Challenge Fic: Echoes (part 3 of 3)
Title: Echoes
Author: zea_taylor
‘Verse: G1, sequel to ‘Fall’
Rating: T/PG-13
Characters: Jazz/Prowl, Bluestreak
Warnings: angst, fluff
Part One: Remembering Times Past
Part Two: Secrets
Part Three
Prompt: music
There was nothing ‘natural’ on Earth that felt less than alien to the Cybertronian children of Primus. Of everything Prowl had seen though, this came closest to being familiar.
It had started out as a bubble of volcanic gases, rising through molten rock. The traces of those gases lingered in the near-perfect spherical cavity they’d left behind. Water had infiltrated over eons, and tiny seed crystals in the silicate-rich solution had grown into shafts almost as tall as a minibot. As they did, they’d absorbed traces of sulphur and magnesium, of iron and this world’s all-pervasive oxygen. Prowl’s door-wing sensors could identify and classify each element and the vivid compounds they formed. His optics revelled in the iron-tinted amethysts and golden citrines, the magnesium-rich garnets and hints of aluminium oxide sapphires nestled amongst the crystal-clear quartz.
When he’d first seen it, the wonder had been mingled with just a tinge of disappointment. On Cybertron, crystals had grown in proud spires, warmed from below by the spark of Primus. Here the energy source was far more mundane - literally ‘down-to-earth’. A geode like this, with jagged crystals under-pede and others brushing Prowl’s extended door-wings, simply couldn’t form outside of the pressures of subduction and construction, continental drift and volcanism. There had never been anything quite like this on their home-world.
As they had been for Bluestreak though, the parallels were close enough to trigger long-suppressed memories.
The vast outcrops of the Praxian Crystal Gardens overlaid the geode in his processor. Only Crystal City itself had ever rivalled them, and there the growth had been constrained, managed and regulated. The Gardens of Praxus had grown wild. Outcrops had tussled for space, forcing paths to meander around them and sometimes even to pass through arches of pure refracted light, formed by the crystals meeting high overhead.
He remembered being surrounded by crystalline beauty, led into the heart of one of the largest outcrops as he learnt to coax it into ringing music. He remembered his first encounter with Bluestreak too, could almost feel the tiny mechling’s servos in his own, gliding across the smooth surfaces.
And he remembered the sound of shattering, the thunder of the bombardment and the scream of living crystals smashed to dust.
Small wonder, then, that this place triggered echoes of his protégé’s infant trauma… and small wonder that Prowl was determined to overcome that barrier and return to Bluestreak the traditional skill that should have been his all along.
As long as they let their fears dominate, they would never be able to move on from that day, either one of them. The Decepticon assault had stolen so much. Prowl was determined that it wouldn’t steal this opportunity too - perhaps the only chance Prowl would ever have to teach his charge their native music, or Bluestreak would have to learn it. He’d told Blue as much on the first day they’d come here. The youngling had looked uncertain, but the strong spark Prowl had nurtured since infancy came to the fore. Bluestreak would learn. Prowl would teach, standing one more time in the stead of the genitors Bluestreak barely recalled.
On that first trip, priming the geode for music had taken hours. His skills had been rusty from disuse. Even after he recalled the long-buried memory files, there had been a steep learning curve. Finding the resonances and vibration modes of the geode was like learning a new language without a translation module to ease the task. The structures were very different from any he’d seen before. Their composition, shape, orientation and substrate all played a role in determining their response, and he had to learn each in turn.
Tapping individual crystals with precise movements, running a gentle servo over others, all the time angling his door-wings to best gauge the cumulative response, he’d explained what he was doing to Bluestreak in a soft, even tone.
