Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Something in the air shifted just as the train entered the city limits. 

Prowl had never been a superstitious mech; there was no hard evidence to back the existence of Luck or Fate or even Primus. Every seemingly bizarre or, dare he say, spooky event, occurrence, or feeling could easily be chalked up to something better grounded in logic. That feeling in his spark when the swirling neon sign for Cool City came and went in his view through the train car's window? That was anticipation for finding his new precinct and living quarters, nothing more. That odd, not-really-there vibration against his doorwings? Someone must have shifted in their seat a few rows back. 

Cool City was just a city, no matter what the rumors said.

And that was another thing Prowl never believed in: rumors. While many could be traced back into some semblance of truth, they more often than not materialized out of some misinterpretation or misunderstanding and then spiraled into a pitslagged mess. 

"I heard that they have super-duper drugs in that city- the kind that can melt a processor for cycles!"

 'Super-Duper Drugs' was a clear exaggeration. In any case, every city had its fair share of drug abuse. He had made a note to investigate Cool City's particular problem first.

"Well I heard that it's an actual law that you have to dance if there's music playing in public."

A law requiring citizens to dance at the presence of music was absurd, and frankly an infringement on autonomy. Regardless, he had made a note to be aware of potential social customs that had to do with dancing.

"Someone told me that if you wanted to buy engex, you have to shake your aft for the entire bar!"

That one had actually gotten Prowl to frown, but not look up from his paperwork- the very same paperwork that told him he was being transferred to Cool City; apparently with its 'Super-Duper Drugs' and dancing laws and... aft shaking? Seriously, these rumors were beginning to make his tac-net scream with the ridiculousness. His coworkers were almost making him more eager to leave.

Almost.

There had been minimal sparkache (he was never the most popular enforcer, that much he was aware of), but he, for once, had finally felt content at his station in Protihex. He had climbed a couple ranks, solved a few good cases, and felt (more or less) like he belonged. Leave it to the city-states to swap their enforcers around like energon goodies. 

A chime over the train's PA system pulled Prowl out of his self-pitying flashback to his last cycles in Protihex. Thinking about that now was useless. This was his new job, his new home- his new life. Yes, no need to dwell on could-have-beens when he should be exiting the train (being sure to stretch his legs as he went, so as not to stumble), finding a map, locating his new precinct, locating his new quarters, and finally, recharging. 

That is exactly what Prowl did- until step 2, of course. 

The moment Prowl stepped off the train and onto the platform, it was abundantly clear that Cool City was a place without direction. Mechs were chatting loudly all around him, hugging and bumping shoulders and- okay that's indecent behavior, good thing he's not on duty yet- all around flitting about like they all just knew where they were supposed to go. Not one wall or pillar had anything to do with a map; only vibrant murals and mosaics that frankly hurt to look at. Everything hurt to look at. The lights were so many colors, was that music coming from a speaker somewhere, where were all these people going, the air was buzzing all around and-

Nothing. 

Prowl knew what had happened the instant he felt himself rebooting. One by one, his systems came back online, though this time, he was quick to mute his tac-net before trying his optics. Judging by the distinct lack of pain coming from his doorwings, he assumed he had fallen forwards, or- someone was holding him up. Wasn't that... uncomfortable (embarrassing). He groaned when he finally onlined his optics to- slightly less- colorful lighting. 

"Geez, mister! You alright?" said a small voice from behind- below?- Prowl. 

Prowl took his weight off of whoever had saved him from the ground and turned slowly, making sure his gyros weren't going to make him tip. He stared at the yellow minibot, who was in turn staring back up at him. 

"Ah... yes. Thank you." Prowl dipped his helm and wings at the minibot, hoping to convey the right amount of gratitude without revealing just how bad it could have been for him had he fallen. "Are you?"

"Oh, yeah! Yeah, I'm alright. I was able to get my hands up before you fell on me," the minibot chirped casually, miming the action of protecting himself from Prowl's larger mass. This was getting increasingly awkward (embarrassing). 

"My apologies," Prowl said, dipping his helm again. The minibot shrugged, smiled, and began to walk away- "Wait!" Prowl winced. He had said that way too loud. To his relief, the bot didn't seem perturbed, and turned to face him again. "Do you know where to get a map?"

The faces the minibot made were complex, as if he had never heard the glyph 'map' before in his entire life. 

"I have just been transferred here, I am quite new to this city" Prowl explained, banking on the small hope that there was something that could give him a clue to where he was supposed to be heading. 

To that, the minibot lit up- literally. His plating actually began to glow a little bit; thin strips in seemingly random pattern like neon signs along his chassis and limbs. "Why didn't you say so?! Oh mech you're gonna love Cool City, it's awesome here! Where are you headed? Are you into the whole pinstriping scene? You look like you'd get some cool designs- hey are those enforcer badges?" 

"Er..." Prowl tried to sort the influx of data coming from this very lively minibot's vocalizer. He quickly gave up, however, when he realized that he would have to get his tac-net involved to take much more than he was directly given, and he wasn't feeling like forgiving it this soon. "Yes, I am an enforcer. I need to get to the precinct." He chose not to make a comment on whatever 'pinstriping' was. 

Thankfully, the minibot still seemed unfazed by Prowl being an enforcer. Usually, bots would take one look at the decals on his wings and decide to go and talk to someone else. 

"Ooh, I know where that is! It's kind of really super boring there, but I guess if it's where you gotta be, it's where you gotta be. But I wouldn't stay too long! There's so much to do here! My name's Bumblebee, by the way. Follow me!"

And without missing a beat, the minibot- Bumblebee- was off like a streak of lightning through the crowd.  

Prowl had to find just the right angle to keep his optics on Bumblebee without looking too much at anything else. The little bot didn't seem to know (or care) about why he had almost crushed him, but he wasn't planning on having to explain that by crashing a second time. He dialed down the sensory input on his wings and audials for good measure, despite the uneasiness it gave him. As they exited the train station, the cool air brought him minimal relief. All around him were various buildings with their own intricate and colorful signage, but he couldn't bear to take it all in; not with his processor still throbbing. He tried to focus on feeling grateful for having found a friendly guide to take him directly to the- ah, alright, a little detour. That's... acceptable, he was rather low on fuel as it turned out, it couldn't hurt. 

Bumblebee flipped a credit chip in the air, the small disk arcing perfectly in the air and into a jar atop the... energon dog...? stand. The attendant winked and finger-gunned at Bumblebee, then set to preparing their food with a flourish.

"These are my favorite," Bumblebee told Prowl with a bright grin- were his dentae glowing too?!- and a wink. "Don't even worry about paying me back, my treat for coming all this way to the best city on Cybertron! I'd say this guy's the best, but honestly? Every one of these stands is the best." He said it as if it were a secret, something almost taboo to say too loudly.

Prowl only nodded an acknowledgment and his thanks, and appraised the enerdog he was handed. Feeling like getting poisoned wasn't very likely (he still didn't trust the tac-net's ability to stay under his control), he ate it without any fanfare. It was... surprisingly pleasant. Beside him, Bumblebee was humming with delight as he crammed as much of his enerdog as he could into his intake. It was a little gross, but Prowl didn't make any comment on it. 

"Slag, that was good. Thanks Roadbuster! How'd you like it? We're going this way, there's this other stop you gotta see- I know, I know, you probably want to get to your new job right away but you at least gotta stop by this one place before-"

"Bumblebee," Prowl interrupted before his helm could start swimming. He was trying very hard to be grateful and polite, but the sensory overload and the... everything that was this city was not doing him any good at the moment. Maybe never, was a thought in the back of his processor, but he quickly pushed it away. He would have to get used to it. He had no choice. "I appreciate your hospitality, but I am very tired."

"Oh, I bet! I dunno where you came from but those train rides always seem so long and- ohhh," Bumblebee stopped in his tracks, and Prowl nearly bowled him over. "You don't want to check out this super awesome totally wicked place right now. I see. Yeah that's alright, the precinct's actually this way!" He spun around quickly and ducked under Prowl's doorwing to continue walking in the opposite direction. Just when Prowl was starting to feel slight remorse for turning the overzealous mech down, he started chatting away again like nothing ever happened. 

Bumblebee's chatter and Prowl's silence continued for several blocks until- finally- they reached the precinct, which was thankfully the least overstimulating thing he had seen yet. 

"Here it is! Isn't it just so drab? Ugh, no wonder all you enforcers are all buzzkills- not saying you're a buzzkill! You seem very nice at least, I hope. Anyway! There's a party over east I forgot I was gonna go to, but-!" Bumblebee clapped his hands together. "Wanna exchange comm codes? You gotta let me take you down south to that one spot next cycle or whenever you're more settled in. Oh! Oh Primus I never even asked for your name! So sorry about that- what's your name?"

Prowl blinked. Very slowly. At least this was becoming less jarring. "My designation is Prowl." He hesitated before listing his comm. code as well. As obnoxious as this mech was, having a local who knew their way around could be very useful, especially considering the lack of maps and street signs in general. Seriously- he hadn't noticed a single marker for the roads! This was proving to be a disaster. 

"Sweet, awesome! Thanks! Well, I'll see you around, Prowl! Don't be a stranger!" 

And with that, Bumblebee was gone, speeding away in an unassuming alt mode to what was definitely not the east. 

Prowl took a moment to vent, then went to enter the- and the doors were locked. He frowned. That couldn't be right. He double-checked his chronometer to be sure and- yes, it was still well within regular operating times, which meant that there was no reason for the doors to be locked to the public already. He squinted through the glass in the door. The lights were off. Odd. He scanned the outside of the building for clues. Graffiti (though it seemed everything had been graffitied; even the chassis of a mech who was snoozing on a bench (also illegal)) marred the walls, office windows were too high up to peek into, and there were no other discernible features. 

He began to walk around the building; there was a dark alleyway on one side, maybe there would be a- aha! Yes, a side door! Which... was unlocked? That was backwards. Ignoring the countless red flags, he stepped inside. Having no hope in finding a light switch, he turned on his lowbeams and scanned the room. 

Needless to say, it was a mess. Desks were spaced unevenly (haphazardly) throughout the large central room, and every single desk was cluttered with datapads and other miscellaneous items; probably case files and evidence. The misconduct would have sent him into another crash if he hadn't silenced the tac-net. The floor was slightly sticky under his pedes (gross) and frankly nothing seemed clean at all. It felt completely abandoned. A small voice in the back of his processor muttered that it probably was. Had Bumblebee taken him to the wrong place? Was this just the old precinct and then they all moved to a new building? 

The sound of a door opening and then closing startled Prowl out of his thoughts. A mech stepped out of an office and right into the beam of Prowl's headlights. 

"Uh. Hello?" the mech shielded his optics from the light. 

"Greetings..." Prowl said slowly, taking note that the mech had enforcer colors and decals, so he shouldn't be too worried. Yet. "Is this Precinct 5-9-9-2?" 

The mech reached for the wall and turned the lights on. Prowl winced at the sudden brightness, but was grateful to turn his lowbeams off. "Uh, yeah, it is. Are you the new guy?" 

Prowl nodded. The mech didn't say anything. Prowl waited. The mech still didn't say anything. 

"Your side door was unlocked," Prowl decided to say, unsure of what else to possibly do in this moment. Nothing was right here. 

"It was...? Must have forgotten," the mech muttered. Then, like he had just realized that he existed outside of his own helm, straightened. "Name's Smokescreen. Chief Smokescreen. Sorry about the mess and all, we've been kinda short on staffing around here."

Smokescreen strode forward, holding his servo out to shake. Up close, Prowl could see how exhausted he looked. He also noted that their frametypes were similar- fellow Praxian? Something close? In any case, he shook the offered servo.

"My designation is Prowl, I believe I am to be your sergeant."

"Yep, that sounds right. I have your files back in my office, and your keys, you'll probably want those." 

Prowl followed Smokescreen into his office, which was just as dilapidated as the rest of the precinct was. He was then handed a couple packets and a ring of keys, of which he assumed belonged to the precinct and his new living quarters. Before he could ask, his chief was speaking again.

"Front door, side door, back door, your office, which is 107, and your apartment," Smokescreen explained, pointing at each key in turn. "You don't have to come in until next orn, give yourself some time to settle in and, y'know," he shrugged, "explore the city a little." 

Prowl reflected on that for a moment. Next orn seemed too far away, but... maybe his new chief was right. He couldn't be much help if he didn't know where anything in the city was, or if he didn't know how things ran around here. He would certainly need to get a servo on the city ordinances and observe the general social workings of the mechs that lived in Cool City. Hopefully his processor would handle the new data and environmental input better after some good recharge. 

"Yes, sir." Prowl gave Smokescreen a curt nod. "May I ask where my apartment is?" The fact that he had an apartment was a little strange, but he wasn't about to be finicky. Usually, enforcers holed up in an attached building to the precinct with their own designated habsuites, sometimes shared, but always with communal washracks, dispensers, and lounging areas. 

Smokescreen offered up his comm code, which Prowl gladly accepted, and looked over the data packet that was pinged to him. Relief flooded through his lines. Finally, a Primus-forsaken map! Instead of street names or sector numbers, however, he was disappointed to find that only the buildings were labeled as their business names, not with addresses. It was better than nothing, so he pinged back his thanks. 

"It's the Icy Steel Complex, kinda north-ish from here, over one block," Smokescreen explained, and Prowl easily located it on the map once he had highlighted the precinct. "Decent place."

Prowl hummed noncommittally. "Thank you. Is there anything else, sir?"

"Nope. I'm off to my own berth, gotta get what recharge I can, y'know?" Prowl did know. His every strut was sore with exhaustion even from just standing there. Against his better judgement, he began envisioning a nice, soft berth to fall into. 

"I will see you next orn, then?" Prowl queried, following the chief out of his office and to the side door. Smokescreen offered a lazy nod, held the door open for him, locked it, then headed deeper down the alleyway without another glyph. Odd. Then again, everything was odd here. He wasn't favoring it. 

Prowl shook his plating out in an attempt to shake the unease away. He reminded himself that he would be better after some recharge and maybe a little more energon. And then... and then he would do everything he could to serve the mechs and femmes of Cool City. 

