Entry for PxJ Comm Anniversary Challenge
This was written for the Annversary Challenge over on the prowlxjazz community. Enjoy!
Racing Toward The Dawn
Author: Thalanee
Day 6
Challenge: Racing Toward The Dawn/ Chartreuse
Verse: Castle-Verse
Word Count: 2700 words
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: crack, just utter crack as usual, and a little innuendo
Disclaimer: Neither Transformers nor Castle belong to me… I so wish they did!
Summary: Once again Jazz puts Prowl’s patience to the test and gains the expected results.
Author’s Notes: I don’t know where this came from. Originally I was going to write something else entirely and then this appeared on the paper instead. Prowl may be a little OOC in this.
XXXXX
This was why he was a writer, he thought as he watched the tears gather in his audience’s optics (even though Prowl was trying to hide them valiantly). But he didn’t let himself get distracted and kept on reading the last scene of his novel to the black and white enforcer sitting across from him.
Jazz reading had attracted quite the audience. Both Barricade and Bumblebee had stopped working on their reports and now sat, listening with rapt attention, while pretending to catch up on every enforcers’ bane of existence: the never ending stacks of paperwork. Even the officers seated in the vicinity had long ago stopped pretending to do anything but listen to the tale Jazz was unfolding. With every breem that passed more and more of the enforcers drifted over to see what the spot of quiet, missing the typical noises of bots chattering, meant and stayed.
Even the chief had not so surreptitiously opened the door to his office to be able to listen in.
He really should do this more often, if this was going to be the reward every time, since he rather liked having all of Prowl’s attention solely focused on him. Yes, Jazz, crime writer extraordinaire was an attention hog like that (though he would have died three times over before admitting that to Prowl himself, the black and white gave him as good as he got when it came to verbal sparring).
Still the silver mech reveled in the fact that he had managed to entice the doorwinger away from his never- diminishing mountain of paperwork.
Initially when he had offered Prowl a couple of deca-cycles ago to read to him from the final Meister-novel, not yet available in the bookshops, he thought Prowl might refuse. To his surprise however, Prowl had agreed. Watching the doorwinger try to keep his obvious excitement in check had been a balm for the writer’s spark, especially when Prowl’s doorwings honest- to- Primus fluttered! So during every lunch-break for the past two decacycles he had read out the book from start to almost finish, now.
Prowl had tried to hide it, but even he had shed a few tears when Meister had died of his fatal injury in the arms of his love. Jazz almost felt like patting himself on the back for a job well done, but he was also a little disappointed that it was nearly over already.
He had really loved having Prowl’s undivided attention. Some traitorous parts of his processor were already working on ways to keep it that way, while he recited the last sentences of his novel with as much emotion as he could muster.
“… `Good,’ she thought, as she remembered the light fading in his optics, the hint of a smile on his tired face. Now he would finally have peace, a peace he would never have found on Cybertron. Even so, she could feel the tears running down her own face, as she walked away slowly, letting the wind gather her tears and lift them toward the sunrise.”
Closing the book file, he hid a smile while pretending to ignore the silent sniffles in the room or bots rubbing their optics. Of course they only had something stuck in there, tough mechs like enforcers wouldn’t cry because of a story, no they wouldn’t. So it didn’t really come as a surprise when Prowl regarded him with a raised optic ridge and just the hint of a smile on his face, his infamous composure back in place quickly.
“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl murmured, his voice still full of emotions for someone who knew how to listen to the melody of the doorwinger’s voice.
“Don’t mention it,” Jazz quipped, “seriously, ma publisher would kill me.”
“Your publisher already wants to kill you, Jazz,” Prowl replied drily. “Just out of curiosity, how does wind `gather up tears and lift them toward the sunrise´?” he asked, imitating and exaggerating Jazz’s performance.
The author kept from grinning, instead sniffing in mock annoyance he knew Prowl would see through at once. There was nothing he could keep from the enforcer. “Ya’re takin’ it too literally. Ya have no sense for literary genius, mech.”
“That must be why I read your novels,” Prowl retorted at once, both falling back into their usual routine of verbal sparring without a second thought.
“Ouch, mech, I’m wounded right here,” Jazz gasped, gripping his spark plating. Never let it be said he was above playing the drama queen- card when it suited him. His antics earned him a snort.
“No, you’re not.”
Jazz put on a glower of dissatisfaction (he didn’t pout, absolutely not). “Ya never let me have any fun.”
“If I intended not to let you have any fun, I would plant you at a desk and have you to sift through old case files for your research.” He laughed outright at the horrified look on Jazz’s face.
