Blood Ties - Nomenclature (Part 2 of 2)
Continued from Part I
“The child is perfectly fine,” Ratchet said. “Barely even bruised. Now sit.”
Jazz obediently hefted himself onto the medical berth and allowed Ratchet to prod a cut on his upper arm where Slipstream had caught him with a sickle claw. Prowl scooped up Stormy and settled on the opposite berth.
“She hasn’t transformed,” he said.
Ratchet grunted. “She’s fine,” he said without looking up. He was focused on cleaning the wound, muttering about talons and dirty streets. “She’s had a scare,” he said after a moment. “She’ll change back when she’s calmed down.”
She had that false calm again, like the first day he’d brought her home. She hadn’t even fussed when Ratchet took her away from Prowl and examined her tender nose. When she was back in the shelter of Prowl’s lap she curled up and stared at nothing with dull eyes. He stroked her back, where the dark fur was beginning to turn tawny and the spots were becoming more prominent, but that barely garnered a response. He kept petting her anyway.
“Ow, watch it!” yelped Jazz.
“Stitches require needles, you know,” said Ratchet.
“Thought they also required local anesthetic.”
“That depends upon the cooperation of the patient,” said Ratchet. He continued pulling the catgut through the gash in spite of said patient’s complaints. “The topical will take effect any minute now,” he added.
Jazz flinched again. “And ya couldn’t’ve, I dunno, waited a bit?”
“I’d like to go home some time before sunrise, and I’m sure you would as well.”
The anesthetic had apparently started to work, because Jazz stopped twitching and was reduced to a few quiet grumbles. “Sadist,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
When Jazz’s injury was taken care of, Ratchet moved on to dabbing antiseptic and cooling gel on Prowl’s scratches and scrapes. The medic treated him with his usual rough around the edges care and Prowl tolerated it with his usual aplomb until Ratchet went after a scratch with a little too much enthusiasm and Prowl flinched, jostling Stormy out of her apathetic stupor. She glared at Ratchet and growled. Jazz promptly collapsed in laughter and Prowl smiled. Even Ratchet chuckled.
“I’m not hurting your daddy, bitlet,” he said.
“Uncle,” Prowl corrected reflexively, earning himself an eye roll from Jazz and a mocking look from Ratchet.
“Uncle, huh?”
“Technically, I am her cousin,” said Prowl. “Jazz felt that ‘uncle’ would be a less confusing term.”
“Mm-hmm,” said Ratchet. “Thought you’d adopted her.”
“I did.”
“But that doesn’t make you her dad?”
“No.”
“Don’t bother,” Jazz cut in. “I’ve tried. He’s convinced he’s right and everyone else is an irrational fool.”
“Hm,” was all Ratchet said and he went back to work under Stormy’s watchful eye. He didn’t say another word until he was cleaning up, but Prowl could practically feel him radiating disproval.
“Now, I’m going to give you a few tablets for the pain,” he said to Jazz, “but they’ll knock you out, so don’t take them until you get back to wherever you’re going.”
“Yessir.”
“And keep an eye on him, just in case,” Ratchet said to Prowl.
“Yessir.”
Jazz looked affronted. “I think I can take care of myself.”
“And I think you’d do better to be taken care of for a few hours,” said Ratchet. “You two practically live in each other’s pockets anyway. May as well get some good out of it.”
Jazz huffed but didn’t complain. Prowl wasn’t sure if he should feel smug or embarrassed.
Later, when Jazz was lulled by the rocking of the train car and dozing against his shoulder, he decided he could feel smug about it. They trusted each other implicitly. They had been best friends practically from the moment they met and Prowl really shouldn’t be surprised that everyone knew it.
It was strange, he thought, idly stroking Stormy’s back again. They were both from very family-oriented cultures, thrown together in the unfamiliar territory of the Academy. They had met in that awkward mostly-but-not-quite adult stage in their lives when they were both longing and fearing to strike out on their own. Despite their obvious differences - in some regards they were polar opposites and they would be the first to admit it - they had meshed remarkably well and thus their unlikely friendship was born.