The youngling’s fear hadn’t faded. It probably never would. Flinches and small half-frowns betrayed errant memories - of Praxus, of his genitors and of the day they fell. Prowl had watched proudly as Blue adjusted nonetheless, letting the wonder of the experience and confidence in his mentor give him courage. Blue’s door-wings were angling on their own within breems, following the rhythms before Prowl could prompt him. The young mech’s attempts to develop the sounds became smoother and more confident, without the trembling that marred his earliest attempts.
It didn’t take so long for Prowl to prepare today. He gave one last crystal a tap, carefully timed to reinforce the vibrations and echoes he’d already developed. The whole geode hummed with stored energy, no one note dominating but each adding to the underlying murmur of sound. Now the geode was primed, it would take only the lightest of touches to raise a chosen note above the background, or still another, changing the murmured chord.
He nodded to Bluestreak, his smile encouraging his student and reassuring him at the same time. Bluestreak vented hard, his optics dilated and bright with concentration. His door-wings twitched once and then settled, spread wide to maximise their input. As Prowl stepped carefully to one side, Bluestreak moved to the heart of the geode, raising a servo to a crystal at helm-height and giving it a tentative touch.
The vibrations grew, blended, beat in synchrony and asynchrony, following the pattern that Prowl had guided Blue through with infinite patience. Any Praxian music was complex, unique to the outcrop where it was played, but this was a basic melody, commonly used to underlay the complexity. It was a simple thing - a piece most Praxian younglings would consider below their dignity to demonstrate on those long, bored evenings in the Gardens. For an absolute novice, coaxing rhythms from the silicate crystals of an alien world, with only the anguish in his spark and a few joors tuition to guide him, it was a remarkable achievement.
Bluestreak was half-way through the composition when Prowl’s sensitive door-wings picked up new vibrations coming from the cavern above. With his door-wings extended and senses attuned, he could hardly fail to recognise the rhythm of familiar pedes. Careful not to let his surprise show, he shifted, the slight movements enough to counterbalance the outside influence without distracting the intent youngling.
A breem later, when Bluestreak’s careful work faltered and a jarring discord between two arm-length crystals set their door-wings vibrating, Prowl’s audials were already listening for the faint cry of dismay that floated on the still-throbbing air.
“I’m never going to be any good at this!”
Bluestreak was already better than he thought. The same potential Prowl had glimpsed in a tiny grey mechling was there in his servos. Blue was warm and loving and more sensitive than he gave himself credit for. Growing up in the flames of unending war had given him a hard shell, just as it had Prowl and Jazz. He’d overcome that, Prowl was sure, given time and practice.
Reassuring him of the same required no false praise, only the warm affection Prowl, as Bluestreak’s commander, could seldom afford to show. Blue’s earnest answer only strengthened that affection.
“I really just want to be good enough, you know, before we do this for Jazz. I want it to be just right for him, because he’d love this.”
There was no doubt of that.
Prowl suppressed a chuckle as he moved. He nudged a crystal with one pede, reviving the fading echoes and working to rebuild the resonant background hum that was always their starting point. Blue vented a huffed sigh, determination written in the way he squared his shoulders and set about helping Prowl resettle the geode.
For the dozenth time, Prowl guided his protégé through the sequence before stepping back and doing his best to minimise his presence. Again, there was movement above, stealthy and cautious but coming ever closer to the geode’s single entrance.
“Dim your optics, Bluestreak.” Prowl murmured the instruction as Bluestreak started again. “Just let your sensors guide you, and your servos follow your spark.”
The blue glow that formed their only illumination dimmed as Bluestreak followed his instructor’s advice. The youngling remained blissfully unaware as the fainter light of Prowl’s optics was joined by a new glimmer - a polarised visor peeking through the narrow aperture.
Jazz’s expression was wondering and almost dazed. The mech’s helm moved of its own accord, tilting from side to side as his sensory horns gave him a hint of what Prowl and Bluestreak’s wings fed through their entire frames. The mech was enraptured, distracted out of his usual caution.
