April '10 PxJ challenge - Less than lovers, More than friends
Title: Differences and the Noticing Thereof
'Verse: 2007 Transformers
Characters: Prowl. Jazz.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Notes: For the April '10 Challenge at the PxJ comm.
The traditional etymology of the name 'April' is from the Latin aperire, 'to open', in allusion to it being the season when trees and flowers begin to 'open'.
It was traditional, he believed, to ask when had things become so different once one had an epiphany of this sort.
But if Prowl were to be completely honest, things had been ‘different’ for quite a while, even before the Prime had separated from the main group to search for the All Spark. Nevertheless, the demands of war and the persistent uncertainty they were living with every cycle, not knowing if one would come back from even so simple a task as a patrol run, had prompted him to push those thoughts to the back of his processor. He couldn’t be so selfish, burdening the other with this right before the departure. He had to consider the other mech’s duties. Duties that were more important than an inkling of a feeling.
For a time, the excuse had worked. That strange emotion curled up on itself and hid away, and Prowl fooled himself into thinking it’d died. Then he’d picked up the message calling them to the Prime.
And now he was on an alien planet, surrounded by foreign sights and sounds and smells, chief of which was lying too still and dark and silent on the med bay berth.
A visor lit up and his spark leapt almost painfully. That was different.
A stunned expression that had him smiling back before he realised it. That too was different.
“Prowl?” A hand reaching out to touch his faceplates, his designation whispered when usually it would have been carolled with exuberance, possibly butchered in the manner this particular mech was so exceedingly fond of. Another difference.
He nodded and received a familiar grin, and a feeling of such joy suffused his spark that he lost the ability to note this additional change dispassionately.
Armed with such reinforcements, the difference that he’d convinced himself didn’t exist slammed back through his CPU with a vindictive sort of force (illogical as it was to attribute personality to a thought). It was almost too much to be thus confronted. He tried to say something, anything. Tried to admit to what ran riot through his systems, expanding with each shortening cycle of air, each moment he spent staring into that visor, trembling under the touch of that hand to his plating.
At last and all too soon the mech’s hand withdrew and Prowl could move once more. Standing upright, he managed to sound unshaken.
“I am glad to see you recovered.”
Then he fled.
= = =
His spark was still spinning crazily in his chest. His systems were still in an uproar. His hand still tingled from the warmth of the other mech, proof that he hadn’t been imagining the whole incident.
“Jazz.”
He jerked at the sound of his name, blinking at the medic who approached, too unsettled to protest when scans bombarded his sensor net. His limbs were pulled and pushed about, his middle prodded carefully, the welds holding him together examined with exacting care. Then he was tugged to his pedes and pointed in the direction of the exit with a stern admonishment, one that he ignored in favour of hurrying from the med bay to find somewhere to gather his thoughts.
This… whatever this was had been kept secret for so long, ever since he’d realised the change had occurred. But it had also been too risky to do anything about it. He couldn’t predict what would happen if he did, and he couldn’t lose another of the already too few constants in his life. And the other mech was needed so badly by everyone else that Jazz couldn’t bear to dump another load onto his shoulders. But it nagged at him, wormed about in his CPU like a virus he couldn’t expunge, and every time he saw the other it got harder to keep his mouth shut.
So he’d run, on the pretext of finding the All Spark with the Prime, and for a while it’d worked and he could fool himself into thinking it was just a passing fancy. Then he’d died and come back, waking to find doorwings and a chevron hovering over him, the mere sight of them nearly enough to send him into stasis again from the conflicting feelings of happiness (slag, I’m in the Matrix!) and dread (I’m in the Matrix? Slag) that played merry hell with his CPU.
How could anyone, simply by being in the same room as Jazz, bring him so close to losing all fragging control?
This couldn’t continue. There were no more places to escape to, and he wouldn’t go even if there were. He had to say something, no matter the outcome. Not everyone got a second chance, and Jazz was not about to let his go.