Chapter Text

Prowl awoke feeling refreshed and confident. He had a plan; an itinerary, if you will. He would take a cold solvent shower, drink a quick cube of plain energon, reassess his new apartment while drinking said energon, then head out into the city to observe and learn as much as possible. His tac-net helpfully offered him some routes with the map Smokescreen gave him, calculated estimated driving and walking time, and highlighted potential points of interest, each with their own tags giving an indication of what the locations could be. That was one of the many issues with the map; while the buildings were written out clearly, not all of their names really clarified what they were.

'Brainstorm & Co.'s One-Stop Mod Shop' was self-explanatory (and helpful, given he now knew who owned said mod shop). 'The Place' was not. Prowl had to delete processing threads about what some of those names could possibly mean before they spiraled out uselessly. The risk of crashing now was significantly low (14.6%), but it was better to trim the excess before it built up. 

Prowl analyzed, debated, edited, and finally settled on an acceptable route by the time he finished his energon. He would start a few blocks over from his apartment, take a long loop around the outer edges of Cool City, then snake inwards until he eventually made it back to his apartment. He calculated that he would not have time to stop into many establishments, but he would have time to indulge in a solid mid-cycle meal (for which 'Pyrite Diner' had been selected for both its certainty in being a diner, and for its location against his itinerary) as well as time to gather enough intel to find out what was what. 

Satisfied, Prowl settled his plating one last time, took a deep invent, and stepped outside. 

Now that he had a clear processor and a fresh outlook on his situation, Cool City wasn't nearly as overwhelming. The sunlight most definitely helped; instead of countless multi-colored lights flashing and muddling everything until it was one big confusing non-pattern, the buildings stood as simple buildings. Most were made of plain steel, rigid and modern in terms of Cybertronian architecture. Huge, tinted windows were incorporated in nearly all of them; slightly glossy in a way that made it a little difficult to see inside. As he had noted during the night-cycle, everything was graffitied- only, it was clear that at least half of the 'graffiti' was intentional; these were no tags or crude messages, they were swooping portraits and symbols indicating something about the building they were painted on. 

He checked the establishment across the street from his apartment against his map. 'Rarin' To Run!' was the name, and fittingly, it had a simplistic depiction of two mechs running plastered to the left of the door. As far as he could tell, they sold frame maintenance supplies, which he made note of due to the very few possessions he had brought with him from Protihex in his subspace. 

Prowl found little trouble driving to his first point of interest. In fact, there was hardly any traffic at all, and even fewer mechs were walking. Checking his chronometer, he supposed it was still somewhat early in the cycle (he did tend to wake with the sun, no matter how tired he was) and that maybe going out a little closer to mid-cycle was more common for the residents here. From what little he managed to retain post-crash, he could understand a later waking time. There had been a lot of bots out and about when he had arrived, and the noise was part of the reason he had opted to tune as much of his surroundings out to save his poor sensors. 

As he drove the (he could not stress this enough: unnamed) streets, cataloguing anything of somewhat significance, he noticed that 67% of the establishments so far had been bars or clubs. Some could easily also fall under the restaurant category, but it was still an absurd amount of bars and clubs. How could they all compete with each other? Why were there so many? He was tempted to enter one or two and ask someone directly, but each one he approached had been closed. With a regretful sigh, he fed the note to his tac-net that he would likely have to stay out later than he originally intended in order to get some answers.

His itinerary shifted. No problem. He had been fairly successful thus far with everything else, not to mention the added benefit of getting to cruise in his alt after being cooped up on a train for much too long. And, since his timeline had extended, he saw no reason not to indulge in driving a little longer. 

By the time Prowl reached Pyrite Diner, his tanks were snarling with hunger. Serves him right for not bringing a spare cube with him and burning all of his fuel while driving. 

A bell chimed as he entered, startling the pink femme behind the bartop counter. She looked like she had been recharging, her helm sagging against her hand with her elbow propped up on the counter. 

"Agh-! Good morning!" she chirped, clearly disoriented. "Sit anywhere, I'll be with you in a klik." And then she vanished behind a swinging door into what must be the kitchen. 

Prowl scanned the- completely vacant- diner before settling for a booth closer to the front of the establishment, taking a seat facing the door. It felt odd that nearly no one was out and enjoying the cycle. The sun was shining, it wasn't unbearably too cold or too hot, and it was clear that there was still plenty to do despite all of the clubs being closed. There were shops that sold music, datapads, frame adornments, energon goods, habsuite decorations and furniture, and there were spas, art galleries, and a public library that he was quite looking forward to visiting on a different day. So... why wasn't anyone shopping or even simply walking around?

The femme from before returned from the kitchen holding a thin flimsie- a menu, apparently- and offered it to Prowl with a polite smile. "Sorry about that! I don't usually open this early, but every credit counts when you're saving for a couple upgrades." 

Prowl's processor got stuck on one glyph: 'early'. It was the middle of the cycle, was it not...? "No problem at all," he mumbled, trying to wrap his mind around the information. If this was 'early', that would explain the distinct lack of bots around. 

"So, where are you visiting from?" she asked, gently leaning some of her weight against the table. She fiddled with a small pad and light pen absently.

Prowl, who had barely been able to register the first few items of the menu so far, shook his head. "I have just been transferred here, actually," he replied. "But, my last station was in Protihex for approximately one decavorn." 

The femme gasped as if he had just said the most exciting thing she had ever heard. "No way! You're that new enforcer, aren't you?"

Prowl deadpanned. Now, how did this cafe employee (owner?) not only know about a freshly transferred enforcer, but also know he was that fresh transfer? His tac-net began buzzing, but he opted to ignore it in favor of simply asking. "How did you know about that?"

"Oh, people talk, you know," the femme laughed softly. "It seemed that everywhere I hopped, someone was saying something about a new cop in town. We don't already have one with a cute red chevron, so," she trailed off, waving a servo at Prowl's helm as if to say 'duh!'.

Ah, gossip. Well, he could slide one point to rumors being true, he supposed. Still, it seemed impossibly quick for the news of his arrival to spread like this. As far as he remembered, he hadn't been anywhere near this side of the city yet.

"I see," Prowl said dryly. He dropped his gaze back to the menu. There wasn't much point in dwelling on it, especially when it was true. When the femme didn't prod him further, he pointed to what he wanted to order on the menu, and handed it back.

"Good choice, Mr. Officer! I'll have that out for ya before you can write up a speeding ticket!" She winked, then hurried off into the kitchen. 

Prowl suppressed a snort at the nickname and the analogy. At least the people here seemed to see enforcers in a better light than other cities. In fact, they almost seemed intrigued by him being one. That was further proven to be true when the femme came back out, not with his food, but with an easy-going smile. He assumed that there was someone else in the kitchen handling his order, while she remained up front to tend to customers- er, just Prowl.

"Protihex for a decavorn, huh? What got you to transfer all the way out to Cool City?" 

"My superiors ordered it," Prowl admitted, unashamed to say that it wasn't his choice, because it was a fact.

"Aw, boo." The femme pouted sympathetically, which took him by surprise. "Well, Cool City's great, I'm sure you'll love it. Of course, it's better to be out after sunset- that's when everything's happening." 

Prowl titled his head, finally accepting the concept he had been avoiding: Cool City was nocturnal. That would mean he would likely be put on nightshifts, which meant he would have to change his recharge cycle: something that he found very difficult to do. He was already beginning a draft for Smokescreen to request he be put on dayshifts when the femme spoke again.

"But, I guess now's a better time than any to get in on a little bit of tradition here!"

"Tradition?" Prowl echoed. Dread filled his spark when her smile turned into a wide, dentae filled grin. 

"No one told you?" she purred.

Prowl slowly, carefully, shook his helm. 

"Ok, new plan- Hot Rod!" she shouted over her shoulder. Some cartoonishly sounding clattering noises came from the door to the kitchen, along with a string of muffled curses. A pink and orange mech with a similarly lean build to the femme slapped the door open, only for it to bounce off of the wall and swing right back into his face. 

"What, what?!" he demanded, clearly exasperated by whatever he knocked over in the kitchen and the swinging door. 

"Pack up Wee-Woo's meal to go, I'm taking him to Sunny's."

"Wee-Woo...?" Prowl muttered under his breath, thankfully either unheard or ignored by the femme, who was urgently tugging on his arm to pull him out of the booth. He battered down his instincts to fight back, to declare assault of a police officer, anything. 

Hot Rod groaned dramatically, but ultimately slunk back into the kitchen. "You owe me big, Arcee!" he cried, his pitifulness once again muffled by the divide in the room. 

"Don't you worry about a thing, officer. You're not a Cool City resident until you've gotten your certified Cool City paint job," Arcee told him matter-of-factly. Before Prowl could protest (other than pulling his arm out of her grasp, though he was still standing from the booth), she was already running back into the kitchen, presumably to retrieve the food he ordered. 

Before Prowl could properly register just what exactly was happening, he was speed-walking alongside this cafe owner, trying and failing to eat his meal with any decorum from the to-go container, and pushing aside the feeling that he was going to regret whatever he had unwittingly, apparently, agreed to. Did he ever actually agree to anything? He could have put his foot down at any point, he realized. Why hadn't he? He cut the explosion of processor threads as they bloomed and snagged 'nothing immediately harmful occurring', holding onto it like a lifeline.

"Sunny's the best around, but he might choose something a little expensive, so I hope you're not low on credits," Arcee rambled, barely looking over her shoulder to make sure Prowl was still with her. The audacity of that statement irked him, but his mouth was also full of energon, so he only got out an irritated wing flick that no doubt went unnoticed. "I promise you won't regret this!" She was practically bouncing on her pedes as she walked.

"Why must I change my paint?" Prowl asked between bites- he really was hungry, and whatever he had ordered was really good. 

"It's tradition!" Arcee repeated from their earlier conversation at the diner. "We can't have our brand new cop running around without any flair," she explained as if that was going to make any sense to Prowl, who had the same paint job since... well, since he was constructed, not counting the swapping of decals from one city to the next. Additionally, he saw no point in having any 'flair'. Flair was for entertainers, nobles, or very outgoing mechs, not enforcers. He was proud of his uniform, and really hoped that whatever 'flair' Arcee and this Sunny mech were going to inflict on him would at least be tasteful or removable. As opposed as he was to changing his colors, he would also hate to offend the people here if he downright refused to conform in any sense. 

The building they came to was tall and absolutely covered with splashes of color. The only parts of the building that weren't completely overwritten with a confusing mash of artwork were the windows, which were also, somehow, multicolored. They shifted in the light and the angle they approached them from, morphing from greens and yellows to blues and purples and back to greens and yellows again. Prowl carefully dialed down the input to his tac-net, just in case. 

Inside were rows upon rows of shelves holding paints, brushes, rags, polishes, and other miscellaneous items dedicated to the application and upkeep of paint jobs. Also inside, was an ombre yellow-to-sunset orange mech. White lines accented his frame, swooping and swirling like chemtrails across his plating. 

"Arcee! What's up, diva?" the mech- he easily assumed was Sunny- bounded over to the two of them by the time the door closed behind them. "Who's your friend?"

Arcee smothered Sunny in a tight hug, and Prowl noted the grimace that flashed across his face before he returned the embrace. When she pulled back, he immediately checked over his own frame, twisting under the lights to check for any scratches.

"Oops- sorry! This is- oh," Arcee peered up at Prowl with wide optics. "I never caught your name," she murmured apologetically, deflating slightly at her oversight.

"My designation is Prowl," Prowl supplied, as usual. He turned to Sunny, who was still fretting over invisible blemishes and trying to act like he wasn't. "I was told I require a new paint job since I am now living here." 

That seemed to snap the mech out of his focus on his own plating. "Sunstreaker, at your service!" He stuck out a servo, which Prowl shook as he updated his file to replace 'Sunny' with the mech's actual name. Then, he was being studied. Prowl tried not to let his plating ruffle as Sunstreaker stepped into his space, appraising his current colors and finish as though he was a precious jewel or crystal. Every now and then, the yellow mech would hum in what sounded like disapproval, disappointment, or disgust. Prowl clenched his jaw. 

"Mech, your back's a righteous mess! Don't you have anyone to help you there?" Sunstreaker looked at Prowl critically. Prowl, who was unaware that his paint was anything but acceptable, frowned. 

"No," Prowl replied plainly. "I do not." 

Sunstreaker harrumphed, then shook his helm as if shaking his displeasure away. "Well, nothing I can't fix! Arcee?"

In an instant, Arcee was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Sunstreaker, squinting at Prowl as if she was trying to see what the yellow mech was seeing. She tapped her chin thoughtfully, glanced at Sunstreaker, back to Prowl, back to Sunstreaker, then nodded with a smirk. 

"Makeover!" Arcee sang, and Prowl's lines ran cold. 

Chapter Text

Prowl had stood with his frame locked- arms held up and out from his sides, legs shoulder-width apart, and doorwings fanned out from his back- for what felt like eons. Sunstreaker and Arcee gossiped with one another as they shuffled through paint swatches, argued over what tone of white to use, and general design choices as though he wasn't even there. Then, Sunstreaker very carefully and very professionally stripped his old paint, then applied layer after layer of new, probably quite pricey paint over the bare metal. He was half disassociating through the process, but did manage to squeak out 'nothing too flashy!' before the artist got carried away with his devious plans.

"Arcee, can you get me the- yes, that, exactly! Thanks!" Sunstreaker held up a small can of some sort of glow-in-the-dark paint. He examined the label closely, then smiled to himself. "You're gonna love this," he told Prowl, who did not quirk an optical ridge, because he was afraid any movement at all would ruin the artist's hard work. He had never been repainted before. Could it be dry already? Who knows! It was safer to feign being a steel statue. Anyway, he was skeptical about his supposed enjoyment of whatever he was being painted with next. He was beginning to piece together a pattern of mechs and femmes telling him that he was going to love something despite not knowing him in the slightest (he shoved away the acknowledgment that he had not actively disliked anything so far). 

When all was done, and Sunstreaker announced that final overcoats to protect his new paint job from fading or chipping were dry, Prowl let his frame relax. His joints hissed as they released from the lock, and he stretched his entire body to loosen the stiffness. Arcee wheeled a full-sized mirror in front of Prowl, smirking. 

It was... not all that different from his old paint job, he realized. Relief flushed through his lines, and he let out an exvent he didn't know he had been holding. The colors were slightly different; the grays were a little cooler and the whites were a little crisper, and very minimal additions had been added. Anything that had been added seemed to fit his frame perfectly; subtle lines highlighting some transformation seams, a few small accents the same color as his chevron here and there- it was, for lack of a better term, perfect. 