Prowl met his companion’s visor with amused optics, and got a surprised, rueful and not-quite-guilty-enough grimace in response. A flick of his servos to signal ‘wait’ and Jazz froze in the opening, even his vents baffled to avoid disturbing the youngling they’d raised.
Both Prowl and Jazz braced, their frames tense as Bluestreak approached the point where he’d hesitated before, and the rhythm had broken. This time, he managed the transition smoothly, a small sound of satisfaction escaping him as he achieved the tricky, syncopated harmony he’d been trying for.
It took a full four breems to complete the sequence. The harmonies built as Bluestreak managed the echoes and fed new taps or caresses in to strengthen fading notes. By the climax, the whole geode was ringing with sound, streaming in steady waves through sensors and processor, and warming the sparks of all three listeners.
Blue held the last note for a near-eternity, letting its echoes mingle with the long, satisfied exhalation from his vents. His optics brightened, his servos clenching in his delight as he turned to Prowl.
“I did it! I really did it!”
“You did,” Prowl stepped forward, wrapping Bluestreak in a brief embrace. It was an indulgence he’d seldom allowed himself since his charge formally joined the Autobot ranks. The youngling’s engine purred with satisfaction, pride and joy at the unusual display of affection from his mentor. “You did well, Bluestreak.” He raised his helm, looking over Bluestreak’s shoulder and allowing a smile to greet his partner. “Don’t you think so?”
Jazz transformed one servo, releasing his grappling-line. A flick of his wrist hooked it over a convenient stalagmite. Twisting the line around his wrist, the Ops mech dropped into the spherical cavity so lightly that his pedes barely made a sound against the crystalline floor.
It was tight in the cavity for three grown mechs. That didn’t bother Jazz. He threw his arms around both Praxians, tugging them almost off-balance with an exuberance that Prowl suspected was entirely deliberate.
The saboteur’s rich laughter echoed off the crystal shards, the reflected sound fracturing until it seemed that every glinting surface was joining the joyous chorus. Jazz tilted his helm until he could see Bluestreak’s faceplates.
“Sounded pretty near perfect, mech.”
“Jazz!” Bluestreak’s expression was torn between dismay and his lingering pride. “You’re here! Why are you here? And do you really think so? I wanted it to be a surprise, and I guess it kind of was, but I had all kinds of plans and I wanted it to be just right for you, and it was meant to be a secret.”
For a moment, just a moment, the expression on Jazz’s faceplates faltered. A mech who knew Jazz less well than Prowl would never have seen the hesitation. Even Bluestreak seemed to have missed it. The glimpse into the inner mech came and went within microklicks, and then the familiar grin was back firmly in place.
“And here I thought you just didn’t want me around!”
Jazz made it a joke, defying Bluestreak to take him seriously. Prowl did just that. Within clicks he’d been through every one of their interactions in the last orn. His trained processor made short work of the analysis, and the results brought a wince to his face.
“Jazz.” His private comm was a dismayed and deeply apologetic whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“For doing this for Blue?” The Ops mech didn’t look away from Bluestreak, his arm around the youngling’s shoulder turning him slightly so he wouldn’t see Prowl’s reaction. “No worries.”
“I owe you an apology nonetheless.”
Jazz glanced over his shoulder, his visor bright. One of the thing Prowl loved about the mech was his ability to look at a grudge, understand it, forgive it and let it go. The hurt in his posture was very real, but it was already fading. He cycled his visor in teasing suggestion.
“I’m sure I’ll think of a way for you to make it up to me later. For now though…” The speakers mounted on Jazz’s thighs folded out, already emitting a low rumble of sound. He pulsed a little more power to them, moderating the note, and chuckling in satisfaction when the echoes brought twitching pleasure to the door-wings of both Praxians. “Come on, Blue. Why don’t you and Prowler show me how this is done?”
It was almost time for Prowl and Bluestreak to go back on shift by the time they returned to the Ark. If it wasn’t for that fact, the three of them would probably still be back at the geode, squeezed together into the resonating crystal chamber, or taking turns to play while the others listened from the cavern above.