= = =
Their friendship had started slowly. Awkwardly even. The differences between them had seemed daunting when laid out (Prowl was very aware of the betting pool a certain fellow tactician had set up, and the proffered odds, discouraging as they were, did not conflict with the figures provided by his battle computer), and so both officers had been very cautious in their interactions, each wary of offending the other and making their war engulfed existence even that slightest bit more hellish than before.
Then late one cycle, he’d been fatigued enough to drop his guard and make a less than professional comment on… something. Prowl could no longer remember what had frustrated him so, but the sight of the saboteur staring at him like he’d suddenly turned bright yellow was etched into his memory. So too was the laugh that had pealed from the mech who was always on edge around him, silver bright like the bot himself and contagious, because Prowl had ended up laughing too.
After that their stiff formality eased into something a little less stifling, and Prowl found himself going out of his way to make dry comments at the edge of the saboteur’s hearing, particularly when he noticed the other mech looking run down. Embarrassingly enough, he hadn’t noticed Jazz returning the favour by wandering into his office, seemingly at random, with energon or some other distraction until Ratchet commented that Prowl had finally learnt to keep himself maintained like a sensible mech.
He did swallow his pride enough to thank the saboteur, one end cycle when (like clockwork) the visored mech appeared in his office, just as he was weighing the satisfaction he’d gain from throwing the datapad he held at the wall against the amount of hassle he’d have to go through recreating the report it held. Jazz had shrugged, looking away from the tactician with a faint smile, and Prowl knew right there and then that something had changed between them.
= = =
He couldn’t begin to explain why he’d started taking an interest in the other mech’s mental state. Curious bots were easily diverted by a casual grin and a comment about how life was much easier when the tactician was in top form (and he’d cheated by avoiding the question altogether when asked by the mech himself), but the real answer lurked too far past the boundaries of Jazz’s courage for him to grasp it.
All he knew was that he could bask forever in the way the chevroned mech’s optics brightened when they lit on him, and a smile or (Primus willing) a laugh was enough to keep the bounce in his step and the music in his audios, even when everything was going to the Pit on greased tracks.
It was, of all things, a backfired prank that made him admit that something was different. He’d come to the tactician’s office because the mech just had to see the fallout, and had managed by some miracle to cajole the other bot away from his reports and out the door. He’d meant to take the doorwinged mech’s arm to drag him along, too caught up in the moment to hold back, but his grab missed and he ended up with a hand instead.
When the mech showed no sign that the gesture bothered him, Jazz held on, for some reason not wanting to break their connection. Bright optics focused on him and he found himself looking back, laughing as he pulled the tactician along. Later, when the other officer was occupied with getting the perpetrators of that particular bout of mischief to the brig or med bay as needed, Jazz looked at his hand. It didn’t appear any different, naturally, but holding Prowl’s hand had felt so right he half expected it to.
= = =
It was far too early for any of the Autobots not on duty to be awake, which meant that Prowl had about an hour of quiet in the rec room before Jazz found him. The tactician inclined his head towards the silver mech and Jazz nodded back, then shrugged helplessly at the look in the chevroned mech’s optics, one that mirrored his own.
Knowing something had changed was one thing, and knowing that the other knew was another. But they’d had millennia to get accustomed to those facts. It was doing something about that knowledge that had them at a loss.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Doorwings fluttered lightly and Prowl smiled, holding out a hand. The silver mech chuckled, taking it and sighing contentedly as he looked at their entwined digits.
“Then again, we don’t really need to say anything, do we?”
Neither was sure who was more surprised when Jazz leant into Prowl, tucking himself against the tactician like he was meant to be there. The saboteur practically vibrated with uncertainty until an arm slid about him to remove the last micrometer of space still separating them. They sat together for a moment before the tactician spoke.
“What next?”
“Fragged if I know. Never been here before.”
“Neither have I.”
“We’ll figure it out. Got all the time we need.”
“May I suggest we avoid the… resources that Sideswipe will be bound to recommend?”
“Mech, as much as I don't know where to go from here, I'm pretty sure that neither of us is ready for that right now.”
The tactician made an agreeable sort of noise, and raised an optic ridge when Jazz quirked a grin at him.
