Blood Ties - Courtship (Part 1 of 3)
Disclaimer: Transformers is the property of Hasbro et al.
Title: Blood Ties - Courtship
Rating: K+
Word Count: ~10,000 (total)
Warnings: Alternate Universe; Transformers as organic animal shapeshifters; kid!fic (no mpreg) with said kid being an OC; mentions of emotional trauma; slash no longer subtext
Timeframe/Setting: G1 pre-war AU. So very, very AU. Set in a world of human/animal shapeshifters where magic and technology live side by side.
Summary: Jazz is plotting but ends up in trouble and Prowl is in a snit.
A/N: Well, I was expecting short and fluffy but ended up with longish and plotty. Also, I now have awesome fanart by bumblebee84, it's here on deviantART, but be careful - it’s so cute it might make your teeth rot.
“Smokey, my man! Just who I was hopin’ to see!”
Smokescreen wheeled around, crest flaring and one hand drifting to his hip. Sneaking up on people could be a deadly game when one’s victims were armed enforcers. Fortunately, Smokey wasn’t the particularly twitchy sort. Jazz smiled in a mostly friendly fashion. Smokescreen settled a bit, smoothing his crest and stepping back into the doorway of his office.
“Jazz. Why exactly were you hoping to see me?” Smokescreen did not sound enthusiastic and Jazz grinned appeasingly.
“Well, I could use some advice . . .”
One brow arched.
“About Prowl.”
Smokescreen sighed. “You certainly know more about him than I do.”
“Him personally, yeah. His culture, not so much.”
Jazz noticed the spark of interest in Smokey’s eye before he extinguished it. “What about his culture?” the tactician asked slowly.
Fidgeting hands shoved in his pockets, Jazz said, “The - ah - courtship aspects of it.”
“Indeed.” Without the barest flicker of emotion, Smokescreen studied Jazz in silence for nearly half a minute. Then he abruptly turned around. The door swished open automatically and he strode back into his office, beckoning Jazz as he did so. He took a seat at his desk, gestured Jazz to one of the chairs opposite it, folded his hands under his chin and stared at Jazz without blinking. “You intend to court him, I presume?” he said after a long moment.
“Yes,” said Jazz, sounding much calmer than he felt.
“Interesting.” On that unhelpful note, he fell silent again.
“So, can ya help me out a little here?” Jazz asked finally.
“Perhaps.” It looked like the beginning of yet another long silence, but Smokescreen leaned back in his chair and said, “Have you courted anyone before?”
Jazz snorted. “Uh, yeah.”
“Someone you were truly serious about?”
Jazz made a vague gesture with his shoulders. “Not like this,” he said finally.
“And never a raptor?”
“No.”
“I see.”
Jazz looked at him skeptically.
“Raptor culture is very different from what you are familiar with,” Smokey said with the air of a professor giving a lecture. “I can understand that you’d be intimidated, especially by a clan as large and powerful as Prowl’s.”
“Got it in one,” Jazz said drily.
“Alright, then. What do you know about raptor courtship?”
“Besides askin’ permission and givin’ gifts, not much.”
Smokey nodded to himself. “Given the very little I know about Prowl’s interactions with his family, I think it best that you speak with him before going to his Matriarch for permission.”
Jazz nodded. He’d hinted at the idea with Prowl, only for it to be swiftly and vehemently shot down. Matriarch was fond enough of Prowl to overlook certain aspects of his life. It wouldn’t do anyone any favors to force her to directly address those issues.
“Very well. What about the gift-giving?”
“Well, I said I could bring him some shiny stuff and he walloped me with a book and said the he wasn’t a hen,” Jazz mumbled.
“Hardcover or paperback?”
“What?”
“The book. Hardcover or paperback?”
“Oh, uh . . . paper.”
“Hm. Guess he really likes you.”
“Look,” Jazz said seriously. “I just . . . I want to do right by him.”
Smokescreen raised an eyebrow.
“He’s so traditional,” continued Jazz, squirming a little.
“Traditional?” Smokey echoed slowly. He folded his hands on his desk. “You do realize that Prowl is part of a strictly matriarchal culture with a disdain for outsiders. As of now, he is not only seeking a relationship with another male, he is seeking a relationship with a species that his culture would find unsuitable. Not to mention the fact that he is also raising his child - his daughter - without a mate or much in the way of female influence. Prowl couldn’t defy any more raptor traditions if he tried.”
“Nothin’ wrong with any of that!” Jazz snapped automatically.
Smokey made a placating gesture with a smile. “No, there isn’t. Well, you and I think there isn’t. My grandmother would flay me alive if she ever heard me voicing that particular sentiment. And Prowl’s clan is likely worse.”