“Ya wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Prowl leaned closer, lowering his voice to give it a husky quality. Later he would most likely hate himself for what he was about to do, but now he couldn’t help himself. “May I remind you,” he purred, “that it was you who said you’d be happy to let me punish you?”
Jazz nearly dropped from his perch on Prowl’s desk, sputtering when Prowl smiled at him slyly. Damn his imagination for the pictures the enforcer had just invoked. He had to distract himself now, before his engine started revving!
“Oh, by the way, I got something here I thought ya might want ta see.” Thank Primus he had been carrying this around with him for some time now, Jazz thought.
Prowl only watched as the silver racer model almost jumped up and down like a giddy sparkling, he could barely contain his excitement as he retrieved something from his subspace and held it up triumphantly, striking a pose that was supposed to be victorious. Prowl blinked as he caught sight of the object in question, looked closer, then rebooted his optics in an attempt to see what exactly it was, but it was no use. He simply couldn’t get past the fact that it was vividly, almost blindingly, incredibly chartreuse in colour.
The Praxian wasn’t sure which end of the spectrum this colour belonged to. It was neither the more greenish shade he could associate with the first crystals re-growing when they had to be culled, nor the more yellow shade he had seen on Ratchet once after a prank by the twins, and they had managed to find one that could almost have been called atomic chartreuse, if some such colour existed.
But whoever had designed this object had managed to obtain an even more virulent shade than that. Prowl could have sworn that continued exposure would induce damage to his optical sensors…
When the black and white just continued to stare, Jazz sidled closer and held it up so close to Prowl’s face the enforcer couldn’t see anything else. “It’s the cover to my newest novel! Ya like?”
Stepping back until he could see something besides the book file cover he was greeted by the brilliantly glowing azure visor and equally brilliant smile of the writer. Jazz was looking at him expectantly, almost bouncing on his peds. Prowl opened his mouth to say something anything, but the first thing that came out was: “…It’s chartreuse.”
Somehow Jazz managed to convey the impression that he was rolling his optics. “Surely that’s not all ya have ta say? Come on, Prowler.”
“Do not call me Prowler,” the enforcer countered automatically. Due to the fact that Jazz never listened the response had become a reflex. “You know very well that my name is Prowl.”
Jazz was still holding the cover up for everyone to see. Deadly silence reigned in the room. The enforcers close enough to see the details kept a hard grip on their vocalizers, while sending image captures to those not near enough to admire the cover in its entirety…
Meanwhile Prowl wondered why it was so quiet. Casting a look around the room, he saw his colleagues watching him as if waiting for something. And why was everyone squirming like that? Sure, the colour was excruciatingly bright to the point of being ridiculous, but it was not that horrible. Then, belatedly, some other details registered. Like the figure of a mech on the covering of the book-file, holding a blaster in his hands. The figure was painted mostly in shades of black and grey, as if the mech was completely in the shadows, but minor details were still recognizable…
Oh, Jazz hadn’t… “Is that bot on the cover unarmoured?!”
Visor blinking, Jazz turned the file to look at the cover, then looked back up at Prowl with an innocent expression Prowl couldn’t quite buy. He had seen it too often already. “He’s not unarmoured, he’s wearing a gun,” Jazz finally pointed out so reasonably that Prowl had to beat down the urge to strangle the writer. The silver bot looked inordinately pleased with himself, Prowl could tell by the glint in the other’s visor.
Suddenly someone burst out laughing and soon, as if that single laugh was the signal everyone else had been waiting for, the rest of the precinct followed until everyone was giggling, laughing, snickering, guffawing, chortling or otherwise expressing their mirth, the audience at last having lost their self control.
When Prowl glowered at them, they all looked away, cracked up even more or beamed at him with expressions of unholy glee, as if they all knew something he didn’t. Despite his valiant efforts he could feel his doorwings rising into a sharp v-position. Swiftly rounding on Jazz, the black and white gathered the last bits of his patience that had survived constant attempts of eradication courtesy of a certain famous author. “You cannot be serious.”
“Why, ya don’t like the way Heatwave looks on the cover?” Jazz retorted. Behind him, Smokescreen, their resident psychiatrist, collapsed shrieking so hard he didn’t seem to be able to take in any air and was promptly dragged away by a well meaning soul so he could recover (and everyone else still listen, Prowl’s more cynical side piped up).
