left the security hub.”
“Will do, babe. Ya gonna come over t’night?”
“I have some work to finish before tomorrow. Shall I meet you then?”
“Sure thing, sweetspark. Bright’n’early!”
“Very well. Goodnight, Jazz.”
“G’night, babe. Love yah.”
“And I love you.”
Prowl returned to his work with a lighter spark, already anticipating the surprise on Jazz’s face.
In the mech’s defense, it had been a long day and a very fraught evening. Jazz pried picked morosely at the lump on the tray with numb digits. The instructions promised that the gel would pour out in a stream, not fall out in a blob! Maybe he had left it cooking too long? Was that the problem? The instructions had said to leave it alone until it had mostly hardened, but how hard was it supposed to get? After the crystals had formed, he decided that it must be time- only to discover that the whole thing had seemingly fused with the tray itself, and would not be removed by anything short of blaster fire. He knew better than to shoot it, though. Kaon wouldn’t burn a second time on the green hills of Nevada. Instead, he slid one of his energy daggers from a thigh holster. You could cut treats with that, right?
He flicked it to its highest setting and jammed it under a corner of the lump.
The resulting explosion could be heard from five corridors away.
Again, there was a mech pounding at the door. Blaster, it seemed, was determined to get in even if he had to make a new door with his fists.
“JAZZ! Mech, are ya alive in there?!” Jazz, no fool, had learned from the first time and was already rolling from cover and opening the door before the last shout echoed down the hall. His face was wreathed in smiles and dripping energon.
“Blaster! Mech, Ah know yah like tah see meh, but now ain’t a good time. I’m testin’ stuff.”
“Yer testin’ stuff.”
“Yep.”
“Do yah…need help with yer testin’? Like, Ratchet?”
“Naw. Ah’m gonna be done here real shortly, man.”
“Ya…killin’ anything in there, buddy?”
“Mech, do ya really wanna know?”
“…naw. Ya sure I don’t need to get-?”
“Master Blaster, Ah got this. Thanks, but some stuff a mech just gotta do alone.”
The tape deck was unconvinced, but correctly interpreted the stubborn glint in his friend’s visor. He nodded, backing away as the door slid shut. Then he commed the one mech who could out-stubborn Jazz any day of the week.
Each treat had been cut into an ovoid, with sloped edges to display the deeper reds merging with lighter colors. The top of each treat was delicately carved with a glyph; one was the symbol for music, another bore the Cybertronian numeral four, yet another carried Jazz’s own personal identifier. Soon the words love, hope, laughter, beauty, forever, and together all had their own canvas. Around each glyph were traces of fractals, an equation Prowl knew Jazz found particularly pleasing. Varying depths of knife strokes left deeper and lighter flushes of color on the pale pink treats, mesmerizing in their variety and complexity.
He had just finished sweeping the shavings and chips from the carving tray when he received the comm from Blaster.
Jazz glared balefully at the jagged shards of energon.
“Puce.” He deliberately removed his visor, tried to wipe off the spatters- quickly abandoning the effort when it left bigger splotches -and replaced it. They were still puce, and a nauseating shade at that!
“Ah don’ think yer s’posed teh be puce…” He picked up the battered remnants of the instructions, dented and scorched from the epic struggles and subsequent explosions. He found the description of the finished product and read it carefully. Addressing the sad little chunks, he remarked, “Yer s’posed teh be red. Or pink, if Ah cooked yah a bit too long. Don’ say nothin’ bout puce.”
He chucked the sheet of metal at a wall, where it stuck.
“Bet it means yer toxic.”
A familiar ping tickled his receptors and in a flash Jazz had leapt over the mess on the floor, swept the puce monstrosities into a desk drawer, and parked his aft in front of the door. He arranged himself in the most provocative pose he could muster then allowed the door to slide open just wide enough to display his own fine self. As the faceplates of the mech outside registered, he purred.
“Hey, babe. What can ‘th Jazzman do fer yah t’night?”
Prowl had not been unduly alarmed. Blaster was prone to exaggeration, and Jazz was probably in the midst of some ops task or another. Surely he had not actually been setting off bombs or interrogating Decepticons in his office!
When he reached the door and saw the smoke curling out from the edges, however, he was forced to reassess.
Words could not describe how relieved he was that the door opened to his ping. Then Jazz’s appearance caused his spark to flutter and not in the usual, pleasant way.
Wisps of smoke trailed from under every piece of armor. His visor was overbright, indicating high levels of stress. His smile was more manic than merry, his servos dented. Every inch was scorched and dripping with…puce energon? Prowl would believe that his lover had been blown up and poisoned, but the field he emitted held no indications of pain- only frustration and oddly enough, defeat.
“Jazz, you are smoking.”
“Ah know Ah’m hot stuff, babe, but thanks-”
“You have smoke coming out of every seam!”
Jazz glanced down at himself, then slumped against the doorframe for support rather than display.
“Babe, Ah’m tryin’ but Ah jus’ can’t. Ah gotta face it, Ah jus’ can’t.”
Prowl felt his alarm increase a few notches. This was not typical Jazz behavior. He could, and frequently did, do anything he set his mind to. No matter how intimate the relationship, admitting to anyone that he was unable to do something was not a good sign. He took a step closer, and allowed himself to be drawn into a smoky, sticky, overheated embrace. The door slid shut behind him.
Jazz sighed.
“Ah wanted teh make yah a special gift fer tomorrow, but Ah jus’ can’t make energon treats. Ah tried real hard but…”
Touched, Prowl pressed a kiss against the frowning lips he loved so dearly. The owner stilled then reciprocated with easy acceptance. Tenderly, the two held each other in the wrecked office, swaying a little because Jazz had blown a balance fuse at some point. After a minute or two, Prowl pressed his forehelm to Jazz’s. The smile he loved was back, albeit a bit dimmer than usual. He nuzzled it.
“Love, I am so pleased by everything you do for me every day. You don’t have to do these things for me, but you do.” He laid his head on his lover’s shoulder, hiding his optics from the suddenly much more interested gaze. Vocal expressions of love were…not his thing. “I can…hardly tell you how much I feel for you, how grateful I am and-” A black pair of hands captured his face, raising it for a series of pecks.
“Babe, yah know Ah only want th’ best fer mah sweetspark. Ah wish Ah had some sweet treats teh give yah, but Ah guess Ah’ll have teh make it up in other ways.”
Prowl stared at the saboteur as his engine gave a suggestive rumble, then hummed back with a sly grin. Jazz swallowed, clutching him a bit tighter.
“Yes, we should return quickly. This time I have a treat for you, Jazz…”
The End.