Behind him, Sunstreaker chuckled. "Pick your jaw up off the floor, mech," he teased, and Prowl snapped his intake shut with mild embarrassment. "You haven't even seen the best part!" 

The lights shut off with a soft click, but instead of facing complete darkness, Prowl could see lines of himself in the mirror still. Intricate light blue lines raced across every bit of plating, forming sharp loops and zig-zags as they wove around each other. It was odd, to see on himself, but when he noticed Arcee and Sunstreaker's own glowing details, he couldn't help but flutter a little bit at the prospect of belonging. 

"Isn't it the coolest?" Arcee stage-whispered to Prowl while Sunstreaker turned the lights back on. Prowl had to reset his optics to the sudden brightness. 

"Yes," Prowl admitted softly. "I suppose it is quite... cool." The glyph felt weird rolling off of his glossa, more so than it usually did when calling the city by its name. He had never described anything as 'cool' before. 

"I left some room on your wings for your new decals, when you get them," Sunstreaker told Prowl, wiping his hands on a cleaning rag. He was grateful that the artist had been so thoughtful. "But you're all set to hit the town, now! You're welcome." He bowed with a flourish, grinning as he straightened back up.

"Thank you," Prowl murmured, stealing one last look at himself in the mirror. He stifled urge to preen, but could not stop his wings from giving a small, prideful flutter. He had never really given his own frame much thought (or other's frames, for that matter), but even he could admit that he looked better- good. "How much do I owe you?"

"300 shanix."

Prowl blinked, hiding his shock under his usual neutral-focused expression. He made good credits as an enforcer, but he had never, ever even thought about spending that much money on something so personal and frivolous. This city was already hooking her claws under his plating, whispering in his audials- he snapped himself out of the creeping dread that came from that odd bit of imagination and rifled through his subspace to pay the artist. He had no idea if 300 shanix was a lot for a full paint job or not, but in a way, it felt reasonable. 

"Thank you," Prowl said again, holding himself with his usual (maybe extra) confidence. He extended that thanks to Arcee as well, who was beginning to clean up the leftover paints and airbrushes. 

"Happy to help, Prowl! You better stop back into Pyrite soon, ya hear?" Arcee pointed a finger mock-threateningly at Prowl before he conceded with a nod and finally exited the establishment. 

The sun was setting on Cool City, and Prowl's spontaneous new paint job adventure meant that he hadn't been able to complete his circuit in the time he had measured out for himself. The tac-net was disgruntled, but he continued to ignore it's grumbling formulas and statistics. He had plenty of time to finish his exploration over the next few cycles. Now, however, with the darkness falling on the city slowly getting replaced by the neon signs that had overwhelmed him the night before, it was time to further investigate these bars and clubs that took up most of the infrastructure. 

Just as he suspected, mechs began filling the streets and sidewalks as the sun sank low. They began forming lines outside of the clubs, some extending far down the block and mingling with other lines. For once, Prowl noticed that everyone had similar glowing details on their frames, each one completely unique from the next. There were some with multiple colors of glowing lines, others with bold shapes, and even more with actual biolights as opposed to paint. The nighttime barely registered now, with the lights of mechs and club signs and streetlights illuminating everything, gleaming off of the tall windows of the buildings like swirling oil spills. It was beautiful in a way that Prowl had never experienced; he was much more preferable to humble crystal gardens or simple pillars and arches like in Praxus or even Protihex. A wave of homesickness threatened to choke him, so he turned his processing power to his next course of action: where to go first.

There was very little differentiating one club from the next in this strip; it was all crafty or cheesy names and the same swooping neon lights and the same thrum of muted music from behind the closed doors. He checked his new contacts- he had accepted both Arcee's and Sunstreakers comm codes during his makeover- and remembered Bumblebee. The minibot seemed very enthusiastic about showing Prowl one place in particular... he took a vent and pinged the little bot.

A response came surprisingly quick.

::Hey, hey!:: Bumblebee greeted cheerfully. ::What's up, mister?::

::Bumblebee,:: Prowl found a bench to rest on away from the worst of the bustling lines, ::are you available to give me a tour?:: He took a moment to ping his location, right across from one of two fire stations in the entire city. He didn't bother sending the map, but did make sure it lined up properly for his own sake. 

::Wow, you're actually really close by! Yessir, give me two flicks of a seeker's aileron!:: The comm cut out after that, giving Prowl time to vent and prepare himself for the boisterous personality that was Bumblebee. 

Prowl didn't have to wait very long before a little yellow car braked hard enough for his rear wheels to lift off of the ground before he skidded to a full stop. He transformed quickly and bounced up to Prowl's bench.

"Woo!" Bumblebee cheered. "I love doing that. Edible?" 

Prowl's doorwings snapped up in a harsh 'V'. He glared at the tiny cube of gelled energon Bumblebee was holding out in offering. "I am an enforcer!" Prowl hissed, standing up abruptly. The audacity? The nerve? To offer an enforcer an- an edible- openly, in the middle of the sidewalk?! He felt one of his circuits pop.

Bumblebee subspaced the offending jelly quickly, shrinking back with his hands up defensively. "Woah, woah! Calm down, mister, no one's gonna make you take anything!" Somehow, that didn't calm Prowl down. 

"You cannot just- Why would you- That is illegal!" Prowl fumed, silently wishing that he was on duty. But no, he hadn't even received his new decals yet, there was nothing he could do- aside from call his fellow enforcers himself and-

Bumblebee was laughing. Straight up, hands on his knees, keeled over and laughing as if he hadn't just offered a literal police officer drugs. 

"This is no laughing matter!" Prowl snapped, hands falling to his hips in a chastising manner. The minibot continued to laugh for a few more moments before calming himself down, taking deep vents that were still getting interrupted by giggles.

"Prowl..." Bumblebee wheezed. "Prowl, edibles aren't illegal here!" 

Something in Prowl's processor snapped. "What?"

"Nothing is! Have you been to the grocery stores yet? There's aisles for this sort of thing! Hooh boy... you really scared me for a second!" Bumblebee shook his helm, then looked up at Prowl as if he wasn't actively bristling with confused, silent rage. "C'mon, I'll show you to Visages, but in the mean time-" a simple red band was pulled from his subspace and held out to Prowl. Processor still churning on the subject of illicit substances being offered to enforcers, he did not reach out to take the band. "It's not-" Bumblebee let out a chuckle "it's not gonna do anything to you. Look," he held up his own wrist, sporting a similar band but in green, "it lets people know you don't wanna be offered drugs."

Prowl studied the minibot, then the band, for a long moment. He should call it a night; stomp back to his apartment and sleep the nightcycle away so he could have all the next cycle dedicated to figuring out how in the Pit everything was apparently legalized. He would normally discard any possible scenarios where he was only experiencing a recharge flux, but this time, he kept it tucked away in a back corner in his processor. 

"Pleeeeease? I don't want you getting all growly at anybot when they don't know any better." Bumblebee waved the band in front of Prowl, giving him wide, innocent optics. 

Prowl muted his vocalizer before he could argue that nobody should be doing drugs in the first place, let alone so openly, let alone sharing. He snagged the red band with a huff and secured it to his wrist, just as he saw on Bumblebee's. Nothing happened to him, so he took that as a sign to relax his plating a little. "We will discuss this later," he grumbled, jabbing an accusatory finger at the minibot. He wasn't quite sure why he said that; this was only the second time he'd met with the minibot. It wasn't like they had much to do with each other beyond the fact that Prowl happened to crash on top of him. He shoved the memory clip away with a scowl. "Lead the way."

Bumblebee- just like when they first met- visibly lit up with streaks of golden biolights. "Yessir!" He gave a mock salute, folded into his alt, and gave a small rev of his engine, encouraging Prowl to follow. 

Visages was across the city, stationed on the corner of a block, with a line much longer than any of the other clubs or bars had. Prowl was worried that he'd have to stand in line the entire night and still not get in. Music pumped through the open door and out into the street, electric and new and- the mechs waiting outside were all dancing as if they were already inside. He dutifully ignored the memory of his coworkers rumors about dancing laws. Drugs were legal and not dancing was illegal? He was hating everything the night was bringing so far. 

Bumblebee transformed back into root mode at the end of the line, Prowl following suit just behind him. Instead of staying at the back of the line, however, the minibot beckoned him to trace the line all the way to the front door. He dialed all of his sensors down substantially when he realized that the music was much louder than he had anticipated. 

Two very burly looking bots with visors the same teal color as the club's sign stood on either side of the entrance, physically blocking the eager line from spilling inside. A mostly black and white mech leaned out of the doorway to say something to the bouncer on the left, barked a laugh at the bouncer's monotone response, then leaned in the doorway in a such a way that made his every curve and angle gleam under the wash of blue and purple light. He was the definition sinuous, and Prowl was convinced that his optics glitched the moment that blue visor locked on him.

"Jazz!" cheered Bumblebee, rushing forward so quickly that one of the bouncers twitched, leaping into a crushing hug with the visored mech Prowl was still staring at, forgetting what he was supposed to be doing with himself. 

"Bee!" Jazz swung the minibot in a tight circle before gently setting him back down on his pedes. The two laughed easily, like they had both remembered some inside joke they'd had for millennia. "Haven't seen ya here in a breem! Stayin' outta trouble?" He offlined half of his visor in a wink, and though it wasn't directed at him, the corner of Prowl's derma twitched. He watched the two exchange a friendly and animated chat until Bumblebee remembered Prowl and waved him over- closer to the doorway. Where the music was even louder and this black and white mech was even shinier and-

"You just gonna check me out all night or do you wanna buy me a drink?" 

"What?" Prowl reset his audials, then turned them up slightly. Maybe he misheard-

"I said," Jazz leaned forward, tilting his helm towards Prowl's audial, "are you just gonna check me out all night? Or do you wanna buy me a drink?" The way he purred those glyphs stalled Prowl's tac-net, leaving him at a loss for... anything at all. He stood there, posture stiff and optics wide as his faceplate gradually warmed from the embarrassment. He did not mean to be disrespectful- to ogle like he wasn't a mature, dignified, professional mech. 

"No," Prowl sputtered stupidly. The visored mech pouted, and that wasn't helping either. "No, I mean- I meant- I did not intend-"

Jazz fell into a bout of easy laughter, the kind that rolled over Prowl's doorwings like waves rolling over a coral reef. It also made him snap his intake shut so quickly he was sure he strained something. "Who's this mech you brought with you, Bee? He looks like he's never seen another handsome mech before!" 

Bee snickered, but reached out to give a comforting pat to Prowl's hip, radiating no ill intent with their teasing. "This is Prowl! He's-"

"I am an enforcer, transferred here from Protihex," Prowl interrupted, and internally groaned. Of course he was only good enough to repeat those few simple facts. Prowl. Enforcer. Transferred. Protihex. They were the only glyphs that mattered- the only ones that described him and what his purpose was.

Jazz, unsubtly, gave Prowl's frame a once-over. Despite his optics being hidden behind the visor, he could feel the ghost sensation of where his gaze tracked and lingered. Somehow, he felt more exposed than he had when Sunstreaker had stripped his paint. "So you are," he mused, smile never vanishing. "Well, if you ain't too shy, my question still stands."

Prowl tilted his wings in a query, then realized that no one would understand what that meant, and said "And that would be?"

Jazz cocked his hip to the side, the intricate detailing there sparkling for just a nanoklik. Prowl reset his optics. Destroyed the rapidly forming threads his tac-net was churning out. Tried to take an even invent. That visor glimmered at him like temptation. "I don't mind you swooning, but could you do it over some engex instead?"

Chapter Text

"Well that's a first."

Prowl startled through his reboot, sending a jolt of shock through a couple of his systems before they shuddered and smoothed back out. Before he could stop it, the tac-net spun back to life like a stubborn pebble caught under a piece of kibble. With his optics still offline, it did nothing but hum smugly in the back of his helm. Pain receptors fired from beneath his faceplates and within his helm, which seemed pretty minimal if he just faceplanted on the ground.

Prowl onlined his optics slowly, only to find that his nasal ridge was smashed against a smooth chassis. He jerked back before his gyros could cope, sending him stumbling backwards with his arms pinwheeling uselessly. He might have yelped in alarm, but he would have to politely decline any comments on that. He tensed his frame for the inevitable crush of his doorwings against pavement, except- except that never happened. He could sense the ground just nanometers from their tips, but they did not so much as scrape. And then, finally, the situation caught up with him: Jazz had caught him.

Jazz had not only caught him, saving his sensitive appendages from near-crippling damage, but he had caught him in a way that made it look like he was simply dipping Prowl at the conclusion of a ballroom dance. If Prowl had ever seen any of those sappy, unrealistic holovids, he would say that this mimicked those to the thousandth decimal. But, he never indulged in many holovids, and certainly never the romantic ones, so all he had to back this experience off of was how unprofessional this kind of physical contact was. 

"Now, I hate ta sound like a glitched record," Jazz murmured, his brassy voice all Prowl could make sense of against the music and all the mechs chattering around them. Prowl's doorwings shuddered with anticipation before he could get himself under control. Having just crashed was making things difficult, but the mech still holding him firmly as though he was still falling was making things impossible. "But you've gotta at least take me to dinner first."

Prowl, overwhelmed and confused and frankly a little terrified, not to mention absolutely humiliated, started to laugh. That was when he knew that something in his processor must have finally broken under the stress of a sudden crash; he couldn't remember the last time he had laughed, or if he'd even ever laughed before, but the sounds that were spilling from his vocalizer were certainly that. It sounded crude, coming from him. The tones were rough and ragged and he couldn't stop. There was absolutely nothing funny about anything right now! He began running diagnostics to find whatever virus he must have been infected with somehow, but everything was as clean as it always was.

Jazz, still holding their ridiculous pose, went slack-jawed. His energy shifted from a blinding ray of confidence and seduction and ebbed into silent wonder. "Oh, Primus," he whispered, something only Prowl could hear just beneath his own hiccuping laughter. He didn't stop until Jazz had carefully pulled him back to his own two pedes, reluctantly letting go of his frame once he was certain Prowl wouldn't try to shake hands with the floor again. 

"My apologies," Prowl giggled (he really was broken), regaining his composure piece by piece. "I did not intend to-"

"'S totally fine, mech!" Jazz interrupted, holding up a placating hand. "Wouldn't want your pretty paint all scuffed up by the ground, now." His easygoing grin was back, effectively covering up whatever awe remained. 