One of Prowl’s golden optics twitched in annoyance, and his doorwings inched up higher ever so slowly despite his iron control. There was even more snickering and muffled giggling in the background now. Holding on to the smile he had plastered to his face he asked, “Heatwave?”
Jazz grin grew even wider if that was possible. He knew he should stop soon, but messing with Prowl was so much fun. It tickled him that he could break through that strong hold the other had on his emotions and expression like no one else. And the doorwinger’s reactions were so rewarding… the silver mech loved the way Prowl’s wings would flare and twitch exactly like they did now, how his optics would be that bit brighter… if Prowl knew that Jazz found him adorable when he flipped like that, he would offline him. “That’s the name of the character I based on ya, remember?”
“Heatwave?!” Prowl repeated incredulously, before doing a very good impression of looming over the writer menacingly, despite being slightly smaller. “What kind of name is that?”
Not that that seemed to have any impact on the silver mech. “Sounds cool, doesn’t it?”
“Cool?” The Praxian could feel the last vestiges of control slipping away into nothingness. Did Jazz have no shame at all? Alright, the answer to that question was pretty obvious. But still, there were some boundaries. “It’s the name a pleasurebot might use as an alias, not a name for an enforcer,” he ground out from between clenched denta, yet still speaking clearly. It was a skill he had had to perfect ever since Jazz had made it his mission to get him to `lighten up´ as the silver mech called it.
Suspicious snorts of laughter erupted behind him once again, but when the black and white turned to look, Barricade gazed back at him with a fake innocent expression, grinning when Prowl narrowed his optics at him.
“I like it, it sounds hot,” he paused, “beg your pardon for the bad pun, I couldn’t resist.” The mischievous glint in his visor was unmistakable.
“Change the name, Jazz,” he demanded.
“Sorry, no can do.” Jazz shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly
“Change the name!” Advancing on the writer, Prowl was pleased to note that he seemed at least a little nervous now. He even backed up a few steps raising his hands in a gesture meant to placate.
“I already sent the manuscript to my publisher, it’s almost into print…” Slag, but Prowl was cute when he was angry. And that growl in his voice did wonderful things to Jazz’s audios and engine.
“Change the name.”
“Can’t do that, but maybe we could change the colouring of the background.” He shouldn’t say it, he knew he should keep quiet, but when had he ever been able to resist coaxing these wonderful reactions from the usually reserved enforcer. From the first time he had been hooked. Just a little bit more… “Make it red, like your chevrons… that would fit the name of the character better than the chartreuse actually.”
“Change the name.”
“Aw, it’ll grow on ya, Prowler, I promise, besides it fits him perfectly. Cop bot by day, and by night…” He waggled his optic ridges suggestively.
“Jazz…”
“Prowler…”
“Run. Fast.”
“Eep.”
XXXXX
Bluestreak skipped along on his way to the precinct where his brother was still at work to meet up, as was their habit. The grey youngling was looking forward to it, maybe even more than usual, because he knew Jazz would also be there. Clutching his school bag to his chest plates he sped up a little, eager to get to his destination.
Giggling to himself he remembered the last time he had seen the two together. Did they realize that they argued as if they had been bonded for a long time? Probably not… The youngling had often wondered if he should just tell them, so they could bond finally, but in the end he had decided it would be better if they realized it themselves. Never mind that it was fun to watch them.
Jazz was good for his older brother, managing to bring out the more playful side of his nature as easily as breathing. At first Bluestreak had been a little jealous, however he had soon grown to like Jazz and on some occasions they had even teamed up against his older brother. In fact, Jazz was part of the family already in all but name. All one of them would have to do was mech up and propose to the other, his honorary uncles at the precinct had bets going if it would be Prowl or Jazz who’d cave first, which in all honesty was a tough bet, since the two were the most stubborn mechs in the history of Cybertron.
…Maybe he should give the two a push, after all?
As he contemplated what to do, the grey youngling registered the sound of sirens drawing nearer. A very familiar siren, to be precise. Before Bluestreak could get too worried about the danger his brother might be in, he saw the cause of the noise: a silver racer model whizzed by, calling out, “Hi Blue! See ya later, Blue!” accelerating as soon as he was past. Jazz was followed by a black and white racer, enforcer style, yelling for Jazz to stop and pull over.
Confused, Bluestreak watched them drive away, listening to Jazz’s peals of laughter and Prowl’s orders. Shaking his head and laughing to himself, he continued on his way toward the precinct, secure in the knowledge that someone would tell him just why Prowl was chasing Jazz through the city this time.
The End
Author’s Notes II: I just couldn’t think of a good name for that novel… and I probably stretched the prompt a little. So what do you think?
