Mind the signs
So I said to myself, I’ll do some writing for the fic of the longassedness. Any writing. Any scene in any story arc. Something. In fact, I’ll do some headspace!sorting of Prowl and Jazz. Who are complicated. Very complicated.
Then they looked at me and laughed. Mockingly. Well. Jazz laughed. Prowl just stood back and smirked in that particular stoic way of his that said; “Ha. NO.”
Jazz strutted forward and declared that he was madly ‘in love’ with Prowl. He even did finger quotes. Evidently the two of them have fallen into the crack part of my brain. They really shouldn’t have been playing over there. It has DANGER and KEEP OUT signs everywhere which they’ve obviously ignored.
Disclaimer: Transformers are not mine.
Problematic
Jazz had a problem.
Now this wasn’t unusual. He normally had problems. Problems like, there’s a great big slagging war that I wish was over or, frag, can someone please kill Megatron now or I need this base blown up or, frag, I’ve grossly miscalculated the count-down timer, RUN.
Unfortunately, this problem did not fall into the normal category of Jazz problems. Which sadly meant it would not be solved with explosions. For Jazz, any problem that couldn’t be solved with either his amazing charm or explosions was not a problem worth solving at all.
Jazz’s problem was Prowl shaped and Prowl made and generally Prowl-ish.
Since exploding Prowl was out of the question and his much vaunted charm was wasted on Prowl, he decided to utilise the rare tactic of straight on confrontation.
“I am in love with you,” he announced fifteen astroseconds after contemplating this discovery and its general unexplodiness. "Madly in love with you. Seriously."
Prowl levelled a deadpan look at the saboteur. “Indeed,” he intoned solemnly. “How convenient it is that I suddenly happen to feel the same way.”
“Really?” Jazz wondered. It seemed highly unlikely. Prowl didn’t like mechs, full stop. End of story. Such is the way of Prowl-frigidom and stoicdom and emotional-repressiondom.
“NO,” the tactician gave an unamused snort. He tolerated Jazz’s existence at best. It was just there were these strange micro-moments that sometimes struck him and suddenly Jazz was the sexiest thing alive to him. It was irritating.
Extremely irritating.
“Well that’s a relief,” Jazz replied. He stretched backwards on the berth and relaxed. After a breem, there was a shift inside him and suddenly things felt normal again. “Ah, there. It’s gone again. I’m not in love with you anymore!” the realisation cheered him up immensely.
“Good,” Prowl flicked a finger towards his door. “Now get out of my room and you won’t be end up court martialled for breaking and entering. And molesting a fellow Autobot in his recharge.”
Unfortunately due to the fact he often fell victim to the same odd compulsions as Jazz, the threat had little weight. It was something they had simply had to adjust to during this long war. Insanity had many forms and Prowl had theorized that this was simply one of them.
“Fine, fine,” Jazz sighed and gathered himself up. “Do you ever think that there’s a reason why we do this?”
Prowl devoted all his attention to answering this question. It took him an astrosecond. “No Jazz,” he answered honestly. “There isn’t one.”
Infatuated
He was staring. Again.
Prowl heaved a sigh and followed Jazz’s line of sight to his doorwings. Why yes, the saboteur was definitely looking at them. And probably thinking devious thoughts about them. Very devious thoughts. Exceptionally devious thoughts.
The mech was a spy. Being devious was his definition.
The tactician frowned to himself as he absently tried to decide whether it was worth putting a fight. They were his after all. But the matter of his possession of his possessions was outweighed by the sheer level of deviousness Jazz possessed.
With a reluctant sigh he approached the mech.
Jazz wasn’t expecting Prowl to dump his doorwings on the table next to him. Sure, he’d been devising ways to sweet-talk the mech into letting him borrow them but even he couldn’t have guessed Prowl would beat him to the punch. Prowl’s doorwings were exquisite and he’d been dying to get his hands on them.
“Here,” Prowl said with extreme irritation. “Have them. Do whatever you want with them. I expect them back next orn.”
The tactician stomped off in anger.
Jazz looked down at the doorwings and smiled. “You guys and I are going to have fun.”
The two components in front of him shivered. In fear.
The next orn found one Autobot Jazz extremely irritated, frustrated and other general states of unhappiness and sexually tense as he marched up to one Autobot Prowl, doorwings trailing meekly behind him.
“They didn’t respond to anything,” he growled, pointing an accusing finger at the guilty party. “Pain, pleasure, nothing!”
Prowl did not say, well duh, because that would be beneath him and the species that would invent such a phrase would not be around for a few more million years. Instead he allowed the mini mechs back onto their rightful place on his back.
“Of course they wouldn’t,” Prowl sighed. “They are military models, what else did you expect?”
One very frustrated cry answered his question.
END
This last one was inspired by a chat with taunicon. We were talking about Borealis I think and she mentioned wanting to see Prowl/wings or something, which probably meant she wanted to see Prowl with actual wings. My headspace took it completely a different way. Because fandom loves to wax poetic about Prowl’s doorwings, my headspace decided they might as well be their own entity. And sensitive!doorwings doesn't make a lot of sense to me because of how vulnerable they are.
Hopefully now that Prowl and Jazz have had their fun being silly, they'll start talking plot. Hopefully.