"I fell on your chassis," Prowl said matter-of-factly, dipping his doorwings (bashfully). 

"'S fine, 's fine! I'm honored. Besides-"

"Primus almighty, get a room!" Prowl's helm snapped to the side to see who- oh. Bumblebee was standing with his arms crossed over his chassis, looking very unimpressed. "Are we gonna go in or what?"

Ah... right. He had planned on visiting Visages with Bumblebee as his guide in order to evaluate what the clubs of Cool City were like. Only now, the thought of gathering and processing data made his vision swim a little. Everything was much too loud, and his helm was pounding, and he had been through too many odd scenarios in one nightcycle, thank you! But Jazz- Jazz looked hopeful, already half-turned to enter the swarm of overcharged mechs and blasting music. 

Prowl stood in place, frame tense. The tac-net supplied a comprehensive A-Z list of all that could go wrong if he went against better judgement and entered the chaos of Visages. He couldn't help but notice that the 'C' category was quite extensive (C- Crashing due to [too many variables]). He deleted the entire list before it could absorb the power needed for lower functions.

"I do not think I should accompany you," Prowl admitted slowly, waiting for the disappointment to form on their faces. In Protihex, in Tagan Heights, even in Praxus, he was used to being the boring, disappointing mech that never did anything for fun. Fun... he hardly knew the meaning of the word! He was dedicated to his work and that gave him all the satisfaction he needed! ...right?

"Oh!" Jazz, whose faceplate did not exude the expected disappointment, snapped his fingers. "Of course, I can't believe I didn't think o' that!" 

Before Prowl could ask what he meant, the visored mech was whispering something in Bumblebee's audial. The minibot mumbled "uh-huh. uh-huh. okay. uh-huh, sure," nodding all the while, then held up a double thumbs-up to Jazz when he straightened back up. He blinked, and Bumblebee had disappeared into the gaping maw of Visages.

"I've got a spot, darlin', don't you worry 'bout a thang," Jazz purred, holding his arm out to Prowl in a gesture very foreign to the enforcer. Because he had no idea what he was supposed to do, he pretended it wasn't there.

"What?" 

Jazz's grin became lopsided, and Prowl's spark felt lopsided too. "You've just crashed or somethin', right? Prolly all sensitive to everythin', and Visages is no place to go when you can't hardly handle a lil flirtin'." 

Prowl started to argue that he could most certainly handle being flirted with, when he remembered that being flirted with is what made him crash in the first place. Give him a break, he'd never had that happen before (that he was aware of)!

"That is a valid assumption," Prowl said instead, not bothering on delving in any further. If he did, he would be forced to remember the last ten breems and he wasn't so sure he could handle that either. He was following Jazz now (who put his arm back down), down the sidewalk and away from all the noise. He wasn't exactly sure where he was being led (he should be more concerned about that), but he was relieved when the helmache subsided little by little. "Where are you taking me?"

To that, Jazz gave a hearty chuckle. "You make it sound like I've gone and kidnapped ya!" Prowl's wings rose in mortification. "Lighten up, sweetspark, we're just gonna go to a quiet lil place where we can relax and get to know each other." He paused, peppy gait faltering for a beat. "You're... cool with that, right?" 

Prowl considered Jazz. Like everyone else he'd met so far, he'd been whisked away on a whim to someplace he knew nothing about to do something he'd never done before. In a way, he was getting used to the excitable nature of the residents of Cool City, but the consideration shown (albeit a little late) put him at ease. "Yes," he decided, despite the fact he was getting increasingly nervous about that last part. "That is acceptable." 

That seemed to satisfy Jazz, who returned to his inefficient (captivating) half-dance/half-walk with renewed fervor. Not much later, Prowl recognized the place he had been taken to.

"I have been here," Prowl said, mostly to the open air. 

"What, Pyrite? F'real?" Jazz paused in front of the door, glancing at Prowl over his shoulder, who only nodded in response. "Neat!"

Without further ado, Jazz led Prowl inside the pleasantly quiet diner and to the first available booth. There were mechs and femmes alike populating a majority of the tables, adding an atmosphere that Prowl hadn't gotten when he had first visited. There was music playing from hidden speakers, but it was gentle and soothing as opposed to energetic and noisy like all of the clubs. It was warm and peaceful; perfect to soothe an overworked processor. The lighting also served to soften the visored mech seated across from him; less stark and vibrant zigzags of color, more graceful, elegant beauty.

Thank Primus Arcee arrived to stop him from going down that turborabbit hole again. 

"Prowl! Back so soon?" Arcee practically cheered, and the attention was so alien to Prowl, but simultaneously welcomed. Then, her gaze slid to Jazz, and her optics widened with shock. "Oh, bolts, I'm gonna owe Smokey so much money..." the femme groaned, cast a forlorn look at the ceiling, then turned her attention back to Prowl as if nothing happened. "I knew that new paint job would do you good." 

Prowl frowned. He didn't feel like reading into the- any- of the implications left by those statements, so he let them drift away. Betting wasn't technically illegal, but it was still one of those things that irked him. No matter. "It is very nice, thank you again."

"I'll say," Jazz hummed, chin resting in his palm, 100% looking a little too much at Prowl's plating again. 

"You always ruin my bets," Arcee hissed, jabbing the end of her lightpen at Jazz. "Every. Single. Time!" she punctuated her glyphs with more jabs. 

"Puh-lease, you lose your shanix the nanoklik you bet it with Smokescreen, everybot knows that," Jazz argued light-heartedly. "'Sides, kind of an odd bet to be makin', ain't it? And-"

Prowl stopped listening. Did he just say Smokescreen? As in the Chief Enforcer Smokescreen. As in Prowl's new boss, Smokescreen. Implying that Chief Enforcer Smokescreen, Prowl's direct superior, is supposedly hosting bets so frequently that he is known for betting. What kind of disturbed, backwards city, with its legal drugs and rampant nightlife, had he been bound to? He couldn't even care to work out what the bet even was, he was just so irritated over the fact that his chief was making them!

Servos clasped over his own, ripping him from the frustrating drain he was circling. "You're not gonna crash on me again, are ya?" 

Prowl reset his optics a few times before meeting Jazz's visor and finding genuine concern there. He quickly shook his helm. He had to stop thinking. Full stop. 

"Good," Jazz sighed, and began pulling his hands back- 

Prowl grabbed them. He stared at their hands. He ran a few more diagnostics, still not convinced he wasn't trapped in an elaborate flux. 

"I'm gonna purge," Arcee fake gagged. "Seriously, that was a lot of shanix down the drain because of you!" 

Jazz, for once, didn't have a witty retort. He was also staring at their now entwined fingers like they were one of the many secrets of the universe. In a way, they could have been.

The rest of the night at Pyrite Diner was awkward, but in an almost comforting way. He told Jazz what little intriguing things he'd done in Protihex before he was transferred, and Jazz listened like it was the best hit single he'd ever heard. Prowl did buy Jazz that drink, even though he was never fond of the inebriation that followed. He himself stuck to plain energon, sipping it slow enough to make it last well into the morning cycle, listening to the visored mech tell him extravagant stories of him and Cool City and drag racing and his friends and- drag racing?

The groan that escaped Prowl made Jazz's thrilling description of how he (probably cheated- but that's besides the point) won his first drag race against some big-names he didn't know. Jazz, for a moment, looked wounded.

"What, I'm not borin' you, am I?" he asked, and if Prowl knew any better, he'd say sheepishly.

Prowl shook his helm, straightened his back struts slightly. "Racing outside of a designated track is illegal." He wished he hadn't said that. His tac-net smugly toted a compilation of times he had to interject and remind somebot that something they had done or were doing was against the law, and it was second only to the times he had stated his designation. He sent a threatening glower at the tac-net, and it retreated.

Jazz snorted. "Only if you get caught-" he backed down quickly when Prowl's doorwings did their signature 'I am an enforcer!' flare. "I mean... that was in the past!" Smooth. But Prowl was smarter than that. Judging by a few key glyphs intermixed in his story telling, it was obvious that street racing was still a hobby of his. Though, his admission did mollify him; at least something typically outlawed was still outlawed here. 

"I would sure hope so," Prowl muttered, leaning on the 3.7% that Jazz really had given up racing as benefit of the doubt. He... oh Primus, he thought Jazz was charming! A criminal! Charming! Diagnostics still came back clear. He settled his plating with a sigh. He supposed he couldn't be too upset; for one, he still wasn't on duty, and another... so long as Jazz wasn't omitting any details (unlikely; he was showing clear signs of overcharge, and while not stumbling over his words, they were coming more freely), no one had gotten injured, and no property had been ruined. If he had been on call... well, he'd probably still take every one of those racers back to the precinct for a little justice, but for a moment there he could imagine himself being nice and letting them off with speeding tickets (he didn't do verbal warnings...).

"And what would you do if it wasn't?" Jazz purred, leaning over the table with both of his hands supporting his chin. 

Prowl squinted at Jazz's visor, trying (and failing) to see the optics underneath. He didn't like that question, but his tac-net gleefully grabbed it out of the air and did it's usual fussing over it. The results came out garbled, unintelligent, smudged with emotions he couldn't begin to describe. "I would likely apprehend you and you would face fines as high as 2,000 shanix or imprisonment for at least three groons," he said, piggybacking off of his handy enforcer files instead of trying to sort out whatever the rest of his processor was doing. 

"Yer makin' it sound like apprehending lil ol' me is easy." Jazz's casual grin turned wicked. Prowl's optic twitched, but his spark did something dangerous, and the next glyphs he uttered must have been projected from someone else, because why on all of Cybertron would he say-

"Then I suppose I will have to pursue you."

Someone's engine growled, and Prowl wasn't sure if it was his own or the mech across from him, giggling into his nearly-empty glass of engex. It could have been both. He was mortified. Such things were so unbecoming of an enforcer, gah! He sat so ridged he could have been at attention. That foreign urge to run was back, tugging at his wheels like they were going to start rolling off if he didn't transform and follow them. 

"I'll be lookin' forward to it," Jazz said, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp. Then, he slid out of the booth, taking an extra measure to lean over Prowl, his shadow broken only by his glowing biolights. "I hope you put up a good chase, officer," his voice washed over him like a silken shroud, dripping down Prowl's frame, almost real enough to make him shudder.

Just like that, he was gone, sauntering out of the diner before Prowl could shut his intake. 

Chapter Text

"Wow." That was Arcee, standing at Prowl's table with his tab in hand. "Are you just gonna let him do that, or..."

Prowl blinked at the door that was still slowly closing, then up at Arcee, at a loss. "Do what?"

Arcee huffed, then handed the tab over. "Just walk away all sexy like that? Geez, if it were anyone else-"

Prowl slammed a credit chip down, surprising the both of them. "Excuse me," he said, the glyphs strained. What was he doing what was he doing what was he doing-

The cool night air streaked across Prowl's alt, sending shivers through his sensors. The pavement was smooth, almost slick as if it had been raining, under his tires. Buildings and other cars whisked by him in a steady blur, drowned out by the exhilaration thrumming through his engine. He had accepted the fact that he was probably off the deep end before the transformation sequence from root to pursuit vehicle even finished, and the frantic (enticing) swerve of the taillights ahead of him only made him push harder.

"What are you doing?!" Jazz yelped, narrowly dodging a femme that hadn't cleared her lane fast enough. Yes, this was the most insane, unbecoming thing Prowl had ever done, but (and he loathed to admit) the night was still not over, and the anticipation of the next surprise had seized what self control he had left. Chasing Jazz in this manner also effectively stripped away the previous, scary feelings of fleeing the scene.

"Pursuit," Prowl replied casually, allowing his lights and sirens to blip on for a klik for emphasis. And oh, how awful he was being, using his position as an enforcer like this, when he was off the clock. There were rules against this sort of thing (use of lights and sirens not on-duty, for one), but he couldn't care at the moment; not when Jazz was putting up such a good chase.  And that was just another thing; Prowl hadn't been on a pursuit in ages. Not much ever happened in Protihex; especially nothing involving high speed police chases. His skills were put more to investigations and detective work, due to his cursed tac-net. He couldn't remember the last real, satisfying pursuit he had been a part of. There was an itch he hadn't known he had, but now that it was being scratched, he couldn't help but keep scratching.

Jazz didn't say anything to that, but his manic swerving and dodging evened out into deliberate maneuvering around the surrounding traffic that merely faded into an afterthought. There was no room to think about anything else, especially not when everything else had turned into streaks of light against the darkened sky. 

Jazz was fast. Stupid fast- it was no wonder the mech had taken up street racing. Prowl suspected that he had some mods or enhancement upgrades under that hood, and that revelation made his own engine thrum with excitement. While Jazz was nearly fast enough to lose him, he lacked the stamina that came with being a pursuit vehicle. Prowl had stamina, lots of it, and enough fuel to drag a chase out for half a cycle if he had to. He'd never tapped into backup reserves before, and while he was tempted to find out what that would feel like, the thrill of the chase was going to turn into frustration if it didn't end well before his gauge dipped below half. 

Lucky for Prowl, Jazz had tricks, too. The speedster had given him a few good faints, even more well-timed dodges before he could get too close to a pit maneuver, and once, even vaulted over an unsuspecting truck to avoid getting caught. He was fast, agile, clever, clearly not restraining himself to make things easy, which was exactly what Prowl needed. As intense as the chase was, it was also undeniably playful in a way that only high speed chases could be. All that was left was closing the gap.

Prowl's bumper ghosted Jazz's quarter panel, a flicker of charge jumping across the nanometer of space between their plating. He took advantage of the brief shock, closing the last breath of space and pressing in; a classic pit maneuver designed to make the suspect lose control and spin out. It could be painful, when done a certain way, and especially to those that had less skill than Jazz clearly had. 

Jazz certainly did spin out, tires skidding loudly as his frame spiraled, but the thing that rushed Prowl with unadulterated glee was just how quickly he regained control; barely losing momentum and instead continuing his race backwards like an wild madmech. 

"You don't play, do ya Prowler?!" Jazz shouted over the roar of their engines. He cheekily flashed his blinkers before pulling some impossible stunt, getting himself forwards again. Prowl couldn't help but whoop his siren again.

Their game of cybercat and rat(trap) continued for only a short amount of time, but not without Prowl attempting two more maneuvers before finally getting Jazz good enough to make his recovery slow. He lunged, transforming midair to snag the speedster by his bumper with a triumphant cackle. He was so far out of his processor. 