Neither Bluestreak nor Jazz rivalled Prowl’s skill, but both were learning, and taking all the more pleasure for doing so in company. If Prowl hesitated at first to pass on the secrets of the ancient art form to a non-Praxian, his doubt faded within klicks. Jazz was as much part of his accidental family as the youngling they’d raised between them. The mech might not be Praxian by birth, but the respect and appreciation he showed brought him more credit than many who were. It wasn’t as if teaching others was actually banned in any case. It might have raised a few brow-ridges and set a few door-wings quivering, but, even in the Gardens, no one would have stopped him. Now, there was no one left to try.
For once that thought didn’t carry the weight of guilt and pain he was so accustomed to. Prowl would have taught his companion this music, even if all the taboos of ancient Praxus had been against it.
The three of them were bright-opticed and their frames vibrated with pleasure and satisfaction as they made their way back towards the lower decks. Prowl and Jazz walked arm in arm, Bluestreak leading the way through the outer hull and back onto familiar territory.
Jazz leaned into Prowl’s side, the mech chuckling to himself.
“Jazz?”
“Just wondering what folks’ll think we’ve been up to if they see us like this.”
Prowl cycled his optics, not dignifying the comment with a direct response. He pulled Jazz a little tighter, still regretful of the hurt he’d caused.
“Are you going to tell Prime the truth?”
Now Jazz shot him a sidelong look. Prowl shrugged.
“I calculate a seventy-eight percent probability that you would have waited until the end of the orn before tracking us - unless strongly encouraged to do so.”
Jazz laughed, rueful and a little amused. “The boss-mech should have known better. What say we keep him guessing a while longer?”
Prowl’s small smile answered his partner’s. Maybe Jazz was a bad influence on him. Maybe he was just a little peeved by Optimus’s prying. Either way, he was more than willing - just this once - to tease their friend and Prime.
“Why not?” he agreed.
Bluestreak glanced back at them. The young mech’s faceplates split with a broad smile of their own as his mentors waved him onwards. Nodding, calling out a promise to join them later for energon, the youngling pulled himself up to the deck above and hurried away to catch up with Bumblebee and his scheduled patrol.
The two officers followed briskly, and with perhaps just a tinge of regret. Prowl released his companion as they climbed towards the inhabited deck, the vorns-old mask of decorum falling easily into place. Jazz offered him a servo for the last few yards, but the touch was practical and fleeting. Their online statuses updated at the same moment - Prowl’s to ‘on duty’, Jazz’s to ‘available if required’. Tilting his helm in farewell, the saboteur headed for the Rec Room, leaving Prowl at the control deck hatch.
Prowl set his door-wings. His expression was inscrutable as he entered to relieve a visibly bored Optimus Prime from his extended monitor duty. Optimus hesitated, just long enough to watch Prowl raise his door-wings into a barrier that actively discouraged conversation
Prowl didn’t have to check to know his Prime had departed straight for the Rec Room to quiz Jazz. The private video stream that hit his comms a few minutes later was unexpected confirmation. The affectionate laughter it carried warmed Prowl’s frame, just as the presence of Jazz himself had breems before.
He swept assessing optics over the displays in front of him and then settled back in the monitor seat. Willing, for once, to indulge Jazz’s distractions as Jazz had indulged his, Prowl relaxed into his companion’s comm-channel commentary.
Somewhere in the background of the channel, Jazz’s speakers provided a musical soundtrack. The melody was Praxian, a pale echo and reminder of their joyous afternoon. Their physical separation during duty shifts was fleeting, unimportant. The barrier Prowl had thrown between them with his secrecy was no more tangible, and no longer lasting.
Prowl was forgiven, and he was loved.
Through shared optics, Jazz and Prowl watched their Prime puzzle over Jazz’s vague, teasing hints - the same music dancing in both their sparks.