“In the meantime, I might’ve heard a couple things about a betting pool…”
'Verse: 2007 Transformers
Characters: Prowl. Jazz.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: TF cussing.
Notes: For the April '10 Challenge at the PxJ comm.
The traditional etymology of the name 'April' is from the Latin aperire, 'to open', in allusion to it being the season when trees and flowers begin to 'open'.
It was traditional, he believed, to ask when had things become so different once one had an epiphany of this sort.
But if Prowl were to be completely honest, things had been ‘different’ for quite a while, even before the Prime had separated from the main group to search for the All Spark. Nevertheless, the demands of war and the persistent uncertainty they were living with every cycle, not knowing if one would come back from even so simple a task as a patrol run, had prompted him to push those thoughts to the back of his processor. He couldn’t be so selfish, burdening the other with this right before the departure. He had to consider the other mech’s duties. Duties that were more important than an inkling of a feeling.
For a time, the excuse had worked. That strange emotion curled up on itself and hid away, and Prowl fooled himself into thinking it’d died. Then he’d picked up the message calling them to the Prime.
And now he was on an alien planet, surrounded by foreign sights and sounds and smells, chief of which was lying too still and dark and silent on the med bay berth.
A visor lit up and his spark leapt almost painfully. That was different.
A stunned expression that had him smiling back before he realised it. That too was different.
“Prowl?” A hand reaching out to touch his faceplates, his designation whispered when usually it would have been carolled with exuberance, possibly butchered in the manner this particular mech was so exceedingly fond of. Another difference.
He nodded and received a familiar grin, and a feeling of such joy suffused his spark that he lost the ability to note this additional change dispassionately.
Armed with such reinforcements, the difference that he’d convinced himself didn’t exist slammed back through his CPU with a vindictive sort of force (illogical as it was to attribute personality to a thought). It was almost too much to be thus confronted. He tried to say something, anything. Tried to admit to what ran riot through his systems, expanding with each shortening cycle of air, each moment he spent staring into that visor, trembling under the touch of that hand to his plating.
At last and all too soon the mech’s hand withdrew and Prowl could move once more. Standing upright, he managed to sound unshaken.
“I am glad to see you recovered.”
Then he fled.
= = =
His spark was still spinning crazily in his chest. His systems were still in an uproar. His hand still tingled from the warmth of the other mech, proof that he hadn’t been imagining the whole incident.
“Jazz.”
He jerked at the sound of his name, blinking at the medic who approached, too unsettled to protest when scans bombarded his sensor net. His limbs were pulled and pushed about, his middle prodded carefully, the welds holding him together examined with exacting care. Then he was tugged to his pedes and pointed in the direction of the exit with a stern admonishment, one that he ignored in favour of hurrying from the med bay to find somewhere to gather his thoughts.
This… whatever this was had been kept secret for so long, ever since he’d realised the change had occurred. But it had also been too risky to do anything about it. He couldn’t predict what would happen if he did, and he couldn’t lose another of the already too few constants in his life. And the other mech was needed so badly by everyone else that Jazz couldn’t bear to dump another load onto his shoulders. But it nagged at him, wormed about in his CPU like a virus he couldn’t expunge, and every time he saw the other it got harder to keep his mouth shut.
So he’d run, on the pretext of finding the All Spark with the Prime, and for a while it’d worked and he could fool himself into thinking it was just a passing fancy. Then he’d died and come back, waking to find doorwings and a chevron hovering over him, the mere sight of them nearly enough to send him into stasis again from the conflicting feelings of happiness (slag, I’m in the Matrix!) and dread (I’m in the Matrix? Slag) that played merry hell with his CPU.
How could anyone, simply by being in the same room as Jazz, bring him so close to losing all fragging control?
This couldn’t continue. There were no more places to escape to, and he wouldn’t go even if there were. He had to say something, no matter the outcome. Not everyone got a second chance, and Jazz was not about to let his go.