Jazz transformed, signifying the end of the chase. He was panting, hard, but that grin of his couldn't be any wider. Prowl realized that he, too, was panting, his systems struggling to cool down from the excitement and exertion. Then he realized that they had wound up at the edge of Cool City, where the buildings were scarce and cybugs chirped. It was quiet, aside from their frames, of course. 

Prowl leaned over Jazz, seemingly unable to remove his servos from that sleek bumper, and offered a grin of his own. His faceplates were going to fall off if he kept smiling and laughing so much; his old coworkers would have teased him, saying they didn't think he even had the coding for such expressions. "I do not play," he hummed, the hunger in his own voice startling him. The tac-net gave him escape routes, all of which were tossed away without a second glance. He could not run from whatever he had chased himself into. It was ridiculous that he had ever felt the need to run. 

"I can see that," Jazz audibly gulped, visor over-bright and perhaps the most captivating shade of blue. "So you've caught me," he slid his own hands up to Prowl's bumper, hooking his fingers under the reinforced bumper guard, "now what are ya gonna do with me?" 

Prowl had not thought that part through. He wasn't at all used to thinking on base coding, and now he was remembering why he never did that. Having a plan was the only way to avoid moments like these, where he wasn't quite sure what was supposed to happen or what he even wanted to happen. He pleaded the tac-net to do something, but the blasted hardware only kept pinging him with options to flee or offline himself (very rude, tac-net, very rude). He must have hesitated for too long, because those digits snagged on his bumper slowly retreated, and the broad grin quirked with uncertainty. Prowl himself quickly righted, clearing his vocalizer awkwardly and holding his hands together, afraid they'd pounce and attack the mech again. 

"My apologies," he started on instinct, averting his optics. "I did not plan ahead. I did not even mean to chase you. It was a gross oversight and shall not happen again." 

Jazz sat up with a grunt (he briefly worried he had injured something during the pursuit). "What?" he laughed, free and easy. "Mech, that was the most exciting thing I've ever been put through since they installed- never mind- since ever! I'll be mad as Pit if you don't do that again." That last bit sounded like a threat more than a tease, but it had its effect regardless. 

Prowl chewed on an invisible rust stick, debating... he didn't know what, but there was a tug-of-war going on between his frame and his processor, and he wasn't sure who would win. 

"What did you want me to do?" Prowl blurted, afraid to meet the other's gaze for an indeterminate reason. He left 'to you' out of that sentence, hoping the implication was enough to get his true question across.

Jazz was quiet for what felt like an incredibly long time. His silence was filled with the pops and pings of their frames cooling down, the chattering cybugs, and the lazy breeze that drifted around the vacant street. "If I tell you, are ya gonna crash on me?" he teased, leaning into Prowl's periphery, daring the enforcer to look at him. 

Prowl frowned despite himself, and looked. "Doubtful," he answered, further stomping his tac-net down for good measure. 

Jazz took the opportunity to twist himself so that he was kneeling, hands braced on the tops of Prowl's knees, helm leaned too close and yet not close enough. "Well," he purred, low and sweet, engine matching the harmonic perfectly. "I was hopin' you would slap some stasis cuffs on me, drag me off to where ever it is you're livin', and have your sweet way with me until we're both knocked into recharge." 

Prowl was wrong, he probably was going to crash now. Static frizzed from his vocalizer, useless, and he fought to understand why anyone would ever say those sinful glyphs to him of all mechs. But the crash never came. The tac-net was blissfully quiet. And Jazz was still pressing towards him, patient and willing and-

"I do not have stasis cuffs with me." Prowl wanted to wrench throat open and throw his vocalizer as far as he possibly could. He had to recover, fast. "But!" he sputtered, taking Jazz's servos off of his knees so he could stand, pulling the mech up with him as he went. "But, if you truly want to, I do have an- ah- an apartment. Somewhere. Where are we?" He scanned the area, looking for an establishment name or any geographical features. There were none; must be purely residential. 

"The boonies, kinda," Jazz replied, brushing dust and bits of rubble from his plating. "What's your complex called?" 

"Icy Steel, I believe," Prowl said, pulling up his map and trying to find 'The Boonies' on it. Then he realized that it was likely a nickname, and not an actual area title, and instead pinpointed his apartment. "I do not know how to get there from here, would you-"

Jazz had already folded into his speedster alt, flashing his blinkers again. "Right this-a-way!" 

Prowl had wrestled the urge to spur Jazz into another chase the whole way back to his apartment. As enticing as it was, and as charged he was feeling, he would rather not break the law a second time, and would much less rather accidentally injure either one of them. He did not regret the earlier pursuit, but he did regret the carelessness that went into it. Somebot could have been hurt! ...but no one had, and there had been no property damage, so he could give it a pass. Just this once. To ensure he wouldn't try to start anything, he slowly began taking the lead as he recognized places he had seen before. Jazz followed happily, dancing between lanes to his own beat. It was astonishing, how the mech seemed to always be in a groove.

Driving in front also served to lessen the distraction that was Jazz's frame and colors, allowing him to piece together some semblance of a plan for when they got to his apartment. They were going to interface: 94.7% certainty. Were they going to talk first? Maybe grab a little coolant? Were they going to make it past the front door? He was swimming in a whirlpool of possibilities, the flurry of anticipation and nerves and strut-deep desire threatening to pull him under. He was not a stranger to interfacing, but he was not one to indulge in it often if at all. There had been some early days where he was a little more carefree, unhindered by the bitterness of reality, but those had been so long ago, they very well could have never happened. 

The sign for Icy Steel Apartment Complex glowed a subdued silver, and Prowl transformed beneath it. What if he was going about this all wrong? All these mechs and femmes... he'd only been in Cool City a little longer than one full cycle. He didn't know these bots. They didn't know him (but they really seemed to act like they did). He didn't know who Jazz was beyond the last few joors they had spent talking and racing around the city.

Jazz came up beside him, ruffling his plating to settle it properly after his transformation sequence, and Prowl found he didn't care to worry about that now.

"After you," Jazz hummed, holding the door to the complex open for Prowl. He extended his gratitude, then led the visored mech down a long hall to his apartment. His fuel pump picked up each nanoklik they weren't already inside, and he fumbled the key card for a moment before finally, finally, the door slid open, revealing the bare-struts living room (bare-struts everything, but that wouldn't have changed if he had been settled in for vorns) with its lonely couch and table. 

Thankfully, Prowl didn't have to waste time worrying about how vacant his apartment looked, because there were servos on him, gliding up his spinal strut to the space just between his doorwings. He shivered, completely involuntary, and let his wings fan out to sense his catch's movement. He shut down all non-essential processor threads, and gave himself over to sensation and feeling only. 

"Invite me to your berth?" Jazz murmured, vents stirring against the sensors of his doorwings teasingly just before placing a gentle kiss to the upper edge of one. 

"Yes," Prowl gasped, pedes moving before he could properly register the action. Jazz's servos never left his waist, his derma brushing against his wings with each step until Prowl successfully navigated them to the smaller berthroom. He let himself be turned, and now those derma were on his own, and they were so impossibly soft, and gentle, and safe, and he equally let himself get lost in the tender feeling of being kissed and held like it was the only thing he knew. 

Jazz gently began pulling Prowl onto the berth so that the enforcer was above him. He purred something about not wanting to hurt 'those pretty wings', not that he had any semblance to care at the moment, when they were gasping against each others intakes like they were drowning, when nimble servos were teasing the hinges of his doorwings, when the frame pressed so close to his own was so warm and inviting, when the vibrato of their engines were sending such wonderful feelings throughout his body. In short, he was more than happy to lay atop the other mech. His charge was skyrocketing already, that's all that mattered.

"Panels?" Jazz panted, his face tucked under Prowl's jaw as he mouthed the sensitive cables of his neck. This was new. This was exciting. Without a second thought, he let his valve panel slide back, and in tandem he heard Jazz release one of his own. 

Prowl reached between them, expecting to find a spike pressurizing for him, but instead found Jazz's already slick valve. He drew back slightly, and saw realization flash across the mech's visor- they must have come to the same conclusion.

"I can-" Prowl started, but was swiftly interrupted with a searing kiss. When it broke, he felt dizzy.

"No, stay just like that," Jazz murmured against his intake, sitting up and readjusting them so that they were both sitting facing each other, legs tangled a little awkwardly. "I can make this work."

Prowl believed him. He believed that hungry, determined grin and glint of a visor. He believed him through the rearranging of limbs, one leg over one hip, one leg under another leg, until their glistening, exposed valves were nearly flush against one another. He gaped at the lewd display, unsure if he should feel aroused or scared. Jazz's array was just as beautiful as he was, fit with matching blue biolights and anterior node. Prowl's own valve didn't look much different; the key difference was his node was the same red as his chevron and he didn't have nearly as many biolights. He briefly wondered if interface array biolight mods were common in Cool City before Jazz reached for his servo, clasping it as if to shake hands.

"Ready?" Jazz asked with a quick flick of his glossa over his lips. There was no doubt he was staring at Prowl's valve, and for once, he felt more flattered than shy from the attention. He reclined slightly, supporting himself with his free hand, and Prowl found it wise to mirror him. 

"Yes." 

Prowl had plenty idea of what was going to happen; he could easily take the context clues of their strange position and exposed valves, and put them together to form the intimate act that was surely to follow. Foresight did not prepare him for how said action was going to feel. The only sound more obscene than the guttural moan that escaped Prowl's vocalizer was the wet squelch of their valves crushing together.  

"Oh, Primus," Jazz groaned, slowly rocking their hips in such a way that ground their nodes together, sending a sharp jolt of electricity across and then through their frames, the current racing back and forth until it crackled in the open air. "Yes!"

"Yes," Prowl echoed, using the leverage of their clasped servos to roll his hips in time with Jazz's steady rhythm, adding just a little more pressure, just a little more friction. Valve slid over valve in a tantalizing display; slow and deliberate. "Yes, yes, yes," he chanted as their grinding gained speed and passion, whispering the glyphs like a prayer. 

Their steady movements quickly devolved into desperate grinding; Prowl bucking and Jazz scraping his pede behind Prowl's pelvic plating, doing anything to just get closer, get more, get anything. Plating scraped and lubricants created a steady mess on the berthcovers beneath them, but overload was still just out of reach- taunting them. Taunting Prowl, who had never known pleasure like this in so long, had never known it to come like this.

"Prowl," Jazz whined wantonly, helm thrown back and lolling with every push and pull. "Oh, Prowl-"

Prowl sucked in a shuddering gasp, trying so hard to chase the overload that was just over the horizon. This was just like the earlier pursuit, only now Jazz was here chasing with him and somehow that made it all the more exhilarating. Without any particular flair, he let go of Jazz's servo (consequently allowing the mech to fall on his back with a soft grunt) and thrust it between them, aiming to rub both of their nodes as fast and as firmly as possible. His vents hitched, and he could feel himself teetering right on the edge-

Jazz overloaded with a drawn-out cry, his frame tensing and arcing from the berth and into Prowl's touch, somehow still chasing more despite being at the peak. The vision that was Jazz in such pure ecstasy was enough to finally tip him over the edge; his vocalizer clicking rapidly as he writhed, and it was all so much, it was all too much, his frame felt like explosions and blaster fire and every circuit in his body screamed until finally- he came back down, unaware of how and when he had fallen back, doorwings splayed beneath him and trembling.

Cooling fans and heavy venting filled the empty space that had only become known once the rush had died down. It was a blissful almost-quiet. Afterglow. Yes, that was the glyph for times like these. Afterglow. 

"Prowl..." Jazz croaked, still lying limply. Their legs were still tangled, and it was going to get uncomfortable very soon. 

"Mm?" was all Prowl could manage, too lost in the echoes of charge and the gentle pulsing between his legs. 

"That was awesome."

Prowl snorted. Of all of the things to say... but he couldn't deny it, either. For all intents and purposes, interfacing with Jazz had been 'awesome'. It had also been a million other things, but they were all either too large or too small for meager words to explain. "Yes," he sighed, maybe dreamily. "It was."

He took a few more breems to bask in the aftermath before he begrudgingly began extracting himself from the tangle of legs they had formed. Lubricant was already beginning to congeal and stick to his thighs, and he was not a fan of being anything other than clean, so he aimed to take a quick shower and-

Jazz pulled Prowl back down to the berth the moment they were untangled. The visored mech clung to Prowl's waist, burying his faceplates against his bumper with a happy huff. "Just for a klik," he murmured, but by the sleepiness lined in his vocalizer, Prowl knew he wouldn't be released until morning. They drifted off into recharge just like that; a warm, gooey mess. 

Chapter Text

Prowl woke with the sun as he always did. The issue, however, was that he had only slept for about one joor; not nearly enough recharge to feel half-functional. Because he didn't have work, or even a set itinerary yet today, he allowed himself the luxury of staying in berth, optics offline as he ran through some much needed defrag. By the time he noticed how awfully low his coolant and fuel levels were, he remembered what he had done. 

He didn't know how he hadn't remembered sooner. The mech he had taken to berth was practically on top of him, engine making an occasional purr during his deep recharge. That, and the dried fluids that made his plating feel as if it were caked in mud. Embarrassment and panic seized his spark, giving him the will to slowly, carefully escape the visored mech's cuddling. Jazz didn't wake, thank Primus, but he did reach blindly for a moment, searching for something to hold. Prowl quickly snagged a pillow and placed it within reach, and watched it get engulfed in the sleeping mech's arms. The first flutter of fondness was stamped down, and he went to his washracks before more of that kind of feeling could get to him. 

He needed a shower. Bad. He had never been so debauched; his and Jazz's lubricants all over his legs and pelvic armor, yes, but also dried condensation from the heat of the night, plus the dust and gravel he'd kicked up on the roads, making his entire frame feel itchy. It was a wonder how he let them jump right into intimacy before getting the literal dirt off of them first. In hindsight, the heat of the moment had been all-consuming. He made a note to strip his berth as soon as possible, no telling how soaked the covers had gotten. 