The End
Author: zea_taylor
‘Verse: G1, sequel to ‘Fall’
Rating: T/PG-13
Characters: Jazz/Prowl, Bluestreak
Warnings: angst, fluff
Part One: Remembering Times Past
Part Two: Secrets
Part Three
Prompt: music
There was nothing ‘natural’ on Earth that felt less than alien to the Cybertronian children of Primus. Of everything Prowl had seen though, this came closest to being familiar.
It had started out as a bubble of volcanic gases, rising through molten rock. The traces of those gases lingered in the near-perfect spherical cavity they’d left behind. Water had infiltrated over eons, and tiny seed crystals in the silicate-rich solution had grown into shafts almost as tall as a minibot. As they did, they’d absorbed traces of sulphur and magnesium, of iron and this world’s all-pervasive oxygen. Prowl’s door-wing sensors could identify and classify each element and the vivid compounds they formed. His optics revelled in the iron-tinted amethysts and golden citrines, the magnesium-rich garnets and hints of aluminium oxide sapphires nestled amongst the crystal-clear quartz.
When he’d first seen it, the wonder had been mingled with just a tinge of disappointment. On Cybertron, crystals had grown in proud spires, warmed from below by the spark of Primus. Here the energy source was far more mundane - literally ‘down-to-earth’. A geode like this, with jagged crystals under-pede and others brushing Prowl’s extended door-wings, simply couldn’t form outside of the pressures of subduction and construction, continental drift and volcanism. There had never been anything quite like this on their home-world.
As they had been for Bluestreak though, the parallels were close enough to trigger long-suppressed memories.
The vast outcrops of the Praxian Crystal Gardens overlaid the geode in his processor. Only Crystal City itself had ever rivalled them, and there the growth had been constrained, managed and regulated. The Gardens of Praxus had grown wild. Outcrops had tussled for space, forcing paths to meander around them and sometimes even to pass through arches of pure refracted light, formed by the crystals meeting high overhead.
He remembered being surrounded by crystalline beauty, led into the heart of one of the largest outcrops as he learnt to coax it into ringing music. He remembered his first encounter with Bluestreak too, could almost feel the tiny mechling’s servos in his own, gliding across the smooth surfaces.
And he remembered the sound of shattering, the thunder of the bombardment and the scream of living crystals smashed to dust.
Small wonder, then, that this place triggered echoes of his protégé’s infant trauma… and small wonder that Prowl was determined to overcome that barrier and return to Bluestreak the traditional skill that should have been his all along.
As long as they let their fears dominate, they would never be able to move on from that day, either one of them. The Decepticon assault had stolen so much. Prowl was determined that it wouldn’t steal this opportunity too - perhaps the only chance Prowl would ever have to teach his charge their native music, or Bluestreak would have to learn it. He’d told Blue as much on the first day they’d come here. The youngling had looked uncertain, but the strong spark Prowl had nurtured since infancy came to the fore. Bluestreak would learn. Prowl would teach, standing one more time in the stead of the genitors Bluestreak barely recalled.
On that first trip, priming the geode for music had taken hours. His skills had been rusty from disuse. Even after he recalled the long-buried memory files, there had been a steep learning curve. Finding the resonances and vibration modes of the geode was like learning a new language without a translation module to ease the task. The structures were very different from any he’d seen before. Their composition, shape, orientation and substrate all played a role in determining their response, and he had to learn each in turn.
Tapping individual crystals with precise movements, running a gentle servo over others, all the time angling his door-wings to best gauge the cumulative response, he’d explained what he was doing to Bluestreak in a soft, even tone.
The youngling’s fear hadn’t faded. It probably never would. Flinches and small half-frowns betrayed errant memories - of Praxus, of his genitors and of the day they fell. Prowl had watched proudly as Blue adjusted nonetheless, letting the wonder of the experience and confidence in his mentor give him courage. Blue’s door-wings were angling on their own within breems, following the rhythms before Prowl could prompt him. The young mech’s attempts to develop the sounds became smoother and more confident, without the trembling that marred his earliest attempts.