It was tested almost as soon as it was formed. Prowl’s parents and younger brother had died suddenly. Only chance and distance had spared him from the disease that claimed his immediate family and many others from within his clan. In his grief, he flung himself into his schoolwork and ignored the tentative relationships he’d begun to form with his peers.
Only Jazz had refused to give up on him. He had brought water and energon when Prowl was too sick to eat and too proud to go to a medic. He had tolerated fits of temper that would have shocked the other students, who thought Prowl to be emotionless. He had, though cajoling and threatening, gotten Prowl to at least rest even when he couldn’t sleep. He had stood by him through the darkest time in Prowl’s life without a word of complaint.
One night when both were exhausted but neither could sleep and were lying on their berths staring at the ceiling, Prowl had asked him why.
“’Cause you’re my friend, Prowler,” Jazz had said as if that were explanation enough. And maybe it was.
The train squealed to a halt, shaking Prowl from his musings. He jostled Jazz awake.
“Come on,” he said, pulling him to his feet. “We’re home.”
ooo
Prowl awoke to singing and laughter.
“Oh, the buffalo have got a beef about this season's grass; warthogs have been thwarted in attempts to save their gas.”
Prowl groaned and buried his head under the pillow. Only Jazz would teach the cub a song comprised entirely of bad puns. The lighting in his room seemed . . . off somehow, lending an air of surrealism to the already baffling song. In hopes of deterring them, he got up and wandered into the living room.
“Hey, baby girl,” said Prowl when Stormy pounced on him. “Are you feeling better?”
She grinned at him. “Soo-moose intra-pee-dus etverda,” she said.
Prowl chuckled. “That’s my brave girl.”
“I thought the object was to not encourage babytalk,” said Jazz.
“It’s our family motto.”
“So, what, you’re teaching her everything you know?”
“Pretty much,” Prowl said smugly.
“You’re a regular lingual protégé, aren’t you?” he said and tickled Stormy’s nose.
She transformed and chased after Prowl when he headed for the kitchen. Dogging his heels was one of her favorite games. One of these days, he was going to find a park or somewhere they could run and see what she thought about trying to catch him in his beast form.
Jazz levered himself to his feet. “Coffee?”
“Beggar.”
“Hey, I fixed the food.”
“Point. How is your arm?”
“Terrible, just terrible. Couldn’t possibly make my own coffee.”
“And yet you managed breakfast just fine.”
“It was a necessary sacrifice. The bottomless pit was hungry.”
“You could have woken me up.”
“Morbid curiosity. I’ve never seen ya sleep late. Wondered how long you’d go at it. Besides, you needed it.”
Prowl was shocked to realize that it was after ten in the morning. No wonder the light seemed strange.
“We’re supposed to be -”
“Family emergency. I already talked to Smokescreen,” Jazz cut him off smoothly.
“We can’t keep using that excuse.”
“It was his idea, actually. Besides, it’s true, ain’t it? And he said to tell you that Slipstream has been released into your matriarch’s custody and the family meeting is tonight at nineteen-hundred.”
Prowl nodded. “Can you watch Stormy tonight?”
Jazz frowned. “Don’t you need to take her with you?”
Prowl shook his head firmly. “No. The farther she stays from Slipstream, the better. Besides, I would represent her anyway. She is too young to stand as the wronged.”
“Alright,” Jazz said, though he still seemed dubious. “If you’re sure.”
“I am. If Matriarch - if she changes her mind, then I want . . . I’ll have the chance to -” The fear he hadn’t even dared to acknowledge clawed up his throat and choked him.
“What’s this, then?” said Jazz, stepping closer.
Prowl screwed his eyes shut and forced himself to speak. “If Matriarch changes her mind and gives Stormhunter to someone more suitable, I want the chance to tell her goodbye properly - not just hand her off to some stranger.”
“Why in the Pit would she do that?” Jazz sounded genuinely confused.
“Slipstream neglected her, so she gave her to me. I neglected her, so . . .” he trailed off miserably.