Prowl turned the solvent on as cold as possible, sighing with relief as it wicked away the grime. He flared his plating, allowing the cool liquid to wash over his protoform. He shut his optics, just standing beneath the rain until he finally gathered the courage to actually scrub the evidence of his... what would he even call the series of events that had occurred? How did he really feel about it all? There was no regret so far (aside from the mess and lack of recharge), but there was something else in its place; something unrecognizable. Tac-net, unprompted and unrelated, gave him a supply of possible itineraries for the day, most accounting for a lack of recharge, but none mentioning Jazz to any extent. He rolled his optics and set to focusing on his plating. He really needed to get back to work, if the old tac-net was going to get increasingly annoying. 

He briefly hesitated over his valve panel, not necessarily wanting to go through cleaning his valve but knowing he had to. He could be grateful that there was no transfluid to worry about, but nevertheless, he could already tell it was going to be sensitive to the touch. He retracted the panel with another sigh, and shuttered his optics. The cold temperature of the solvent-soaked mesh cloth was uncomfortable to drag along the outer folds of his valve, but was also soothing, cooling the protoform that had undergone more friction than it had probably ever seen. Of course, he hadn't been burned or abraded thanks to the copious amounts of lubricants they had both produced, but it was still sore. Before he could get a reign on his processor, it had run away into the sunrise with ideas for 'next time'. 

Prowl snapped his panel shut with a little too much force, and stopped the flow of solvent. No. There was no way there was going to be a next time, as much as he needed wanted it. He did not know Jazz. Jazz did not know him. He was a stranger in an even stranger city and he wasn't cut out for that kind of lifestyle. He had (was going to) have a job to do, and he would have to proceed with utmost professionalism if he was going to do it well. No ogling pretty mechs, no chasing them through the city like a deranged mechanimal, and definitely no bringing them to berth. 

He repeated those rules- they were rules, now- to himself over and over until the little hopeful charge followed the remaining solvent down the washrack drain. He let himself drip-dry for a moment, toweled off as best as he could, smoothed his plating over (without admiring his new paint in the mirror), and made to get himself some proper fuel. It had been an awful slip of him, but he was going to be good from now on. He was going to be right. The tac-net cheered, tossing a bouquet of edits for that dayshift request to Smokescreen. Perfect. 

Prowl tip-toed to the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets. He had yet to buy glassware (item added to shopping list: add to itinerary? A/N; Affirmative.) so chugging coolant straight from the jug had to do. As the liquid slid down his throat, he started working on what to say to Jazz when the mech woke up. The tac-net offered up the option of waking him up now, but Prowl argued that if one joor of sleep was not good enough for him, it was not good enough for Jazz. The tac-net grumbled, but dropped it quickly, instead suggesting useful phrases to clearly convey that: 1. the interface was pleasant, 2. appreciation and thanks for the interface, 3. Prowl had to [go shopping] [finish his map of the city] [work: A.], and 4. interface cannot happen again. It made the coolant taste bitter. Once his reserves were full, he found a few energon cubes and took to chugging those, as well. He sorted through glyphs, grammar, rate of speech, until he had about a dozen acceptable phrases to help him through the conversation he would have to have later. Two cubes later, there was nothing left for him to do but sit around. 

He considered leaving, but wasn't too keen on leaving a random mech (who had blown his processor, sure) in his apartment. There wasn't really anything to steal, aside from fuel and basic maintenance items, and the filthy berthcovers, but one could never be too cautious. He felt through his subspace, finding receipts from the previous cycle (wow, he sure did spend a lot on that paint job), an empty cube (which he diligently threw away), his keys, a handful of old datapads, a stylus, and a little crystal trinket that he normally wouldn't have kept, but Private Bluestreak had been so endearing, the thought of tossing it felt cruel. Everyone at the Tagan Heights precinct had gotten something from Bluestreak throughout his brief time there. Prowl never did look into where he had been transferred, but he didn't find it necessary to find out now, after all the time that had passed. There was little possibility (8.4%) that the mech even remembered Prowl.

Shaking the memory file away, Prowl subspaced everything but one of the datapads. The screen that flickered online was just as he had left it; on page 2133 out of 3487 of A Mystery in Lower Tarn. Naturally, he had solved the mystery somewhere before the 600th page, but the writing of it was still enriching and the overall narrative was something he enjoyed. He wasn't sure how the author had managed to string the novel out for so long, but there was a dedication there that he could admire... when he wasn't getting worked up over the detective characters failing to notice the clues that were right under their anterior nares! He paced as he got lost in the story, tracking slow circles around the living room.

"Whatcha readin'?"

Prowl startled hard enough to throw the datapad. It hit the ground with a pitiful clattering sound, but not before he could miserably try to juggle it in the air. It was funny to the mech who had startled him, but he just felt shame. He stared at the datapad for a moment, frowning in disappointment- at himself or the inanimate object, he wasn't sure. 

Jazz's laugh was soft and low, and he crossed the room to pick the poor datapad up. Prowl's optics tracked every swivel of joints, every graceful movement- he offlined his optics. No ogling pretty mechs.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle ya." Prowl could only assume that Jazz was holding his datapad out in offering, but his optics were off, so he really wasn't sure. Banking on the higher probability (62%) that the mech was doing just that, he held his servo out, waiting for the familiar weight to settle into it. "Ooh, this one's a classic!" Prowl frowned. Jazz was not giving his datapad back right now. "Can't say I ever payed attention to it, though. I mean c'mon, there's only so much tip-toeing around the big reveal you can do before three-thousand pages gets redundant."

Prowl frowned harder. "It is hardly redundant," he argued, still holding his servo out, just in case. 

"Oh yeah?" Jazz purred, still not putting the datapad in his hand. Prowl's doorwings twitched, sensing the air shifting in the room. He tilted them, feeling for the change. Jazz was getting closer (97.3%). 

"Yes," Prowl huffed. The tac-net politely (rudely) pinged a reminder and queued up one of the conversations he had formatted for seeing Jazz off. He was irritated, however, and just had to make the mech see that while A Mystery in Lower Tarn was very long-winded, it was anything but redundant. "Each time the author brings the focus back to an already visited crime scene, they reveal another key detail. Additionally, revisiting the scene at different points throughout the storyline serves to provide new perspectives regarding said details. Without allowing the detectives to see all of the variables from all angles, they simply cannot proceed in their investigations." He finished with a determined flare of his doorwings, which allowed him to finally notice that Jazz was now extremely close to him; he could feel the barest gusts of exvents against his face. 

There was a pause, filled only with the sounds of their frames keeping them operating. 

"Can I kiss you?" Jazz breathed, as if afraid to disturb the air any more than he already was. 

Prowl's spark flipped, tugging him nauseatingly. "What?" he whispered back. He wasn't sure why he asked that. He had heard the glyphs as clear as crystal. He didn't dare online his optics, but he could feel Jazz's grin mere nanometers from his face.

"Can I kiss you?" Jazz asked again, louder, the timbre of his vocalizer buzzing across his plating. 

"Why would you want to do that?" Prowl didn't dare move, didn't dare look. No ogling pretty mechs. No bringing them to berth. He added a sub-rule under the second: no kissing them, either. 

Jazz was quiet again, likely thinking about his answer or regretting asking. Maybe if he kept standing perfectly still with his optics off, Jazz would just go away. Something in him ached when he imagined that happening, and he tried his best to block the feeling off.

"Prowl..." 

Prowl held his vents. Willed his fuel pump to stop hammering away like it was. Tried to silence the noise building in his helm. 

Jazz's presence retreated slightly, and a gentle weight was placed in Prowl's open palm. "You're the most brilliant bot I've ever met."

Prowl onlined his optics, keeping them fixed on his datapad. A small crack formed along the edge of the screen, but the glyphs were unbroken. It could have been worse. He didn't know what to say- until the ever so helpful tac-net chimed in again, plastering the good-bye he was supposed to say forever ago to the front of his processor. This time, he let it.

"Thank you," he began, unable to hide the slight tremor in his vocalizer, "for the time spent together and the- the interface. Unfortunately, I have some things I must attend to before I officially begin my duty as a sergeant under the Cool City enforcer unit, so I must bid you farewell." He gradually looked up to meet Jazz's visor, gauging the mech's reaction. All in all, he thought his execution of the message was as good as it could get. It was professional and to the point. A clean severance.  

Prowl had expected disappointment first, then perhaps neutrality or disgust. Instead, Jazz gave him a polite smile and a nod of his helm. 

"Aw, no problem, Prowler! I had a great time, too." Jazz did that odd visor-wink and did a little boogie to the door. "Good luck with all your enforcer biz. See you 'round!" 

Prowl was about to interject that, no, he would not be seen around, but the mech had already turned and exited the apartment. The last thing that he got caught on was the fact that Jazz was still streaked with lubricants. He couldn't imagine going out in public like that, and he almost went to go shower again at the thought alone. But, he had better things to do. Things to do and think about that weren't Jazz. Now was only a matter of doing them.

Prowl cruised around Cool City just like he had the cycle before. He payed a little more attention to the few mechs that were out this time, however, and noted that they were all walking or driving as if half asleep and/or hungover. With a grimace, he could see a few with very obvious paint transfers. So that's how things worked in Cool City... he forced his tac-net to run useless calculations so he wouldn't have so much room to think about how he was likely just another one-night stand- but then he would circle back and tell himself that that was a good thing; that it meant he would have much more control over his vow of professionalism. This wasn't working. He fed the tac-net even more dummy data. 

It took him no more than three joors to finish the circuit he failed to complete earlier. With that done, he drove to the precinct. With any luck, he could at least meet his soon-to-be coworkers. 

The front doors were unlocked this time, thankfully, but the lights were still off. The sunlight was enough to brighten the interior, but it was still odd. It was also, most notably, empty. There were no enforcers sitting at the cluttered desks, no enforcers standing around the energon dispenser, no enforcers walking around and chit-chatting about 'that crazy 10-50 last orn' or 'the deputy's new cybercat'. 

With absolutely nothing better to do, he decided to check out his new office. The old sergeant's name was poorly scrubbed away from the door, giving Prowl only vague hints of letters; not quite enough to confidently come up with a name. He fished the key for the door out of his subspace, and the reader beeped softly followed by the snick of the lock unlatching. Inside, it was just a typical office. Desk, chair, two more chairs, filing cabinets, and a window with a view of the alleyway. Dust was collecting on the surfaces, but at least there wasn't any clutter. He set to wiping down the desk and the cabinets, and gave the chair behind the desk a good sit. He'd have to get a new chair, that was for sure; the back of the current one was clearly not meant for doorwings. Just as he was wondering if there was a better chair in storage or if he could trade with someone, he heard movement in the hallway. 

Shuffle. Pause. Shuffle shuffle. Pause. 

Prowl removed himself from the unaccommodating chair to investigate. This was good. He liked investigating. It was like his job. He liked his job. He stuck his head out of his doorway just in time to see a pede vanish into an office. Smokescreen? (64.1%). 

The probability became 98% when he knocked on the office door- Smokescreen's office door- and received a gruff "come in" from the other side.

"Chief Smokescreen," Prowl greeted, dipping his wings respectfully. 

"Oh, it's just you. How's it going, Prowl?" the chief replied. He was currently reclined very far back in his chair, pedes up on the desk with quite the display of credit chips and shanix. 

"Er, just fine, sir." Prowl recalled something Arcee and- and Jazz- had talked about at Pyrite Diner. Could this be the spoils of whatever nefarious betting pools the chief was running? If so, that was a ludicrous amount of money. "And you?"

"Prowl, I am rolling in it!" Smokescreen chuckled, counting a servoful of shanix before laying them out with the rest. "Couldn't be better, honestly. Speaking of-!" he leapt up from his chair, noticeably much more energetic than he had been the first time they'd met. "That new paint looks great on you. Want me to get your decals, or would you rather wait 'til your first day?" 

Prowl eyed Smokescreen suspiciously (which is to say, outwardly he only hesitated, but internally he was recoiling). "Now would be acceptable," he replied, refusing to preen at the compliment. 

"Perfect, got it." Smokescreen pulled back a drawer, frowned, closed that one and pulled back a different drawer, then went back to the first drawer, smiled, then pulled out a pair of enforcer decals with Cool City's crest. They were nothing bizarre by any means; just a simple design with the name of the city and the precinct number. "Here you are! Now get back out there and mingle. I don't wanna see you in here until you're due to be on shift, understand?" 

Prowl was onto the chief. There were some very obvious ulterior motives there, only half hidden beneath the rug. Whatever it was, he didn't particularly care to know the details. He would get set on the betting problem after the drug-related issues. One thing at a time.

"Yes, sir." Prowl subspaced the decals, dipped his doorwings again, then begrudgingly hit the road. His office chair wasn't comfortable, but he missed it already.

Chapter Text

They say that each cycle brings a new surprise in Cool City. For the first couple decavorns Jazz had called the city home, that saying felt truer than his own spark. There had always been a new club opening, a new fun drug to try, another challenger to race, another pretty frame to frag. It was bliss. It was bliss, it was perfect, and it was home.

That is, until there were no brand new clubs or exotic new drugs or anyone worth racing or anyone interested that he hadn’t already had once. Cool City, ironically, had become somewhat of a drag.

Not to say that Jazz didn’t still love it; where else on Cybertron could he freely party all night long and sleep all day just to wake up and party another night away? The music scene was unlike anything any other city state had to offer, and he had offers up to his audials; every club wanted a little taste of Jazz for their entertainment, and Jazz loved to play for them. The shanix was good, the engex better, and he never went home missing some hidden piece of himself.

Until Prowl. 

"Thank you, for the time spent together and the- the interface. Unfortunately, I have some things I must attend to before I officially begin my duty as a sergeant under the Cool City enforcer unit, so I must bid you farewell."

Jazz couldn’t be surprised, honest, that the enforcer only wanted their little fling to be a one-time thing. It was just… he thought it was different this time.

A fresh-faced cop, never been to Cool City and would have never come to Cool City if it weren’t for his job, which he took very seriously, just trying to learn about the culture and fit in. Not a raver hyped up on Primus knows what kind of boosters, not an overcharged tourist, and not like anyone he’d seen in a city like this. He had realized at some point between getting chased until his systems flashed red and overloading nearly to reboot that Prowl was the farthest thing from a party mech. He was new. His processor had latched onto the idea the moment the enforcer crashed and fell directly on his chassis, and it would not let go.

At the end of it, he conjured up a smile despite the gnawing disappointment. He really couldn’t be upset; Primus knows he’d left plenty of mechs and femmes alike wanting more. He just never thought he’d be the one left empty.