It didn’t take so long for Prowl to prepare today. He gave one last crystal a tap, carefully timed to reinforce the vibrations and echoes he’d already developed. The whole geode hummed with stored energy, no one note dominating but each adding to the underlying murmur of sound. Now the geode was primed, it would take only the lightest of touches to raise a chosen note above the background, or still another, changing the murmured chord.
He nodded to Bluestreak, his smile encouraging his student and reassuring him at the same time. Bluestreak vented hard, his optics dilated and bright with concentration. His door-wings twitched once and then settled, spread wide to maximise their input. As Prowl stepped carefully to one side, Bluestreak moved to the heart of the geode, raising a servo to a crystal at helm-height and giving it a tentative touch.
The vibrations grew, blended, beat in synchrony and asynchrony, following the pattern that Prowl had guided Blue through with infinite patience. Any Praxian music was complex, unique to the outcrop where it was played, but this was a basic melody, commonly used to underlay the complexity. It was a simple thing - a piece most Praxian younglings would consider below their dignity to demonstrate on those long, bored evenings in the Gardens. For an absolute novice, coaxing rhythms from the silicate crystals of an alien world, with only the anguish in his spark and a few joors tuition to guide him, it was a remarkable achievement.
Bluestreak was half-way through the composition when Prowl’s sensitive door-wings picked up new vibrations coming from the cavern above. With his door-wings extended and senses attuned, he could hardly fail to recognise the rhythm of familiar pedes. Careful not to let his surprise show, he shifted, the slight movements enough to counterbalance the outside influence without distracting the intent youngling.
A breem later, when Bluestreak’s careful work faltered and a jarring discord between two arm-length crystals set their door-wings vibrating, Prowl’s audials were already listening for the faint cry of dismay that floated on the still-throbbing air.
“I’m never going to be any good at this!”
Bluestreak was already better than he thought. The same potential Prowl had glimpsed in a tiny grey mechling was there in his servos. Blue was warm and loving and more sensitive than he gave himself credit for. Growing up in the flames of unending war had given him a hard shell, just as it had Prowl and Jazz. He’d overcome that, Prowl was sure, given time and practice.
Reassuring him of the same required no false praise, only the warm affection Prowl, as Bluestreak’s commander, could seldom afford to show. Blue’s earnest answer only strengthened that affection.
“I really just want to be good enough, you know, before we do this for Jazz. I want it to be just right for him, because he’d love this.”
There was no doubt of that.
Prowl suppressed a chuckle as he moved. He nudged a crystal with one pede, reviving the fading echoes and working to rebuild the resonant background hum that was always their starting point. Blue vented a huffed sigh, determination written in the way he squared his shoulders and set about helping Prowl resettle the geode.
For the dozenth time, Prowl guided his protégé through the sequence before stepping back and doing his best to minimise his presence. Again, there was movement above, stealthy and cautious but coming ever closer to the geode’s single entrance.
“Dim your optics, Bluestreak.” Prowl murmured the instruction as Bluestreak started again. “Just let your sensors guide you, and your servos follow your spark.”
The blue glow that formed their only illumination dimmed as Bluestreak followed his instructor’s advice. The youngling remained blissfully unaware as the fainter light of Prowl’s optics was joined by a new glimmer - a polarised visor peeking through the narrow aperture.
Jazz’s expression was wondering and almost dazed. The mech’s helm moved of its own accord, tilting from side to side as his sensory horns gave him a hint of what Prowl and Bluestreak’s wings fed through their entire frames. The mech was enraptured, distracted out of his usual caution.
Prowl met his companion’s visor with amused optics, and got a surprised, rueful and not-quite-guilty-enough grimace in response. A flick of his servos to signal ‘wait’ and Jazz froze in the opening, even his vents baffled to avoid disturbing the youngling they’d raised.