= = =
Their friendship had started slowly. Awkwardly even. The differences between them had seemed daunting when laid out (Prowl was very aware of the betting pool a certain fellow tactician had set up, and the proffered odds, discouraging as they were, did not conflict with the figures provided by his battle computer), and so both officers had been very cautious in their interactions, each wary of offending the other and making their war engulfed existence even that slightest bit more hellish than before.
Then late one cycle, he’d been fatigued enough to drop his guard and make a less than professional comment on… something. Prowl could no longer remember what had frustrated him so, but the sight of the saboteur staring at him like he’d suddenly turned bright yellow was etched into his memory. So too was the laugh that had pealed from the mech who was always on edge around him, silver bright like the bot himself and contagious, because Prowl had ended up laughing too.
After that their stiff formality eased into something a little less stifling, and Prowl found himself going out of his way to make dry comments at the edge of the saboteur’s hearing, particularly when he noticed the other mech looking run down. Embarrassingly enough, he hadn’t noticed Jazz returning the favour by wandering into his office, seemingly at random, with energon or some other distraction until Ratchet commented that Prowl had finally learnt to keep himself maintained like a sensible mech.
He did swallow his pride enough to thank the saboteur, one end cycle when (like clockwork) the visored mech appeared in his office, just as he was weighing the satisfaction he’d gain from throwing the datapad he held at the wall against the amount of hassle he’d have to go through recreating the report it held. Jazz had shrugged, looking away from the tactician with a faint smile, and Prowl knew right there and then that something had changed between them.
= = =
He couldn’t begin to explain why he’d started taking an interest in the other mech’s mental state. Curious bots were easily diverted by a casual grin and a comment about how life was much easier when the tactician was in top form (and he’d cheated by avoiding the question altogether when asked by the mech himself), but the real answer lurked too far past the boundaries of Jazz’s courage for him to grasp it.
All he knew was that he could bask forever in the way the chevroned mech’s optics brightened when they lit on him, and a smile or (Primus willing) a laugh was enough to keep the bounce in his step and the music in his audios, even when everything was going to the Pit on greased tracks.
It was, of all things, a backfired prank that made him admit that something was different. He’d come to the tactician’s office because the mech just had to see the fallout, and had managed by some miracle to cajole the other bot away from his reports and out the door. He’d meant to take the doorwinged mech’s arm to drag him along, too caught up in the moment to hold back, but his grab missed and he ended up with a hand instead.
When the mech showed no sign that the gesture bothered him, Jazz held on, for some reason not wanting to break their connection. Bright optics focused on him and he found himself looking back, laughing as he pulled the tactician along. Later, when the other officer was occupied with getting the perpetrators of that particular bout of mischief to the brig or med bay as needed, Jazz looked at his hand. It didn’t appear any different, naturally, but holding Prowl’s hand had felt so right he half expected it to.
= = =
It was far too early for any of the Autobots not on duty to be awake, which meant that Prowl had about an hour of quiet in the rec room before Jazz found him. The tactician inclined his head towards the silver mech and Jazz nodded back, then shrugged helplessly at the look in the chevroned mech’s optics, one that mirrored his own.
Knowing something had changed was one thing, and knowing that the other knew was another. But they’d had millennia to get accustomed to those facts. It was doing something about that knowledge that had them at a loss.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Doorwings fluttered lightly and Prowl smiled, holding out a hand. The silver mech chuckled, taking it and sighing contentedly as he looked at their entwined digits.
“Then again, we don’t really need to say anything, do we?”
Neither was sure who was more surprised when Jazz leant into Prowl, tucking himself against the tactician like he was meant to be there. The saboteur practically vibrated with uncertainty until an arm slid about him to remove the last micrometer of space still separating them. They sat together for a moment before the tactician spoke.
“What next?”
“Fragged if I know. Never been here before.”
“Neither have I.”
“We’ll figure it out. Got all the time we need.”
“May I suggest we avoid the… resources that Sideswipe will be bound to recommend?”
“Mech, as much as I don't know where to go from here, I'm pretty sure that neither of us is ready for that right now.”
The tactician made an agreeable sort of noise, and raised an optic ridge when Jazz quirked a grin at him.
“In the meantime, I might’ve heard a couple things about a betting pool…”