He spooked and his eyes flew open when Jazz’s hands clamped down on his shoulders. “Shut up,” he said in a voice that had gone as deep and harsh as a growl. Prowl stared at him in surprise. “Don’ even think that,” Jazz continued. “You’re one o’ the best parents I ever met, an’ that includes my own. Nobody could ever say that you don’t care for that girl. An’ if anybody ever tries I’ll straighten ’em out. You’re hers, heart and soul. And she’s yours. Don’t you ever think otherwise.” His grip was almost painfully tight.
“Alright,” Prowl said softly.
Just like that, all the fight went out of Jazz. His hands went limp and he slumped forward, leaning his forehead against Prowl’s. “You’re such a perfectionist,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
“But I -”
“- Did everything you possibly could to protect that cub. You were prepared in every way you could possibly be - I should know; I helped you. But sometimes bad things just happen.”
Prowl knew for a fact that he had an intimidating stare - “nicest blue I ever saw, but about as expressive as a rock,” someone had once told him - but he was of the opinion that Jazz’s was at least as bad. They were exactly the same in either form, pale yellowish-green framed by the dark of his skin or fur and always full of secrets and mischief. He got the full effect of them from half a breath away and could only swallow and nod mutely.
Stormy reared up and scratched at his leg with a whine. He blinked and shook himself and was aware of Jazz doing the same while he knelt and picked her up. She transformed and clutched the collar of his shirt.
“We stay?” she said.
“Yes,” he told her. “We’re staying home today.”
“Good. Happy,” she murmured, curling against him. “Unc’ Prowl and Misser Jazz and Stormy stay?” She seemed to make a particular effort to get it all right, as if afraid he would abandon her if she said something wrong. The very thought made him hug her tighter.
Jazz rolled his eyes at the “Mister Jazz” part, but he smiled and ruffled Stormy’s curls. “You’re stuck with both of us for a while, miss priss,” he said.
ooo
Matriarch was old, very old. So old that her crest had faded to cream and dull yellow instead of the usual mottled brown. Her hands and feet looked like brittle twigs protruding from the folds of her robe. She had outlived her sisters, her daughters, and her sisters’ daughters. Her granddaughters were the oldest of her retinue, and some had their own great-great-granddaughters at their sides. Prowl’s mother would have been among them, had she lived. Her cousin Slipstream had probably lost her chance to sit among them.
Slipstream was off to Prowl’s right, kneeling on the carpet before the semicircle of elders. Her mate was beside her. Prowl was alone.
“My daughter Slipstream, my son Prowl, you are to be judged before the council as has been bid us by the justicekeepers of Praxus. Who is wronged?” said the mouthpiece of the council.
They knew full well who had been wronged but Prowl answered the ritualistic question. “Stormhunter, daughter of Tempest, is the wronged.”
“And why is Stormhunter absent?”
“She is not of age and unfit to stand.”
“Who are you, to speak for her?”
“I am Prowl, son of Windturn. Stormhunter is my ward. I stand in her place.”
“Does any of the council object?”
Prowl held his breath. There was silence.
“Very well,” said the mouthpiece. “Prowl, son of Windturn, shall stand as the wronged in place of his - in place of Stormhunter.
From there, the council turned its scrutiny to Slipstream. He was relieved to be out from under their collective gaze and just a little pleased to see Stream squirm. She couldn’t deny that she had taken Stormy. She couldn’t even really give a good reason for doing it. Prowl was seething inside but he was also curious. What had led her to believe that kidnapping an enforcer’s cub from the enforcers’ headquarters would be a good idea?
“Tempest was my only sister,” she said, her crest flicking up and down. “I loved her and I want to care for her fledgling. It is my right.”
“You did care for her fledgling. Matriarch deemed you unfit and Stormhunter was given into Prowl’s care per her orders. You forsook your right.”
Slipstream’s crest flared. “But I -”
“You had no right,” Matriarch herself spoke in a thin, harsh voice. The room went very still. “You neglected the cub while she was in your care and in doing so you relinquished your right to keep her. That was my decision and it was unquestioned.”
“But Prowl -”
“Prowl is none of your concern. If you wished to contest my decision, you should have spoken to me.”