Both Prowl and Jazz braced, their frames tense as Bluestreak approached the point where he’d hesitated before, and the rhythm had broken. This time, he managed the transition smoothly, a small sound of satisfaction escaping him as he achieved the tricky, syncopated harmony he’d been trying for.
It took a full four breems to complete the sequence. The harmonies built as Bluestreak managed the echoes and fed new taps or caresses in to strengthen fading notes. By the climax, the whole geode was ringing with sound, streaming in steady waves through sensors and processor, and warming the sparks of all three listeners.
Blue held the last note for a near-eternity, letting its echoes mingle with the long, satisfied exhalation from his vents. His optics brightened, his servos clenching in his delight as he turned to Prowl.
“I did it! I really did it!”
“You did,” Prowl stepped forward, wrapping Bluestreak in a brief embrace. It was an indulgence he’d seldom allowed himself since his charge formally joined the Autobot ranks. The youngling’s engine purred with satisfaction, pride and joy at the unusual display of affection from his mentor. “You did well, Bluestreak.” He raised his helm, looking over Bluestreak’s shoulder and allowing a smile to greet his partner. “Don’t you think so?”
Jazz transformed one servo, releasing his grappling-line. A flick of his wrist hooked it over a convenient stalagmite. Twisting the line around his wrist, the Ops mech dropped into the spherical cavity so lightly that his pedes barely made a sound against the crystalline floor.
It was tight in the cavity for three grown mechs. That didn’t bother Jazz. He threw his arms around both Praxians, tugging them almost off-balance with an exuberance that Prowl suspected was entirely deliberate.
The saboteur’s rich laughter echoed off the crystal shards, the reflected sound fracturing until it seemed that every glinting surface was joining the joyous chorus. Jazz tilted his helm until he could see Bluestreak’s faceplates.
“Sounded pretty near perfect, mech.”
“Jazz!” Bluestreak’s expression was torn between dismay and his lingering pride. “You’re here! Why are you here? And do you really think so? I wanted it to be a surprise, and I guess it kind of was, but I had all kinds of plans and I wanted it to be just right for you, and it was meant to be a secret.”
For a moment, just a moment, the expression on Jazz’s faceplates faltered. A mech who knew Jazz less well than Prowl would never have seen the hesitation. Even Bluestreak seemed to have missed it. The glimpse into the inner mech came and went within microklicks, and then the familiar grin was back firmly in place.
“And here I thought you just didn’t want me around!”
Jazz made it a joke, defying Bluestreak to take him seriously. Prowl did just that. Within clicks he’d been through every one of their interactions in the last orn. His trained processor made short work of the analysis, and the results brought a wince to his face.
“Jazz.” His private comm was a dismayed and deeply apologetic whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“For doing this for Blue?” The Ops mech didn’t look away from Bluestreak, his arm around the youngling’s shoulder turning him slightly so he wouldn’t see Prowl’s reaction. “No worries.”
“I owe you an apology nonetheless.”
Jazz glanced over his shoulder, his visor bright. One of the thing Prowl loved about the mech was his ability to look at a grudge, understand it, forgive it and let it go. The hurt in his posture was very real, but it was already fading. He cycled his visor in teasing suggestion.
“I’m sure I’ll think of a way for you to make it up to me later. For now though…” The speakers mounted on Jazz’s thighs folded out, already emitting a low rumble of sound. He pulsed a little more power to them, moderating the note, and chuckling in satisfaction when the echoes brought twitching pleasure to the door-wings of both Praxians. “Come on, Blue. Why don’t you and Prowler show me how this is done?”
It was almost time for Prowl and Bluestreak to go back on shift by the time they returned to the Ark. If it wasn’t for that fact, the three of them would probably still be back at the geode, squeezed together into the resonating crystal chamber, or taking turns to play while the others listened from the cavern above.