Jazz settled down with a muttered apology. “Your secret’s safe with me, then.”
“What I’m trying to say, Jazz, is that culture and tradition may not be as important to Prowl as you think they are,” said Smokescreen gently.
“Oh, I know,” Jazz said slowly, piecing together his thoughts. “And I understand what you’re sayin’ about him bein’ defiant, I really do. But sometimes, little things he does, habits, stuff he don’t even realize he’s doin’ - it affects him. More than he thinks it does. And if that’s the way he was raised - the way he expects things to be, I just . . . . I just don’t want to disappoint him.”
Smokescreen studied him in silence for a while longer. “I think I understand,” he said finally. “Alright, I’ll tell you this. Traditionally, males are the active courters. They focus on asking permission from the female’s family and giving her - and them - gifts. Things to convince them that he’ll be a good mate. It’s fairly straightforward. Prowl is, obviously, not a female. So, if you want to court him, you’re also going to have to let him court you.”
“But -”
Smokescreen held up a hand. “I don’t mean sit around and expect him do everything,” he continued. “Spend time with him; give him gifts. Do what comes naturally. You’re his best friend. You know what he likes. Rely more on that knowledge than on trying to do what you think you are supposed to do and he’ll thank you for it.”
ooo
Spending time together was fine. They could do that. It seemed a little too easy, Jazz thought, but it was familiar and comfortable so he went with it.
Since they lived together now (again), they spent most of their off time together. Back at the academy, they’d had one room with two berths, two desks, and two tiny closets. Their house in Praxus was a little more spacious, with enough bedrooms for everyone. Prowl and Stormy had the two on one end of the house, giving Jazz some privacy at the other end. It kept the music at tolerable levels, though Jazz still spent half his nights with Prowl anyway. The homey little kitchen and living room in the middle seemed to be everyone’s favorite part. They had all taken an immediate liking to the place, even Stormy, who had been skeptical about moving. Jazz found himself thinking of it as “home,” a fondness he’d never felt for his various apartments.
His courtship plans went on the back burner for a week or so while he was on a case. So many days and nights in the gladiatorial rings made his longing for his home and his pack an almost physical ache. He was dirty, miserable, and exhausted by the time he walked in the door. Stormy tackled him, wiggling all over and chattering exuberantly. Prowl looked up from his book and smiled in the way made even his eyes look warm and happy.
Jazz peeled the cub off of his legs long enough to get a bath and a late dinner. He spent far too long deciding whether or not it was too early to go to bed before he transformed and curled up on the couch. He had long ago learned that Prowl fidgeted when he read and the raptor couldn’t ignore a coyote pelt under his hands. Jazz oh-so-casually propped his head on Prowl’s knee. He then heaved a contented sigh when Prowl obligingly rubbed circles on his scalp and massaged the roots of his ears.
“Shameless,” Prowl murmured and rearranged his long legs so Jazz had more room.
Jazz snorted and stretched himself nearly the full length of the couch with his head pressed against Prowl’s belly.
Prowl ran his fingers through his dark ruff, combing and smoothing the stiff fur. Stormy hopped up and snuggled against his flank. Jazz decided he wasn’t going to bed any time soon. He was content there with his pack.
An indeterminate amount of time later, Jazz awoke half wild with nameless fear. Every beat of his heart seemed to make his body shudder. He was smothering beneath a crushing weight, but his limbs were too weak to fight free. He kicked and twisted his head this way and that. Something was hissing in his ear. No, not hissing - whispering and humming in a low voice. He recognized Prowl even though he didn’t understand the words and went limp.
No longer blinded by panic, Jazz took stock of his surroundings. He was on the living room floor with Prowl kneeling straddle of him, one hand holding his scruff and the other clamped so tightly around his muzzle that it cut off his air and made his teeth grind together. Prowl loosened his grip by degrees and sat back on his heels when the coyote stopped fighting him. Jazz lay gasping and trembling while Prowl continued to murmur soothing nonsense. When he forced his eyes to focus, he found himself staring straight at Stormy.
The room was full of long shadows, though Jazz couldn’t begin to guess whether the day was starting or ending. Stormy crouched under an end table in beast form, her body arched as if to turn away from him and watch him at the same time. He could see the flickering blue-green sheen of her eyes as she glanced at him and then away, back to him and away again. It was a fearful expression that should never have appeared on such a bold and rambunctious cub.