Stream’s crest flattened and she stared at the carpet. “Yes, Matriarch. Please forgive me.”
“Hm. Consider yourself fortunate that you are able to ask my forgiveness. Prowl, how would the justicekeepers punish her?”
“If this matter were outside the clan,” he said slowly, “if she were judged as a stranger . . . . A kidnapper would be stripped of her charms and bound in the service of the city for several years.”
Slipstream made a noise in her throat and her mate paled. Matriarch “hmm”ed thoughtfully.
“What of her own children, Prowl?” said Matriarch.
“Her children, Matriarch?”
“What of her rights to her children?”
“They would remain in the care of her mate - so long as he was not associated with her crime,” Prowl said, frowning. “I believe they would be able to visit her.”
Slipstream had gone even paler than her mate. “Matriarch - please - please, my fledglings -”
“Be silent,” snapped Matriarch. “And be grateful that no one has contested your care of your own children.” She was quiet for a long moment. “I have come to a decision,” she finally said. “Mind that it is mine, daughter. If you wish to contest it, address me - not Prowl.”
Slipstream nodded shakily.
“The city would bind you in service for years as penance. This seems fair to me and I would keep you under my eye. Therefore, you shall be bound as a servant in my household for eight turns of season. For that time, you are clanless and nameless. You shall eat and sleep among the hired servants, but they are your masters. You shall not look upon their faces nor shall you speak to them. You shall perform your tasks diligently and in silence. If you rebel in any way, I will know of it and you will be further punished. If you prove to be hardworking and humble, I shall allow you the privilege of visiting with your children. When your eight seasons are served, the council will meet again to decide if you have earned your freedom. Is the council just?”
With every word, Slipstream shuddered and curled her body tighter and tighter as if to shield herself from physical blows. When Matriarch finished speaking she was stock-still for a minute before bowing from the waist to touch her forehead to the floor. “The council is just, Matriarch,” she said in a trembling voice.
Prowl copied her. “The council is just.”
The mouthpiece took over once more. “Very well,” she said. “My daughter Slipstream, you will surrender your collar now. My son Prowl,” she was smiling ever-so-slightly, “you should return to your daughter.”
He bowed again. “My regards to the council,” he said.
He stood when Slipstream did and watched as she shakily unbuckled her collar and laid it in Matriarch’s lap. When she knelt again to receive her orders, Prowl turned and left. The council was just. She would receive her punishment in full measure without any input from him.
He left the meeting room, wound his way through the dark corridors to the massive front doors of Matriarch’s home. He passed under the lintel with ‘Sumus intrepidus et vera’ in elaborate glyphs surrounded by carved feathers and swords. He stood for a moment to breathe in the damp night air and then turned toward home.
ooo
Jazz was awake, of course. Prowl could see the sheen of his eyes as soon as he walked through the door.
“There’s a perfectly good bed in the other room, you know,” he murmured, sitting down beside the couch.
Jazz flapped a hand to shush him. “She finally fell asleep,” he whispered. “I didn’t wanna move.”
Stormy was draped over Jazz like a panther over a log, sound asleep. But her face was blotchy and streaked with tears.
“She weren’t real happy about you leavin’ her,” said Jazz softly.
He winced. “I should have known. I’m sorry, Jazz. Why didn’t you call me if she was so much trouble?”
“’Cause you needed to get this done. Besides, I’m still her second-favorite,” he said with a lop-sided grin. “I think.”
“She adores you and you know it,” Prowl murmured, leaning against the couch and half shutting his eyes. “Are you going home tonight?”
“Maybe. Whatever you want.”
Prowl made a noncommittal noise in his throat. He would rather Jazz stayed, be he hesitated to ask it. He was also tempted to wake Stormy up, tell her he was back and reassure her that he would never truly leave her. For Jazz’s sake, he stifled the urge.
He was spared the trouble when Stormy stirred and opened her eyes on her own.
“Papa?” she muttered thickly.
“I’m here, Stormy,” he said, earning himself a look from Jazz.
She squirmed around to reach for him but he rubbed her back without picking her up, hoping she’d go back to sleep. She said something unintelligible and her eyes fell closed again. Within moments she was asleep again.