Racing Toward The Dawn
Author: Thalanee
Day 6
Challenge: Racing Toward The Dawn/ Chartreuse
Verse: Castle-Verse
Word Count: 2700 words
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: crack, just utter crack as usual, and a little innuendo
Disclaimer: Neither Transformers nor Castle belong to me… I so wish they did!
Summary: Once again Jazz puts Prowl’s patience to the test and gains the expected results.
Author’s Notes: I don’t know where this came from. Originally I was going to write something else entirely and then this appeared on the paper instead. Prowl may be a little OOC in this.
XXXXX
This was why he was a writer, he thought as he watched the tears gather in his audience’s optics (even though Prowl was trying to hide them valiantly). But he didn’t let himself get distracted and kept on reading the last scene of his novel to the black and white enforcer sitting across from him.
Jazz reading had attracted quite the audience. Both Barricade and Bumblebee had stopped working on their reports and now sat, listening with rapt attention, while pretending to catch up on every enforcers’ bane of existence: the never ending stacks of paperwork. Even the officers seated in the vicinity had long ago stopped pretending to do anything but listen to the tale Jazz was unfolding. With every breem that passed more and more of the enforcers drifted over to see what the spot of quiet, missing the typical noises of bots chattering, meant and stayed.
Even the chief had not so surreptitiously opened the door to his office to be able to listen in.
He really should do this more often, if this was going to be the reward every time, since he rather liked having all of Prowl’s attention solely focused on him. Yes, Jazz, crime writer extraordinaire was an attention hog like that (though he would have died three times over before admitting that to Prowl himself, the black and white gave him as good as he got when it came to verbal sparring).
Still the silver mech reveled in the fact that he had managed to entice the doorwinger away from his never- diminishing mountain of paperwork.
Initially when he had offered Prowl a couple of deca-cycles ago to read to him from the final Meister-novel, not yet available in the bookshops, he thought Prowl might refuse. To his surprise however, Prowl had agreed. Watching the doorwinger try to keep his obvious excitement in check had been a balm for the writer’s spark, especially when Prowl’s doorwings honest- to- Primus fluttered! So during every lunch-break for the past two decacycles he had read out the book from start to almost finish, now.
Prowl had tried to hide it, but even he had shed a few tears when Meister had died of his fatal injury in the arms of his love. Jazz almost felt like patting himself on the back for a job well done, but he was also a little disappointed that it was nearly over already.
He had really loved having Prowl’s undivided attention. Some traitorous parts of his processor were already working on ways to keep it that way, while he recited the last sentences of his novel with as much emotion as he could muster.
“… `Good,’ she thought, as she remembered the light fading in his optics, the hint of a smile on his tired face. Now he would finally have peace, a peace he would never have found on Cybertron. Even so, she could feel the tears running down her own face, as she walked away slowly, letting the wind gather her tears and lift them toward the sunrise.”
Closing the book file, he hid a smile while pretending to ignore the silent sniffles in the room or bots rubbing their optics. Of course they only had something stuck in there, tough mechs like enforcers wouldn’t cry because of a story, no they wouldn’t. So it didn’t really come as a surprise when Prowl regarded him with a raised optic ridge and just the hint of a smile on his face, his infamous composure back in place quickly.
“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl murmured, his voice still full of emotions for someone who knew how to listen to the melody of the doorwinger’s voice.
“Don’t mention it,” Jazz quipped, “seriously, ma publisher would kill me.”
“Your publisher already wants to kill you, Jazz,” Prowl replied drily. “Just out of curiosity, how does wind `gather up tears and lift them toward the sunrise´?” he asked, imitating and exaggerating Jazz’s performance.
The author kept from grinning, instead sniffing in mock annoyance he knew Prowl would see through at once. There was nothing he could keep from the enforcer. “Ya’re takin’ it too literally. Ya have no sense for literary genius, mech.”
“That must be why I read your novels,” Prowl retorted at once, both falling back into their usual routine of verbal sparring without a second thought.
“Ouch, mech, I’m wounded right here,” Jazz gasped, gripping his spark plating. Never let it be said he was above playing the drama queen- card when it suited him. His antics earned him a snort.
“No, you’re not.”
Jazz put on a glower of dissatisfaction (he didn’t pout, absolutely not). “Ya never let me have any fun.”
“If I intended not to let you have any fun, I would plant you at a desk and have you to sift through old case files for your research.” He laughed outright at the horrified look on Jazz’s face.
“Ya wouldn’t.”