Fresh guilt was nearly as overwhelming as his previous fear. He slithered out from under Prowl, ears flat and tail tucked, but he had barely taken two steps before Prowl caught him. He hauled him back against his chest and kissed him between the ears. Jazz made a pathetic noise that was supposed to be a growl but came out more as a grumbly sort of whine. Prowl shifted his grip so he could smooth ruffled fur with one hand. It was pleasant, of course, but Jazz didn’t deserve to be soothed at the moment. He tried to squirm away but Prowl held him in his lap with an arm around his waist, his side against Prowls front, head tucked under his chin.
Jazz gave up and transformed in an awkward jumble of limbs. His clothes were all twisted around him and his skin was clammy with sweat. He tried again to pull away. Prowl calmly adjusted again and carded his fingers through Jazz’s hair. Jazz gave up. He fought to keep himself from being comforted by the father of the child he’d just attacked. But he instinctively trusted Prowl. He couldn’t help but be soothed by the familiar hands and voice.
“Stormhunter, come here, please,” said Prowl, still in that soft, gentle tone.
Stormy didn’t move except to turn and look at him.
“You aren’t in trouble,” said Prowl. “No one is angry with you. Come here.”
Stormy continued to stare.
“You are safe, Stormy; I promise you.”
After a long pause she crept out on her belly. She watched Jazz with huge, sad eyes and skirted around him to approach Prowl’s side, where Jazz couldn’t reach her. Jazz closed his eyes when Prowl removed the hand that had been stroking his back. He felt Prowl moving as he examined the cub.
“You’re fine,” Prowl said reassuringly. “Now go see Jazz so he can apologize.”
She slunk in a wide half-circle to sit in front of him, still out of reach. There was a short, shallow scratch on her cheek. Prowl was right - she had received worse injuries while roughhousing with Streetwise. But she had never been purposefully struck in all her life. The worst of her punishments from Prowl had amounted to a gentle nip or swat that didn’t leave a mark. The cut was already scabbed over, but a thin trickle of blood had stained her fur like a tear track.
An inch higher and he could have damaged her eye. Any lower would have been dangerously near her soft throat. If he had fully bitten down on her head or neck, he might very well have killed her.
“I’m sorry, Stormy,” he said thickly, watching her feet instead of her face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
It was a long moment before she got up and padded to his side. Her whiskers tickled his fingers as she snuffled them, but he forced himself to keep still. She examined both hands thoroughly and propped herself up on his chest to sniff of his face. Then she clambered up in his lap and made herself comfortable.
“You forgive too easily,” Jazz murmured, stroking the top of her head with his fingertips.
Perhaps she had planned to do it all along, or perhaps he had startled or annoyed her by petting her, but the words were no sooner out of his mouth than she had bitten down on his hand between his thumb and forefinger.
“Stormy!” said Prowl, sounding almost amusingly shocked.
Stormy shook her head back and forth the way Jazz would do to snap a squirrel’s neck. She wasn’t strong enough to break any bones, but her small, sharp teeth ripped jagged holes in his skin. Then, apparently satisfied, she let go and curled up with a soft huff.
“I deserved that,” Jazz said quickly.
“Nevertheless,” said Prowl, “it’s not your place to decide, missy!” He flicked Stormy’s ear.
“I lunged at her,” said Jazz. “I hurt her.”
“You didn’t do it on purpose,” said Prowl. “She did. Are we going to have to have a family discussion on the appropriate use of one’s teeth?”
Jazz actually snickered. “Maybe so, Papa.”
He gathered Stormy up to his chest. As usual, she transformed into human form and wrapped herself around him. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat.
They stayed pressed together for a long while - until Stormy looked up and asked if they were ever going to eat supper.
The meal was a silent, awkward affair. Jazz pushed his leftovers around on his plate without eating much. Stormy bolted her food since neither of the adults bothered to scold her. She cleaned her plate in five minutes and climbed up in Prowl’s lap even though she was getting too old to beg. To his credit, Prowl was eating slowly and methodically, though perhaps a bit more methodically than usual. He took two bites of meat, then two bites of greens, then a piece of roll, then back to the meat again until he was finished. It was oddly hypnotizing.
The clatter of Jazz’s fork against his plate startled all of them. He hastily put it down and hoped no one had noticed his hands shaking. Stormy dutifully gathered up the dishes and stacked them by the sink before Prowl released her. Washing and drying them was a boring task, usually made interesting by the fact that Prowl and Jazz shared it. On this night, it was only more difficult. Neither could wait to escape the kitchen when they were done.
Stormy was playing with her toys in her room. Wonder of wonders, she actually made them run and talk and eat rather than just gnawing on them as she was wont to do. Both adults checked on her twice before retreating to the living room. Prowl curled up with a book and Jazz sat with his elbows on his knees, turning a wooden flute over and over in his hands.