Neither Bluestreak nor Jazz rivalled Prowl’s skill, but both were learning, and taking all the more pleasure for doing so in company. If Prowl hesitated at first to pass on the secrets of the ancient art form to a non-Praxian, his doubt faded within klicks. Jazz was as much part of his accidental family as the youngling they’d raised between them. The mech might not be Praxian by birth, but the respect and appreciation he showed brought him more credit than many who were. It wasn’t as if teaching others was actually banned in any case. It might have raised a few brow-ridges and set a few door-wings quivering, but, even in the Gardens, no one would have stopped him. Now, there was no one left to try.
For once that thought didn’t carry the weight of guilt and pain he was so accustomed to. Prowl would have taught his companion this music, even if all the taboos of ancient Praxus had been against it.
The three of them were bright-opticed and their frames vibrated with pleasure and satisfaction as they made their way back towards the lower decks. Prowl and Jazz walked arm in arm, Bluestreak leading the way through the outer hull and back onto familiar territory.
Jazz leaned into Prowl’s side, the mech chuckling to himself.
“Jazz?”
“Just wondering what folks’ll think we’ve been up to if they see us like this.”
Prowl cycled his optics, not dignifying the comment with a direct response. He pulled Jazz a little tighter, still regretful of the hurt he’d caused.
“Are you going to tell Prime the truth?”
Now Jazz shot him a sidelong look. Prowl shrugged.
“I calculate a seventy-eight percent probability that you would have waited until the end of the orn before tracking us - unless strongly encouraged to do so.”
Jazz laughed, rueful and a little amused. “The boss-mech should have known better. What say we keep him guessing a while longer?”
Prowl’s small smile answered his partner’s. Maybe Jazz was a bad influence on him. Maybe he was just a little peeved by Optimus’s prying. Either way, he was more than willing - just this once - to tease their friend and Prime.
“Why not?” he agreed.
Bluestreak glanced back at them. The young mech’s faceplates split with a broad smile of their own as his mentors waved him onwards. Nodding, calling out a promise to join them later for energon, the youngling pulled himself up to the deck above and hurried away to catch up with Bumblebee and his scheduled patrol.
The two officers followed briskly, and with perhaps just a tinge of regret. Prowl released his companion as they climbed towards the inhabited deck, the vorns-old mask of decorum falling easily into place. Jazz offered him a servo for the last few yards, but the touch was practical and fleeting. Their online statuses updated at the same moment - Prowl’s to ‘on duty’, Jazz’s to ‘available if required’. Tilting his helm in farewell, the saboteur headed for the Rec Room, leaving Prowl at the control deck hatch.
Prowl set his door-wings. His expression was inscrutable as he entered to relieve a visibly bored Optimus Prime from his extended monitor duty. Optimus hesitated, just long enough to watch Prowl raise his door-wings into a barrier that actively discouraged conversation
Prowl didn’t have to check to know his Prime had departed straight for the Rec Room to quiz Jazz. The private video stream that hit his comms a few minutes later was unexpected confirmation. The affectionate laughter it carried warmed Prowl’s frame, just as the presence of Jazz himself had breems before.
He swept assessing optics over the displays in front of him and then settled back in the monitor seat. Willing, for once, to indulge Jazz’s distractions as Jazz had indulged his, Prowl relaxed into his companion’s comm-channel commentary.
Somewhere in the background of the channel, Jazz’s speakers provided a musical soundtrack. The melody was Praxian, a pale echo and reminder of their joyous afternoon. Their physical separation during duty shifts was fleeting, unimportant. The barrier Prowl had thrown between them with his secrecy was no more tangible, and no longer lasting.
Prowl was forgiven, and he was loved.
Through shared optics, Jazz and Prowl watched their Prime puzzle over Jazz’s vague, teasing hints - the same music dancing in both their sparks.
The End