“I would.” Prowl leaned closer, lowering his voice to give it a husky quality. Later he would most likely hate himself for what he was about to do, but now he couldn’t help himself. “May I remind you,” he purred, “that it was you who said you’d be happy to let me punish you?”
Jazz nearly dropped from his perch on Prowl’s desk, sputtering when Prowl smiled at him slyly. Damn his imagination for the pictures the enforcer had just invoked. He had to distract himself now, before his engine started revving!
“Oh, by the way, I got something here I thought ya might want ta see.” Thank Primus he had been carrying this around with him for some time now, Jazz thought.
Prowl only watched as the silver racer model almost jumped up and down like a giddy sparkling, he could barely contain his excitement as he retrieved something from his subspace and held it up triumphantly, striking a pose that was supposed to be victorious. Prowl blinked as he caught sight of the object in question, looked closer, then rebooted his optics in an attempt to see what exactly it was, but it was no use. He simply couldn’t get past the fact that it was vividly, almost blindingly, incredibly chartreuse in colour.
The Praxian wasn’t sure which end of the spectrum this colour belonged to. It was neither the more greenish shade he could associate with the first crystals re-growing when they had to be culled, nor the more yellow shade he had seen on Ratchet once after a prank by the twins, and they had managed to find one that could almost have been called atomic chartreuse, if some such colour existed.
But whoever had designed this object had managed to obtain an even more virulent shade than that. Prowl could have sworn that continued exposure would induce damage to his optical sensors…
When the black and white just continued to stare, Jazz sidled closer and held it up so close to Prowl’s face the enforcer couldn’t see anything else. “It’s the cover to my newest novel! Ya like?”
Stepping back until he could see something besides the book file cover he was greeted by the brilliantly glowing azure visor and equally brilliant smile of the writer. Jazz was looking at him expectantly, almost bouncing on his peds. Prowl opened his mouth to say something anything, but the first thing that came out was: “…It’s chartreuse.”
Somehow Jazz managed to convey the impression that he was rolling his optics. “Surely that’s not all ya have ta say? Come on, Prowler.”
“Do not call me Prowler,” the enforcer countered automatically. Due to the fact that Jazz never listened the response had become a reflex. “You know very well that my name is Prowl.”
Jazz was still holding the cover up for everyone to see. Deadly silence reigned in the room. The enforcers close enough to see the details kept a hard grip on their vocalizers, while sending image captures to those not near enough to admire the cover in its entirety…
Meanwhile Prowl wondered why it was so quiet. Casting a look around the room, he saw his colleagues watching him as if waiting for something. And why was everyone squirming like that? Sure, the colour was excruciatingly bright to the point of being ridiculous, but it was not that horrible. Then, belatedly, some other details registered. Like the figure of a mech on the covering of the book-file, holding a blaster in his hands. The figure was painted mostly in shades of black and grey, as if the mech was completely in the shadows, but minor details were still recognizable…
Oh, Jazz hadn’t… “Is that bot on the cover unarmoured?!”
Visor blinking, Jazz turned the file to look at the cover, then looked back up at Prowl with an innocent expression Prowl couldn’t quite buy. He had seen it too often already. “He’s not unarmoured, he’s wearing a gun,” Jazz finally pointed out so reasonably that Prowl had to beat down the urge to strangle the writer. The silver bot looked inordinately pleased with himself, Prowl could tell by the glint in the other’s visor.
Suddenly someone burst out laughing and soon, as if that single laugh was the signal everyone else had been waiting for, the rest of the precinct followed until everyone was giggling, laughing, snickering, guffawing, chortling or otherwise expressing their mirth, the audience at last having lost their self control.
When Prowl glowered at them, they all looked away, cracked up even more or beamed at him with expressions of unholy glee, as if they all knew something he didn’t. Despite his valiant efforts he could feel his doorwings rising into a sharp v-position. Swiftly rounding on Jazz, the black and white gathered the last bits of his patience that had survived constant attempts of eradication courtesy of a certain famous author. “You cannot be serious.”
“Why, ya don’t like the way Heatwave looks on the cover?” Jazz retorted. Behind him, Smokescreen, their resident psychiatrist, collapsed shrieking so hard he didn’t seem to be able to take in any air and was promptly dragged away by a well meaning soul so he could recover (and everyone else still listen, Prowl’s more cynical side piped up).
One of Prowl’s golden optics twitched in annoyance, and his doorwings inched up higher ever so slowly despite his iron control. There was even more snickering and muffled giggling in the background now. Holding on to the smile he had plastered to his face he asked, “Heatwave?”