After half an hour of this, Prowl glanced up. There was something in that particular expression - stern and disappointed and little exasperated - leveled at him over the top of a book that made Jazz expect to find a pair of old fashioned gold framed reading glasses perched on Prowl’s nose. Never mind the fact that he’d always had and likely would always have perfect raptor’s eyes, he had never looked more like a fatherly scholar and some part of Jazz’s mind insisted that the image wasn’t quite complete.
Jazz realized that Prowl had said something and sheepishly asked him to repeat it.
“I asked if something was troubling you, but I believe you have answered my question.”
Jazz made a face and examined the flute so he wouldn’t have to meet that piercing gaze. “How long are you givin’ me to get out?”
Prowl was silent for so long that he risked a glance at him only to find him blinking in confusion. “Get out of where? What are you talking about?”
Jazz slumped back and spread his arms to indicate the house at large. “Out of - out of here. Surely you don’t want me around anymore.”
Prowl’s frown deepened as he processed this. “Jazz,” he said softly, “if I truly believed you were a danger to my child, I would never let you near her. And if you should ever prove me wrong -” His voice rose to drown out Jazz’s protest. “- rest assured that I will deal with the problem. Thoroughly.”
That disappointed scholarly expression had shifted to something that suggested that rolling over and whining for mercy might be the best course of action. Jazz focused of the flute and made a conscious effort to keep his tail from clamping itself between his legs.
“So . . . so, what d’ ya want me to do?” he finally asked.
The book closed with a snap, making Jazz jump, but Prowl’s voice was soft again when he spoke. “I want you to speak with Ratchet,” he said.
Jazz’s head jerked up.
“I fear you’ll do yourself harm, moreso that I fear you harming Stormy,” Prowl continued. “Or me,” he added as an afterthought.
“But what - I mean - Ratchet?”
“Possibly Smokescreen as well. He has extensive training and experience in psychology.”
“So you think I’m crazy,” said Jazz heavily.
“I’ve known you were crazy since the moment I met you,” said Prowl with a little smile.
Jazz bared his teeth in an expression that was most certainly not a smile, then abruptly looked away.
“Oh, for - Jazz, really.”
Jazz spooked when Prowl suddenly appeared in his field of vision by kneeling on the floor at his feet.
“I am worried about you, Jazz,” he said. “The occasional nightmare is one thing. These constantly recurring night terrors are something else. I had thought - I had hoped that they would get better over time, but they seem to have only gotten worse.”
“Well, it ain’t like the pits are something ya get used to. Ever’ time I think I’ve seen it all . . .”He shook his head.
“I know,” said Prowl. “But you can’t expect to do your job - or anything, really - if you are not well rested and calm. And . . . honestly, you frightened me tonight. It hurts me to know that you are so terrified, and I have never seen you so . . . so delirious that you didn’t recognize me or Stormy.”
Jazz flinched. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. You couldn’t help it but you still feel guilty for it.”
He nodded.
“Have you noticed them getting worse?”
Jazz sighed. “Yeah.”
“Have you given any thought to . . . to trying to find something to help?”
“I have tried,” said Jazz. “Half my life I’ve tried. Momma took me to every doctor and hedgewitch she could find when I was a young’un. Never did no good.”
“Anything more recent?”
“What’s the use?”
“Well,” said Prowl in the tone of voice he used when Stormy was being unreasonable, “there have certainly been many medical advances since we were children.”
“If you have any magic cures, let me at ’em,” Jazz snapped.
“I don’t have any magic cures. All I’m saying is that there might be something new that you haven’t tried before. But you’ll have to ask Ratchet or Smokescreen. Preferably both.”
“And have ’em do what? Drug me to the eyeballs?”
Prowl sighed and sat back on his heels. “I would prefer that they didn’t.”
“But you’d make me do it, if that’s what they said?” Some small part of Jazz’s mind warned that he was being argumentative and unfair, but he didn’t feel like listening to it.
Prowl’s eyes flashed. “Primus knows I can’t make you do anything. You should know that well enough.”
“Damn straight.”
“I’m asking. As your friend, I am concerned for your wellbeing,” Prowl said frostily.
“Yeah, well, sometimes you ask too much.”
Prowl sighed so sharply it was almost a hiss. “As you will, then,” he said, flinging his hands dismissively. He stood up in one smooth movement and stalked out of the room.
Jazz slept alone in his own bed that night, curled up in human form with his face to the wall. He knew that he was pouting. He knew that he had been irresponsible, spiteful, and unkind.