“Aw, no problem, Prowler!” Jazz had said, crumpling up his half-formed cutesy (and legal!) date ideas and tucking them away in a distant corner in his processor. “I had a great time, too. Good luck with all your enforcer biz. See you ‘round!” And then he had left. A little perturbed, a little hungry, and more than a little dirty. 

Oh well. He’d certainly left places looking a lot worse. Even if there were others out, he wouldn't feel embarrassed by it; he was lucky, after all. 

With small hope, Jazz let his imagination wander during the drive across the city to his room above Visages. Would Prowl patrol often? Cruise the streets Jazz knew like the pinstriping of his chassis, pull mechs over for driving 2 mpj over the posted speed limits that no one payed attention to? Would he sit at a boring desk at the precinct doing data work all night? 

Would he become like all the other enforcers?

Jazz hoped he wouldn’t. He was too cute just as he was, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it; the enforcer was a bit of a dweeb, and came across as very uppity, but there was something hidden in that proper dialect and perfect posture. He wasn’t sure why he had his optics offline when they were having a fun little moment over that boring-as-slag novel, but it was cute! Prowl was cute. He was new. 

There he goes again, getting all giddy. It was a real shame it had ended so soon.

...

…What if it didn’t have to be the end?

Prowl checked his chronometer after leaving the precinct, finding it to be too early for most places to be open. He had strolled past Pyrite Diner, hoping he could nab a quick meal, but the sign was flipped to ‘CLOSED’. 

From there on, he discarded the mild disappointment and began working on his shopping list. While the stores were largely empty, they were still open; and apparently half-employed by actual drones that lazily hovered by registers and stocked cubes on shelves. 

By the time he had returned to his apartment to unload his essential items (plus a plush blanket that he couldn’t justify saying no to), it was still well within the late mid-cycle. Curse his efficiency. He knew he should have walked every aisle despite the fact that he knew he wouldn’t need anything down some of them. Once his things were neatly organized and put where they belonged, he remembered the decals Smokescreen had given him. 

Putting the decals on by himself could be a challenge. Typically, another enforcer would do the honors, doorwings or not, but seeing as the only other enforcer he’d met was Smokescreen, he was at a loss. Just to see if he could, theoretically, apply them himself, he reached for his left wing- and ended up spinning in circles until he just barely managed to hook the tip of one digit over the edge. Not going to work, he concluded, the tac-net silently agreeing. 

Then, like a circuit lighting up, he remembered someone that could help.

”Prowl!” Sunstreaker greeted, arms held out wide as if to mime a hug Prowl knew the mech didn’t want, lest his paint scrape. “Didn’t ruin my hard work last night, didja? Heard from Arcee you copped- heh- a sweet date!”

Prowl bristled despite himself. “That is rather impolite and personal,” he replied coldly. The response felt natural- familiar. Sunstreaker’s own response, however, subverted his expectations once again.

The yellow mech- who definitely had a slightly different shade on from the other cycle- was supposed to react with something like misery or annoyance, maybe even anger.

”Ah, my bad, you’re right. Got a little ahead of myself there.” Sunstreaker… apologized. Shrugged off Prowl’s less than friendly demeanor like it was nothing but a silk shroud. “Most bots here love to kiss and tell, is all. Nothing wrong with not telling! Anyway, what can I do you for?” 

Prowl slumped (became less stiff; he could never actually slump) with relief. For what… he wasn’t sure. He was hardly ever sure anymore and it was really doing numbers on him. Tac-net was not helping with those numbers, either. 

“I was hoping you would be able to apply these for me.” Prowl unsubspaced the decals, holding them out for the artist to see. 

Sunstreaker gingerly took the decals in his servos, appraising them just as he did Prowl’s paint. “Easy,” he replied after a moment. “And here I thought you’d give me a hard time,” he teased, beckoning Prowl to follow him to a workstation. On the way, they passed a red mech that was face-down recharging on a shelf- the paints that had been on said shelf carefully arranged on the floor. 

Prowl stood nice and proper where he was told, and didn’t fuss when Sunstreaker had to manually position his wings in order to get the right angle. He had an intense look of concentration on his faceplates, which Prowl appreciated; it was the sole reason he went to him (a lie, there were numerous reasons, but the artist's work ethic was all he was accepting).

“I apologize,” Prowl blurted, the glyphs bubbling up from his vocalizer on their own. “For snapping at you.”

Sunstreaker didn’t take his focus away from meticulously cleaning any particles from the surface of his doorwing where the decal would go, but he did give an amused snort.

”You call that snapping?” he said, turning briefly to retrieve one of the decals. “Besides, every mech is entitled to their privacy. I often forget that newcomers aren’t usually as open as the rest of us are. It was wrong of me to get up in your business like you’re less than any another mech.”

Prowl blinked, but didn’t do anything else to project his shock, just in case he messed up Sunstreaker’s work. 

“I still reacted poorly. It was rude of me.” Was this real? Where was the backlash? Why was the artist being so... nice?

”You haven’t met my brother,” Sunstreaker snorted again. He smoothed the decal over, inspecting it closely for misalignment. Satisfied, he began repeating the process on the other wing. 

“Is he an artist as well?” Prowl asked cautiously. It would be hypocritical if he managed to ask something that was too personal, but it was the easiest conversational thread to follow.

Sunstreaker shook his helm. “Primus, no. He doesn’t know Eternal Blue from Ingot Blue.” Prowl had no idea what those shades looked like, but could understand the analogy. “He mostly does bouncer stuff. Much better at that than painting a wall one color.”

Prowl hummed thoughtfully. He searched for the next glyphs, but Sunstreaker backed away with a satisfied smile. “All set. Check it.” He wheeled that full-frame mirror over for Prowl to see his new decals.

If Prowl knew any better, he’d say they had been placed near perfectly; so on-point that Ultra Magnus could think of smiling. He fluttered his wings briefly, equally satisfied, and gave the artist a curt nod. 

“You do good work,” he told Sunstreaker, a ghost of a smile making its way across his face. 

“Only the best,” Sunstreaker replied with an extravagant bow. “And on the house. Yes- I’m serious. You’d be surprised how often I have to fix those things on the other enforcers. I could do it in recharge.”

Prowl opened and shut his intake. Well… he couldn’t argue with that. “Thank you.”

”Always!” And the artist sounded like he meant it. “Now shoo, I’ve got to get Sides up and running for the night.” 

The next two cycles would be miserable. Prowl would wake up early, try very hard to go out later in the cycle, but would ultimately get bored and return to his apartment before nightfall. He still had one more cycle before he was due to go to work, and that cycle was not coming soon enough. He had finished A Mystery in Lower Tarn (the ending was exactly what he had expected) and now there really was nothing else. He was going to go crazy.

This night, he decided to be bold. He hadn’t attempted another go at the clubs since… the incident. There was still useful knowledge to be gained by observing the inner happenings of the ever so popular clubs. So, he set out before sunset, earning himself an early spot in line at a place called Press Play. The club had been selected for its easy proximity to his apartment and its far distance from Visages. He thought about inviting Bumblebee, briefly, but decided that he would rather take this new experience alone. 

Prowl guessed that he had managed to pick a decently popular venue, because it wasn't long before the line extended down the block behind him. The shifting and murmuring of all those citizens made him antsy; he monitored the front door to the club like he was on security detail until, at last, it opened and the bouncers began letting mechs in. When it was his turn, he was given a curious glance, but otherwise simply motioned that he could go ahead. Odd. But perhaps a good thing, if it meant that enforcers going clubbing was a rare occurrence. He could only accept the fact that they went at all if it was during an off-shift. Like he was doing. Though purely for data and not out of self interest- the first few breems inside were hell on his sensors until he dialed them down enough to not get a helmache. 

Prowl had never been to a club before- not like this. He had been on a handful of calls to clubs, usually to break up disputes and the occasional fistfight, but never to... do whatever it is that people do at clubs. He was quickly finding out that he was not the type to do any of what other bots were doing. He didn't dance- didn't know how and didn't like looking like a fool. He didn't drink- never could tolerate much engex before his tac-net purged binary all over the inside of his processor. He didn't have friends- everyone else here had friends to interact with. He wasn't enjoying the music- it was just too loud. All of those factoids led to him finding the nearest corner and standing in it. Perfect vantage point for observation, less strain on his sensor wings, and low probabilities that someone would approach him. Yes, very good. This could work. 

He startled slightly when the music from the speakers cut out, quickly replaced by a bout of preemptive cheering throughout the establishment. Even the bartenders were whooping, attention turned to a stage that was unfurling from the wall. 

"Femmes and gentlemechs," boomed a voice over the speakers. Steam hissed out on either sides of the small stage, which was now in the shape of a classic DJ booth. "Are you ready..." the crowd cheered louder, arms waving and headlights flashing. A bass tone rumbled, vibrating beneath Prowl's pedes and up his spinal strut. "To Press Play?"

It was so cheesy, but the crowd ate it all up with ridiculous enthusiasm. A spotlight flickered on, trained on the DJ booth, where a red and gold mech- a cassette carrier at that- emerged from seemingly nowhere. "Yes!" the crowd screamed in a chorus, and the cassette carrier laughed, the sound nonexistent in the rush of energy. He shouted something at the mechs closest to the booth, then did something with his hands, beginning to produce a beat Prowl had never heard anything like before. 

To say Prowl was enjoying the music now would not be entirely true, but the way the cassette carrier was working his booth (notably with the help of a cassette bot or two) was something inspiring. It was still much too loud, but it was rhythmic and structured with patterns and puzzles that the tac-net greedily munched on. It was stimulating, but not killing him. 

Prowl found himself drifting from his sad little corner, slowly intermixing with the outskirts of the crowd. He was still cautious, minding his doorwings especially, but his plating was looser (when had it become so tight?) and despite it all, he wasn't having a bad time. He still didn't dance, Pit no, but there was something to be enjoyed by watching all the frames around him move with the music, laughing and clapping with delight with every switch-up. 

He meshed with the crowd, closer, closer... the set finished just as vibrantly as it began, and the red mech got a hold of a microphone before the final notes finished fading. 

"Thank you, thank you! This is Blaster, handing you over to a very special guest here at Press Play tonight!" Without any additional fanfare, he retreated from the booth, which began folding down into the stage as though it had never been there. The crowd dropped to an excited murmur; who was going to play next? Who was going to put the beat in their steps and the joy in their sparks? 

Prowl himself was intrigued. The aftershocks of Blaster's set still hadn't fully left his frame, but he could admit to wanting to see what else Press Play had in store. A mech who must have been a tech quietly placed some kind of instrument on stage, its strings gleaming silver under the lights. He wasn't sure exactly what kind of instrument it was, but it mirrored the aesthetics of Cool City in its shape and colors. Surprised gasps flitted about the crowd, hushed murmurs and disbelief. Whoever was going to play that instrument must be very well-known. Prowl gave his full attention to the stage, anticipating a minor celebrity of sorts, perhaps a local legend. 

And then, Jazz entered. 

Chapter Text

Jazz sauntered onto the stage like he had been sent by Primus himself. His lithe frame was haloed by the lights and fog, a scene straight out of a holovid (not that Prowl had seen one of that variety, either). He stroked the neck of his instrument teasingly, mechs and femmes swooning in the front rows, but he wasn't looking at them; no, despite not being able to see his optics, Prowl could feel them on him like the scope of a rifle- his spark the center target. That gaze locked him in place, unable to turn away and continue his observations at a different club. And then Jazz grasped the instrument, holding it to his chassis like a lover, and his soft derma parted around the most beautiful harmonies, caressing Prowl's doorwings over the distance that was too far and yet not far enough. 

Throughout the entire enchanting, mesmerizing performance, throughout the seductive dancing and playing, Jazz's visor never lost track of Prowl, and likewise, Prowl could not tear his optics away from Jazz. Even if he made himself deaf and blind and numb, he would never be able to get the impression of all that was Jazz out of his sensornet. His rule about ogling was long forgotten with each sinful twist of frame and stroke of chord along silver strings. If he were any less dignified, he'd be behaving like the rest of the crowd, all caught up in the bump-and-grind but also equally entranced by the mech on stage. He was glad he wasn't the only one under the spell, and yet he was almost mad he wasn't the only one. Just how many bots in this establishment alone had shared Jazz after a show like this? How many had fallen victim to that blinding charm? 

Prowl tried not to look at the numbers the tac-net was calculating for him. He didn't want to know. 

Much too soon, the show was over, and Blaster was back with his puzzle-mixes, but Prowl couldn't find the spark to analyze them like he had before. He was utterly ruined. He filtered through the crowd, aiming for the door to go home and try to recharge his problems away, but the crowd made it difficult to maneuver without clobbering some mechs with his doorwings. 

"Prowler!"

Scrap it all to the Pits. 

"Excuse me- Prowler, hey!" Jazz was grinning wide, dentae gleaming under the swinging lights on the crowd. He had pushed his way through the crowd with elbows and shoulders, earning some confused and dejected glances from the mechs and femmes he ignored. "I knew it was you! What's up?" 

Prowl's doorwings drooped with the realization that there was no escape for him. That, and because he had never figured out the proper response to that question. It was too open-ended and too vague. 'What's up?'- he didn't know, what was up? What was he supposed to say- a full report of his status? That seemed hardly likely, but simply saying 'nothing' seemed too dismissive. Even the tac-net struggled to come up with something worthwhile. 

"Ah. Hello, Jazz." Boom, perfect. A simple greeting could do the trick! Only... wait, simply saying hello still wasn't answering the age-old question of 'what's up?'. Further data required for clearer results.

"Hi!" Jazz returned, buzzing with vibrant energy. He rocked on his pedes for a moment as if debating something, then chewed his bottom lip, then ran his glossa over it, then- alright, that's enough. "Wanna get a drink? With me?" he asked, motioning to the crowded bar. "No cost, Blaster lets me drink for free whenever I play for his place." 

Well, Jazz certainly made a good argument. The pros clearly outweighed the cons here, even if the tac-net was tapping frantically at the rules about conduct with pretty mechs. He had to remind it that drinking with them was not against the rules, so really he wasn't doing anything so terrible. In any case, he would much rather share a drink with Jazz than have Jazz ask someone else for the same company (he refused to look into that thread of thought). A large part of himself wondered why he was the chosen company, but he would be lying if his ego hadn't been inflated by the offer. Plus, he wouldn't lose any shanix...

What could possibly go wrong?