“I was thinking about something on the way home,” Prowl said slowly. In truth, he had been thinking about a lot of things for a while now.
“Oh, dear.” Jazz slid off the couch to sit beside Prowl on the floor and transferred Stormy’s limp form to his lap.
“The council called her my daughter.” He decided he may as well start with that one.
“Okay?”
“Explicitly. It wasn’t ‘daughter of the clan’ or ‘symbolically my daughter’ but literally, ‘flesh and blood offspring.’” Prowl could feel his feathers ruffling.
“. . . okay?” Jazz remained unimpressed.
“It’s different in avian. There are nuances . . .”
“They haven’t done that before?”
Prowl shook his head. “I was always ‘guardian’ before. Second cousin once removed on her mother’s side,” he said with a little smirk.
“So what changed their minds?”
“I do not know.”
“Well,” Jazz said brightly, still apparently unfazed by Prowl’s inexplicable shift in status. “Guess that just goes to show that little miss was ahead of her time.”
“I suppose so,” Prowl said fondly.
“So does that mean that you’re gonna let her win and call ya ‘papa’? Not like you haven’t earned it.”
“Yes,” Prowl said, stroking her back with fingers that only trembled a little. “I think I will.”
“Thank Primus. I’m tired of you two bickering all the time. It makes for a very stressful home life.”
“Be nice.” Prowl reached up and flicked his ear. “Before I change my mind about having her call you ‘uncle.’”
Jazz’s look of pure shock was worth every hour of planning and reasoning and agonizing he had spent on the train ride home. “But I - but you - but we . . .”
Prowl bit his lip to keep from grinning like a fool and shrugged casually instead. “If I, being only barely related to her, can be her father, then you, being closer to me than any of my true relatives, can be her uncle.”
“Is that how you see me, then? Like a brother to you?” There were a thousand questions in those two short ones.
“No,” Prowl said quickly. Too quickly, for he saw the flicker of betrayal and sadness in Jazz’s eyes before it was hidden. “You are different - more than a brother to me.” Primus, where was his usual eloquence? He leaned forward and clasped his hand around Jazz’s uninjured shoulder. “You are important to me, Jazz,” he said, praying that Jazz, who knew him so well, could see the truth in his eyes. “You are - you are one of the most important people in my life.” He stroked Stormy’s back again. “I’m not sure if I could choose between the two of you,” he admitted softly.
Jazz looked stricken. “I couldn’t - I would never ask that.”
“I know, I know,” Prowl assured him. “And that’s partly the reason why. Earlier, when I didn’t tell you about Stream taking Stormy, it was because I didn’t want you to feel . . . obligated somehow.” Jazz opened his mouth to protest, but Prowl held up a hand. “I know it was stupid of me. I know you would do anything for her - for us - and never begrudge it. I know I can trust you with . . . with everything.”
Jazz chuckled and pressed his forehead against Prowl’s they way he had that morning. Prowl tried to categorize the emotions in his eyes, but they were shifting to fast - relief, pride, joy, fear, humility, contentment. “Of course we have to go about it backwards and sideways. Couldn’t do things the right way around.”
“I believe you would call that the boring route,” said Prowl.
“True enough.”
They sat quietly in the dark, leaning on each other and breathing the same air. Prowl felt more comfortable here in a small apartment with Stormy and Jazz than he ever had among his relatives in the opulence of Matriarch’s home. These two people, who had begun their lives as strangers to each other and to him, were his true family.
“Stay with me?” he murmured.
“Always, Prowler. Always.”
ooo
A/N: Jazz’s punny song is “The Morning Report” from The Lion King.
Beast forms are as follows: Arcee is apronghorn; Red Alert is a black-tailed jackrabbit; Smokescreen is an Utahraptor (though not related to Prowl). Hound is a bluetick coonhound; Creosote is a javelina (and named for the creosote bush); Westerly is anosprey; Drumbolt and Mercury are both primitive-type horses similar to a Przewalski’s horse. Ratchet is aKodiak bear.
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