He just kept telling himself that he didn’t care.
>>> Part II
Title: Blood Ties - Courtship
Rating: K+
Word Count: ~10,000 (total)
Warnings: Alternate Universe; Transformers as organic animal shapeshifters; kid!fic (no mpreg) with said kid being an OC; mentions of emotional trauma; slash no longer subtext
Timeframe/Setting: G1 pre-war AU. So very, very AU. Set in a world of human/animal shapeshifters where magic and technology live side by side.
Summary: Jazz is plotting but ends up in trouble and Prowl is in a snit.
A/N: Well, I was expecting short and fluffy but ended up with longish and plotty. Also, I now have awesome fanart by bumblebee84, it's here on deviantART, but be careful - it’s so cute it might make your teeth rot.
“Smokey, my man! Just who I was hopin’ to see!”
Smokescreen wheeled around, crest flaring and one hand drifting to his hip. Sneaking up on people could be a deadly game when one’s victims were armed enforcers. Fortunately, Smokey wasn’t the particularly twitchy sort. Jazz smiled in a mostly friendly fashion. Smokescreen settled a bit, smoothing his crest and stepping back into the doorway of his office.
“Jazz. Why exactly were you hoping to see me?” Smokescreen did not sound enthusiastic and Jazz grinned appeasingly.
“Well, I could use some advice . . .”
One brow arched.
“About Prowl.”
Smokescreen sighed. “You certainly know more about him than I do.”
“Him personally, yeah. His culture, not so much.”
Jazz noticed the spark of interest in Smokey’s eye before he extinguished it. “What about his culture?” the tactician asked slowly.
Fidgeting hands shoved in his pockets, Jazz said, “The - ah - courtship aspects of it.”
“Indeed.” Without the barest flicker of emotion, Smokescreen studied Jazz in silence for nearly half a minute. Then he abruptly turned around. The door swished open automatically and he strode back into his office, beckoning Jazz as he did so. He took a seat at his desk, gestured Jazz to one of the chairs opposite it, folded his hands under his chin and stared at Jazz without blinking. “You intend to court him, I presume?” he said after a long moment.
“Yes,” said Jazz, sounding much calmer than he felt.
“Interesting.” On that unhelpful note, he fell silent again.
“So, can ya help me out a little here?” Jazz asked finally.
“Perhaps.” It looked like the beginning of yet another long silence, but Smokescreen leaned back in his chair and said, “Have you courted anyone before?”
Jazz snorted. “Uh, yeah.”
“Someone you were truly serious about?”
Jazz made a vague gesture with his shoulders. “Not like this,” he said finally.
“And never a raptor?”
“No.”
“I see.”
Jazz looked at him skeptically.
“Raptor culture is very different from what you are familiar with,” Smokey said with the air of a professor giving a lecture. “I can understand that you’d be intimidated, especially by a clan as large and powerful as Prowl’s.”
“Got it in one,” Jazz said drily.
“Alright, then. What do you know about raptor courtship?”
“Besides askin’ permission and givin’ gifts, not much.”
Smokey nodded to himself. “Given the very little I know about Prowl’s interactions with his family, I think it best that you speak with him before going to his Matriarch for permission.”
Jazz nodded. He’d hinted at the idea with Prowl, only for it to be swiftly and vehemently shot down. Matriarch was fond enough of Prowl to overlook certain aspects of his life. It wouldn’t do anyone any favors to force her to directly address those issues.
“Very well. What about the gift-giving?”
“Well, I said I could bring him some shiny stuff and he walloped me with a book and said the he wasn’t a hen,” Jazz mumbled.
“Hardcover or paperback?”
“What?”
“The book. Hardcover or paperback?”
“Oh, uh . . . paper.”
“Hm. Guess he really likes you.”
“Look,” Jazz said seriously. “I just . . . I want to do right by him.”
Smokescreen raised an eyebrow.
“He’s so traditional,” continued Jazz, squirming a little.
“Traditional?” Smokey echoed slowly. He folded his hands on his desk. “You do realize that Prowl is part of a strictly matriarchal culture with a disdain for outsiders. As of now, he is not only seeking a relationship with another male, he is seeking a relationship with a species that his culture would find unsuitable. Not to mention the fact that he is also raising his child - his daughter - without a mate or much in the way of female influence. Prowl couldn’t defy any more raptor traditions if he tried.”
“Nothin’ wrong with any of that!” Jazz snapped automatically.
Smokey made a placating gesture with a smile. “No, there isn’t. Well, you and I think there isn’t. My grandmother would flay me alive if she ever heard me voicing that particular sentiment. And Prowl’s clan is likely worse.”