Jazz grin grew even wider if that was possible. He knew he should stop soon, but messing with Prowl was so much fun. It tickled him that he could break through that strong hold the other had on his emotions and expression like no one else. And the doorwinger’s reactions were so rewarding… the silver mech loved the way Prowl’s wings would flare and twitch exactly like they did now, how his optics would be that bit brighter… if Prowl knew that Jazz found him adorable when he flipped like that, he would offline him. “That’s the name of the character I based on ya, remember?”
“Heatwave?!” Prowl repeated incredulously, before doing a very good impression of looming over the writer menacingly, despite being slightly smaller. “What kind of name is that?”
Not that that seemed to have any impact on the silver mech. “Sounds cool, doesn’t it?”
“Cool?” The Praxian could feel the last vestiges of control slipping away into nothingness. Did Jazz have no shame at all? Alright, the answer to that question was pretty obvious. But still, there were some boundaries. “It’s the name a pleasurebot might use as an alias, not a name for an enforcer,” he ground out from between clenched denta, yet still speaking clearly. It was a skill he had had to perfect ever since Jazz had made it his mission to get him to `lighten up´ as the silver mech called it.
Suspicious snorts of laughter erupted behind him once again, but when the black and white turned to look, Barricade gazed back at him with a fake innocent expression, grinning when Prowl narrowed his optics at him.
“I like it, it sounds hot,” he paused, “beg your pardon for the bad pun, I couldn’t resist.” The mischievous glint in his visor was unmistakable.
“Change the name, Jazz,” he demanded.
“Sorry, no can do.” Jazz shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly
“Change the name!” Advancing on the writer, Prowl was pleased to note that he seemed at least a little nervous now. He even backed up a few steps raising his hands in a gesture meant to placate.
“I already sent the manuscript to my publisher, it’s almost into print…” Slag, but Prowl was cute when he was angry. And that growl in his voice did wonderful things to Jazz’s audios and engine.
“Change the name.”
“Can’t do that, but maybe we could change the colouring of the background.” He shouldn’t say it, he knew he should keep quiet, but when had he ever been able to resist coaxing these wonderful reactions from the usually reserved enforcer. From the first time he had been hooked. Just a little bit more… “Make it red, like your chevrons… that would fit the name of the character better than the chartreuse actually.”
“Change the name.”
“Aw, it’ll grow on ya, Prowler, I promise, besides it fits him perfectly. Cop bot by day, and by night…” He waggled his optic ridges suggestively.
“Jazz…”
“Prowler…”
“Run. Fast.”
“Eep.”
XXXXX
Bluestreak skipped along on his way to the precinct where his brother was still at work to meet up, as was their habit. The grey youngling was looking forward to it, maybe even more than usual, because he knew Jazz would also be there. Clutching his school bag to his chest plates he sped up a little, eager to get to his destination.
Giggling to himself he remembered the last time he had seen the two together. Did they realize that they argued as if they had been bonded for a long time? Probably not… The youngling had often wondered if he should just tell them, so they could bond finally, but in the end he had decided it would be better if they realized it themselves. Never mind that it was fun to watch them.
Jazz was good for his older brother, managing to bring out the more playful side of his nature as easily as breathing. At first Bluestreak had been a little jealous, however he had soon grown to like Jazz and on some occasions they had even teamed up against his older brother. In fact, Jazz was part of the family already in all but name. All one of them would have to do was mech up and propose to the other, his honorary uncles at the precinct had bets going if it would be Prowl or Jazz who’d cave first, which in all honesty was a tough bet, since the two were the most stubborn mechs in the history of Cybertron.
…Maybe he should give the two a push, after all?
As he contemplated what to do, the grey youngling registered the sound of sirens drawing nearer. A very familiar siren, to be precise. Before Bluestreak could get too worried about the danger his brother might be in, he saw the cause of the noise: a silver racer model whizzed by, calling out, “Hi Blue! See ya later, Blue!” accelerating as soon as he was past. Jazz was followed by a black and white racer, enforcer style, yelling for Jazz to stop and pull over.
Confused, Bluestreak watched them drive away, listening to Jazz’s peals of laughter and Prowl’s orders. Shaking his head and laughing to himself, he continued on his way toward the precinct, secure in the knowledge that someone would tell him just why Prowl was chasing Jazz through the city this time.
The End
Author’s Notes II: I just couldn’t think of a good name for that novel… and I probably stretched the prompt a little. So what do you think?