Jazz settled down with a muttered apology. “Your secret’s safe with me, then.”
“What I’m trying to say, Jazz, is that culture and tradition may not be as important to Prowl as you think they are,” said Smokescreen gently.
“Oh, I know,” Jazz said slowly, piecing together his thoughts. “And I understand what you’re sayin’ about him bein’ defiant, I really do. But sometimes, little things he does, habits, stuff he don’t even realize he’s doin’ - it affects him. More than he thinks it does. And if that’s the way he was raised - the way he expects things to be, I just . . . . I just don’t want to disappoint him.”
Smokescreen studied him in silence for a while longer. “I think I understand,” he said finally. “Alright, I’ll tell you this. Traditionally, males are the active courters. They focus on asking permission from the female’s family and giving her - and them - gifts. Things to convince them that he’ll be a good mate. It’s fairly straightforward. Prowl is, obviously, not a female. So, if you want to court him, you’re also going to have to let him court you.”
“But -”
Smokescreen held up a hand. “I don’t mean sit around and expect him do everything,” he continued. “Spend time with him; give him gifts. Do what comes naturally. You’re his best friend. You know what he likes. Rely more on that knowledge than on trying to do what you think you are supposed to do and he’ll thank you for it.”
ooo
Spending time together was fine. They could do that. It seemed a little too easy, Jazz thought, but it was familiar and comfortable so he went with it.
Since they lived together now (again), they spent most of their off time together. Back at the academy, they’d had one room with two berths, two desks, and two tiny closets. Their house in Praxus was a little more spacious, with enough bedrooms for everyone. Prowl and Stormy had the two on one end of the house, giving Jazz some privacy at the other end. It kept the music at tolerable levels, though Jazz still spent half his nights with Prowl anyway. The homey little kitchen and living room in the middle seemed to be everyone’s favorite part. They had all taken an immediate liking to the place, even Stormy, who had been skeptical about moving. Jazz found himself thinking of it as “home,” a fondness he’d never felt for his various apartments.
His courtship plans went on the back burner for a week or so while he was on a case. So many days and nights in the gladiatorial rings made his longing for his home and his pack an almost physical ache. He was dirty, miserable, and exhausted by the time he walked in the door. Stormy tackled him, wiggling all over and chattering exuberantly. Prowl looked up from his book and smiled in the way made even his eyes look warm and happy.
Jazz peeled the cub off of his legs long enough to get a bath and a late dinner. He spent far too long deciding whether or not it was too early to go to bed before he transformed and curled up on the couch. He had long ago learned that Prowl fidgeted when he read and the raptor couldn’t ignore a coyote pelt under his hands. Jazz oh-so-casually propped his head on Prowl’s knee. He then heaved a contented sigh when Prowl obligingly rubbed circles on his scalp and massaged the roots of his ears.
“Shameless,” Prowl murmured and rearranged his long legs so Jazz had more room.
Jazz snorted and stretched himself nearly the full length of the couch with his head pressed against Prowl’s belly.
Prowl ran his fingers through his dark ruff, combing and smoothing the stiff fur. Stormy hopped up and snuggled against his flank. Jazz decided he wasn’t going to bed any time soon. He was content there with his pack.
An indeterminate amount of time later, Jazz awoke half wild with nameless fear. Every beat of his heart seemed to make his body shudder. He was smothering beneath a crushing weight, but his limbs were too weak to fight free. He kicked and twisted his head this way and that. Something was hissing in his ear. No, not hissing - whispering and humming in a low voice. He recognized Prowl even though he didn’t understand the words and went limp.
No longer blinded by panic, Jazz took stock of his surroundings. He was on the living room floor with Prowl kneeling straddle of him, one hand holding his scruff and the other clamped so tightly around his muzzle that it cut off his air and made his teeth grind together. Prowl loosened his grip by degrees and sat back on his heels when the coyote stopped fighting him. Jazz lay gasping and trembling while Prowl continued to murmur soothing nonsense. When he forced his eyes to focus, he found himself staring straight at Stormy.
The room was full of long shadows, though Jazz couldn’t begin to guess whether the day was starting or ending. Stormy crouched under an end table in beast form, her body arched as if to turn away from him and watch him at the same time. He could see the flickering blue-green sheen of her eyes as she glanced at him and then away, back to him and away again. It was a fearful expression that should never have appeared on such a bold and rambunctious cub.
Fresh guilt was nearly as overwhelming as his previous fear. He slithered out from under Prowl, ears flat and tail tucked, but he had barely taken two steps before Prowl caught him. He hauled him back against his chest and kissed him between the ears. Jazz made a pathetic noise that was supposed to be a growl but came out more as a grumbly sort of whine. Prowl shifted his grip so he could smooth ruffled fur with one hand. It was pleasant, of course, but Jazz didn’t deserve to be soothed at the moment. He tried to squirm away but Prowl held him in his lap with an arm around his waist, his side against Prowls front, head tucked under his chin.
Jazz gave up and transformed in an awkward jumble of limbs. His clothes were all twisted around him and his skin was clammy with sweat. He tried again to pull away. Prowl calmly adjusted again and carded his fingers through Jazz’s hair. Jazz gave up. He fought to keep himself from being comforted by the father of the child he’d just attacked. But he instinctively trusted Prowl. He couldn’t help but be soothed by the familiar hands and voice.
“Stormhunter, come here, please,” said Prowl, still in that soft, gentle tone.
Stormy didn’t move except to turn and look at him.
“You aren’t in trouble,” said Prowl. “No one is angry with you. Come here.”
Stormy continued to stare.
“You are safe, Stormy; I promise you.”
After a long pause she crept out on her belly. She watched Jazz with huge, sad eyes and skirted around him to approach Prowl’s side, where Jazz couldn’t reach her. Jazz closed his eyes when Prowl removed the hand that had been stroking his back. He felt Prowl moving as he examined the cub.
“You’re fine,” Prowl said reassuringly. “Now go see Jazz so he can apologize.”
She slunk in a wide half-circle to sit in front of him, still out of reach. There was a short, shallow scratch on her cheek. Prowl was right - she had received worse injuries while roughhousing with Streetwise. But she had never been purposefully struck in all her life. The worst of her punishments from Prowl had amounted to a gentle nip or swat that didn’t leave a mark. The cut was already scabbed over, but a thin trickle of blood had stained her fur like a tear track.
An inch higher and he could have damaged her eye. Any lower would have been dangerously near her soft throat. If he had fully bitten down on her head or neck, he might very well have killed her.
“I’m sorry, Stormy,” he said thickly, watching her feet instead of her face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
It was a long moment before she got up and padded to his side. Her whiskers tickled his fingers as she snuffled them, but he forced himself to keep still. She examined both hands thoroughly and propped herself up on his chest to sniff of his face. Then she clambered up in his lap and made herself comfortable.
“You forgive too easily,” Jazz murmured, stroking the top of her head with his fingertips.
Perhaps she had planned to do it all along, or perhaps he had startled or annoyed her by petting her, but the words were no sooner out of his mouth than she had bitten down on his hand between his thumb and forefinger.
“Stormy!” said Prowl, sounding almost amusingly shocked.
Stormy shook her head back and forth the way Jazz would do to snap a squirrel’s neck. She wasn’t strong enough to break any bones, but her small, sharp teeth ripped jagged holes in his skin. Then, apparently satisfied, she let go and curled up with a soft huff.
“I deserved that,” Jazz said quickly.
“Nevertheless,” said Prowl, “it’s not your place to decide, missy!” He flicked Stormy’s ear.
“I lunged at her,” said Jazz. “I hurt her.”
“You didn’t do it on purpose,” said Prowl. “She did. Are we going to have to have a family discussion on the appropriate use of one’s teeth?”
Jazz actually snickered. “Maybe so, Papa.”
He gathered Stormy up to his chest. As usual, she transformed into human form and wrapped herself around him. He could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat.
They stayed pressed together for a long while - until Stormy looked up and asked if they were ever going to eat supper.
The meal was a silent, awkward affair. Jazz pushed his leftovers around on his plate without eating much. Stormy bolted her food since neither of the adults bothered to scold her. She cleaned her plate in five minutes and climbed up in Prowl’s lap even though she was getting too old to beg. To his credit, Prowl was eating slowly and methodically, though perhaps a bit more methodically than usual. He took two bites of meat, then two bites of greens, then a piece of roll, then back to the meat again until he was finished. It was oddly hypnotizing.
The clatter of Jazz’s fork against his plate startled all of them. He hastily put it down and hoped no one had noticed his hands shaking. Stormy dutifully gathered up the dishes and stacked them by the sink before Prowl released her. Washing and drying them was a boring task, usually made interesting by the fact that Prowl and Jazz shared it. On this night, it was only more difficult. Neither could wait to escape the kitchen when they were done.
Stormy was playing with her toys in her room. Wonder of wonders, she actually made them run and talk and eat rather than just gnawing on them as she was wont to do. Both adults checked on her twice before retreating to the living room. Prowl curled up with a book and Jazz sat with his elbows on his knees, turning a wooden flute over and over in his hands.
After half an hour of this, Prowl glanced up. There was something in that particular expression - stern and disappointed and little exasperated - leveled at him over the top of a book that made Jazz expect to find a pair of old fashioned gold framed reading glasses perched on Prowl’s nose. Never mind the fact that he’d always had and likely would always have perfect raptor’s eyes, he had never looked more like a fatherly scholar and some part of Jazz’s mind insisted that the image wasn’t quite complete.
Jazz realized that Prowl had said something and sheepishly asked him to repeat it.
“I asked if something was troubling you, but I believe you have answered my question.”
Jazz made a face and examined the flute so he wouldn’t have to meet that piercing gaze. “How long are you givin’ me to get out?”
Prowl was silent for so long that he risked a glance at him only to find him blinking in confusion. “Get out of where? What are you talking about?”
Jazz slumped back and spread his arms to indicate the house at large. “Out of - out of here. Surely you don’t want me around anymore.”
Prowl’s frown deepened as he processed this. “Jazz,” he said softly, “if I truly believed you were a danger to my child, I would never let you near her. And if you should ever prove me wrong -” His voice rose to drown out Jazz’s protest. “- rest assured that I will deal with the problem. Thoroughly.”
That disappointed scholarly expression had shifted to something that suggested that rolling over and whining for mercy might be the best course of action. Jazz focused of the flute and made a conscious effort to keep his tail from clamping itself between his legs.
“So . . . so, what d’ ya want me to do?” he finally asked.
The book closed with a snap, making Jazz jump, but Prowl’s voice was soft again when he spoke. “I want you to speak with Ratchet,” he said.
Jazz’s head jerked up.
“I fear you’ll do yourself harm, moreso that I fear you harming Stormy,” Prowl continued. “Or me,” he added as an afterthought.
“But what - I mean - Ratchet?”
“Possibly Smokescreen as well. He has extensive training and experience in psychology.”
“So you think I’m crazy,” said Jazz heavily.
“I’ve known you were crazy since the moment I met you,” said Prowl with a little smile.
Jazz bared his teeth in an expression that was most certainly not a smile, then abruptly looked away.
“Oh, for - Jazz, really.”
Jazz spooked when Prowl suddenly appeared in his field of vision by kneeling on the floor at his feet.
“I am worried about you, Jazz,” he said. “The occasional nightmare is one thing. These constantly recurring night terrors are something else. I had thought - I had hoped that they would get better over time, but they seem to have only gotten worse.”
“Well, it ain’t like the pits are something ya get used to. Ever’ time I think I’ve seen it all . . .”He shook his head.
“I know,” said Prowl. “But you can’t expect to do your job - or anything, really - if you are not well rested and calm. And . . . honestly, you frightened me tonight. It hurts me to know that you are so terrified, and I have never seen you so . . . so delirious that you didn’t recognize me or Stormy.”
Jazz flinched. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. You couldn’t help it but you still feel guilty for it.”
He nodded.
“Have you noticed them getting worse?”
Jazz sighed. “Yeah.”
“Have you given any thought to . . . to trying to find something to help?”
“I have tried,” said Jazz. “Half my life I’ve tried. Momma took me to every doctor and hedgewitch she could find when I was a young’un. Never did no good.”
“Anything more recent?”
“What’s the use?”
“Well,” said Prowl in the tone of voice he used when Stormy was being unreasonable, “there have certainly been many medical advances since we were children.”
“If you have any magic cures, let me at ’em,” Jazz snapped.
“I don’t have any magic cures. All I’m saying is that there might be something new that you haven’t tried before. But you’ll have to ask Ratchet or Smokescreen. Preferably both.”
“And have ’em do what? Drug me to the eyeballs?”
Prowl sighed and sat back on his heels. “I would prefer that they didn’t.”
“But you’d make me do it, if that’s what they said?” Some small part of Jazz’s mind warned that he was being argumentative and unfair, but he didn’t feel like listening to it.
Prowl’s eyes flashed. “Primus knows I can’t make you do anything. You should know that well enough.”
“Damn straight.”
“I’m asking. As your friend, I am concerned for your wellbeing,” Prowl said frostily.
“Yeah, well, sometimes you ask too much.”
Prowl sighed so sharply it was almost a hiss. “As you will, then,” he said, flinging his hands dismissively. He stood up in one smooth movement and stalked out of the room.
Jazz slept alone in his own bed that night, curled up in human form with his face to the wall. He knew that he was pouting. He knew that he had been irresponsible, spiteful, and unkind.
He just kept telling himself that he didn’t care.
>>> Part II