Prowl was a lightweight. That much had become abundantly clear when the prim and proper enforcer who had probably never busted a move in his life became a babbling, woozy wreck after only half a glass of engex. Jazz had finished two glasses, just barely beginning to feel the buzz, and was resting his chin in his servos as he watched Prowl stumble over his words with an uncanny level of animation to his frame language. Don't get him wrong, it was absolutely endearing to see the stiff mech loosen up, but it was so unlike the enforcer, he was regretting his offer to share drinks. In his defense: he had no idea that the mech would get so hammered so fast. 

"And then, and uh, and then I went into the uhm... what is it..." Prowl's doorwings were twitching like mad, swiveling this way and that, nearly hitting the other patrons at the bar occasionally. Jazz resisted the urge to grab them; they were unfairly pretty when they were catching the pink and blue lights like that. "Precinct! Yes... what was I saying?" 

Jazz carefully extracted Prowl's glass from his servos. He probably shouldn't let him finish that last little bit. He should probably take the poor officer home before he fell on his face or something. Yeah, that was the respectful, friendly thing to do, he thought while his visor lingered disrespectfully. He couldn't help that the mech's bumper was like that! He was a firm believer that if Prowl were to give up enforcing the law (which he somehow knew would never happen), he could easily get a job as a model instead. Or maybe that was just Jazz's processor. 

"I think I should take you home," Jazz replied, already waving good-bye to the bartender. When he stood on his pedes, the slight buzz he had been feeling became more dizzying than he had anticipated. Cool, more overcharged than he thought, but not a problem. As long as he could make sure Prowl didn't die on the way to his apartment, they would be fine. He briefly thought about activating his FIM chip, but that would be a waste of engex. Overcharge was an old, warm blanket, and a dear friend of his, and he wasn't ready to depart. 

"Home?" Prowl echoed, looking very lost for a moment before his optics brightened. "Oh! Oh! Okay!" 

Jazz had to catch Prowl when the mech decided to stumble off of the barstool with absolutely zero coordination. He tried not to think about where their frames touched as he adjusted his hold so they could walk side-by-side. He also pretended not to hear the other patrons muttering things like 'lucky mech' and 'should have been me'. Normally, he wouldn't care. He was aware of his reputation. But... he wanted be more than what they thought he was. He could be more. 

The air outside Press Play was chilly, making the frame pressed against his side feel all the more warm. He leaned into that warmth, cherishing it for more than it really was. It was also so quiet, away from Press Play. The distant thrum of music still wafted out into the streets from multiple places, but they were all so far away they didn't matter. 

"You were so- ungh, oops- so wonderful," Prowl said, stumbling on his pedes while Jazz pulled him along the sidewalk. "On the stage." 

Jazz's spark swirled in its casing, doing a little backflip and then a kick-step. "You think so?" he asked, poorly hiding the giddiness in his voice. He had been complimented on his performances probably an infinite amount of times by now. He knew he was good at what he did, and he knew bots enjoyed his style. But when Prowl said it, it felt like the first time he'd been given any praise at all. 

"Affirm...ative. Such wonderful music." 

"Well, thank you sweetspark," Jazz purred. Prowl hummed, and maybe he imagined it, but he seemed to hold onto Jazz a little tighter. "If ya want, I can let ya know when my next gig'll be," he offered, allowing his hope to build on itself. He couldn't remember the last time he had played so wholly, and he credited the awkward little enforcer in the crowd for it. 

Jazz felt Prowl's doorwings flutter, the appendage battering his back plating lightly.  "Oh, that would be just- just- delightful," he sighed as he leaned into Jazz even more. "You know what else- woagh- would be delightful?" He scuffed a pede along the ground, almost tipping them both. 

"What's that, Prowler?" 

"We should, erm, agh, uhm," Prowl started ever so elegantly. Jazz chewed the inside of his cheek, trying and failing to keep the lopsided, admiring grin from his faceplates. "We should totally frag or something." 

Jazz laughed breathlessly (nervously), but he couldn't shake the sinking feeling in his chassis, and that confused him more than anything. Okay, yeah he wanted to frag the living daylights out of Prowl, but... not like this? He really shouldn't be getting picky now, not when he had spent the last two cycles scanning every crowd and secretly dedicating every song and rejecting offers in favor of self-servicing to the memories of their first meetings. Had he hoped for the night to end with a bit of old-fashioned interfacing? Of course he had- he wasn't a fool! But now his nerdy wet-dream of an enforcer was absolutely slagged like every other (every.) citizen in Cool City and it didn't feel right at all. 

"Sure, Prowler. After you've activated your FIM chip, aight?" was the answer Jazz gave after a moment of trying to sort out his mildly hazy processor. He absolutely wanted Prowl, very badly, but wanted sober Prowl not... whoever this was. He took Prowl's following silence to mean he was beginning to do just that, and gave him the necessary space. Activating one's FIM after being completely out of one's processor was not a fun experience. While on the topic, he decided that if he was going to make that his ultimatum, he better activate his own to make it even. Luckily for him, he wasn't as smashed and had no trouble recovering as they traversed the last few blocks to the Icy Steel Apartment Complex. 

Jazz gently helped Prowl up the front steps of the apartment complex, gently helped with Prowl with his key, gently sat Prowl down on the couch, gently helped Prowl drink some coolant, and didn't jump his struts when Prowl decided to sprawl out like he was the star in a pornographic holovid, licking the coolant off of his derma slowly while boring holes through Jazz's visor. Primus save him. 

"Are you soberin' up?" Jazz asked, raising a hidden optic ridge. He took the safe route and leaned against a wall, putting some distance between them, rather than trying to sit with the enforcer. Prowl, apparently, was not happy about that, and pouted dramatically.

"No-ugh," Prowl grunted. Then, the (still very) overcharged enforcer arched his back slightly, accentuating that perfect bumper and- Jazz cut the processor thread off right there. He was quite familiar with how he felt about Prowl's bumper, thank you. 

"Then what are you doin'." 

"Flirting," Prowl huffed, confirming Jazz's suspicion that the posing was intentional. The enforcer twisted his frame again, parting his thighs a little more, fluttering those tempting doorwings, but Jazz stayed put where he was. This was a stupid dance. No matter how stupid it was, though, he was on the edge of falling for it. 

Jazz sighed, pinching his nasal ridge. "You should be gettin' sober if you want that to work on me." 

"Nuh-uh," Prowl said, very maturely. "You should be getting over here and uhh... working on me."

"I don't think so," Jazz mused. He pointedly did not look at Prowl's thigh that was sliding more and more open, surely giving a million shanix view of his valve panel that he was fighting very hard to not ogle, because he had to allow the mech some dignity. 

"You're being so facetious," Prowl grumbled, giving up on his sexy posturing to frown at Jazz like he had just jaywalked on an empty street. Relief washed over him once those alluring thighs were pressed together again.

"See, I know you're absolutely slagged because was that a contraction? " Jazz teased.

"No it wasn't."

"There it is again!" Jazz pointed at Prowl accusingly. The enforcer rolled his optics with sass that didn't belong to him- the real him. "C'mon babe, I know you know what a FIM is and I know you're all hot right now, so why not do us both a favor and activate that slagger?" Please. He was begging. This was not easy for him. 

Prowl glared at Jazz, which effectively bumped his minor jaywalking incident into petty theft of energels from a minibot. It was hard to take the intensity of those optics seriously when they were focusing and unfocusing like crazy. The enforcer kept up his glaring for a few kliks before slinking off of the couch and onto the floor with a pathetic "fiiiiiiiine!" and effectively displaying defeat. 

Jazz watched the enforcer's face twist in mild displeasure, then disgust, then agony before it was hidden in his servos and he curled up into a fetal position. Yep, not fun. Never fun. He stayed still and quiet, waiting patiently for confirmation that he was recovering and would be ready to... hang out or something. Best case scenario they wind up in Prowl's berth again, but he tamped that chunk of hope down. He suspected that the helmache Prowl would face would be absolutely killer and interfacing while hungover like that wasn't exactly enjoyable either. He found it easy to imagine the two of them simply sitting on the couch together, quietly talking or simply existing in proximity. He then realized that he didn't care what came next, as long as Prowl allowed him to stay. The hope that stemmed from that thought was impossible to smother, as it grew too large too quick; a massive crystalline bloom. 

But then, Prowl's shoulders trembled just slightly. Then his doorwings. Then the digits still hiding his handsome faceplates. And then his whole frame was shuddering, and Jazz realized with a painful wrench in his spark, that the enforcer was crying. 

"Hey, hey, what's the matter?" Jazz crouched beside Prowl's helm, close enough to reach out and touch if he wanted. He kept his voice soft; concerned, but not overbearing. 

Prowl's silent crying turned into a choked sob; the floodgates had opened. Jazz gently laid a servo on Prowl's shoulder, and while he wasn't pushed away, the enforcer did sob a little harder, shook a little more. He briefly wondered when the last time Prowl had cried. He guessed either never or an eternity ago, which made a lot of sense given how reserved and stoic he always carried himself. He wondered if he ever let himself express feeling like this when he was alone. Did he ever laugh out loud in the empty quiet when remembering someone fondly? Did he ever punch a wall or throw a table when he got frustrated? Did he ever cry, just like this, in the dead of night, mourning someone or something too far gone? Jazz did. But he also expressed most of his emotions in public (re: most). 

Jazz wasn't sure how long it took for Prowl to calm down, but it wasn't very long- a short, intense outburst followed by pathetic hiccuping and then silence. "Prowl?" he whispered, afraid that he would accidentally set him off somehow. Silence. "Prowl...?" he tried again, peering at Prowl's helm.

Prowl's servos had fallen away, revealing the half-dried streaks of coolant that stained his faceplates a light, shimmering blue. His optics were shuddered, but his optical ridges were relaxed. It took Jazz a klik, but he then realized that the enforcer was now in recharge. He felt pity, but there was a soft point of adoration folded in there somewhere. He cried himself into recharge. Cute. 

Jazz sighed, hesitantly left him where he was on the floor, and tried to figure out how best he could get the enforcer into berth without waking him. He had to remember where the berthroom was, first, but once he had confirmed that and peeled the tidy, clean covers (and is that a blanket? wow, that thing's soft-) back so he could easily tuck him in later. Satisfied, he returned to the crumpled frame on the floor, and very carefully maneuvered him until he could pick him up- Primus he was heavy, where was he keeping all that mass?!- awkwardly struggle down the hall and into the berthroom, and finally cringe when he half-dropped, half-threw Prowl onto the berth. Thankfully, the enforcer showed no signs of waking. Jazz took the time to arrange him in what he thought would be a comfortable position for someone with doorwings and a sizeable bumper, then gingerly fixed the covers (and that blanket! he had to figure out where it came from so he could get his own) around his frame. 

He watched Prowl for a moment. He remained in recharge, venting a little raggedly, but even enough to not be a health issue. Poor thing. Before he could change his mind, he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Prowl's helm. He wrote his comm. code on a spare datapad that had been left out, gave one last lingering look at the mech that didn't even know he was doing things to Jazz's spark, and retreated into the last joors of the night. 

Chapter Text

Prowl awoke with a processor ache and dreadfully empty tanks. He panicked briefly, recalling that he had gotten drinks with... Jazz... but when there was no sign of the mech in his berth or in his apartment at all, he relaxed. He probably just went home and nothing happened. The tac-net liked that, so it slapped a nice 74% on it and called it good enough. Prowl didn't know why his face felt crusty, but the feeling left easily under his usual freezing solvent shower. He only looked in the mirror afterwards to confirm that he was clean and presentable and that there were no damning scuffs along his plating. Check. Nothing happened (^87.1%). 

After refueling on some good old plain energon, he began to feel better, and he let the worry about the lapse in his memory banks fade into the background. There wasn't room to worry- especially because this cycle, he was finally going to go to work. Work! His tac-net practically sang with joy, preparing some empty files for storing the names, ranks, and other details of the coworkers he was set to meet. He was going to establish his role effectively and clearly to his coworkers, explain his expectations for his subordinates and clarify the expectations his superiors had for him, and he was going to run everything efficiently like he always knew how. That was just item 1 on his extensive to-do list. There was also opening several personal investigations into the city ordinances, regulations, and laws that were supposed to be planet-wide but were somehow being evaded by this strange night-life city. There was also looking into the issue with the lack of street markers- perhaps he could contact a city planner and set up some meetings regarding that, and potentially sidewalk dividers to separate queues from the rest of walking traffic. There was also discussing Chief Smokescreen's... habits within respectable boundaries, but also the scheduling accommodations he needed. There was also arranging his office so that his organization system could flourish. There was a lot, and his processor chewed it all hungrily, making his doorwings twitch with eagerness to get started.

That was why he arrived to the precinct very early; so early, he was the only bot in the building (he made extra sure that Smokescreen wasn't hiding somewhere again) and tasked himself to open everything up- lights, doors, consoles... it truly was a wreck indoors. Prowl waited a few breems for anyone else to show up before he began cleaning up the place. He started with the floors, picking up discarded trash that bounced out of receptacles, sweeping up accumulated dirt and dust from outside, mopping stains away. Then he worked on the desks. He wasn't sure which files were still relevant and which would need to be wiped, so he did his best organizing all of them by the date and time of the initial report, being sure to attach related info to the case with them. He also wiped the desks down (they were so sticky), threw away obvious trash, neatened personal items, but refrained from completely reorganizing the filing cabinets, lest someone wind up unable to find something they need, even though Prowl's system was designed to be easy, efficient, and optimized. 

Prowl only realized that somemech should have shown up by now when he was finishing the last desk in the main area. It had taken him at least a couple joors to get all of that done, and not a spark had entered the precinct. Prowl's concentrated frown turned into a concerned frown- that is to say, there was no outward shift in his expression. Where were all the enforcers? Surely at least someone was supposed to work during the day, despite it being obvious most bots were more or less nocturnal. 

He got to wipe down all the remaining grimy and oddly sticky surfaces, sweep and mop the rest of the floors, and take out all of the trash before- of course- Smokescreen arrived, looking just as exhausted as he did during Prowl's first night in Cool City. 

"Sir," Prowl dipped his doorwings as per custom. "Good morning." 

"Prowl," Smokescreen returned, blinking slowly. "What're you doing here?" 

Prowl frowned at that, pursing his derma slightly. "I am here to work." Did the chief forget (again)? "Where is everyone?" 

"Everyone...? Oh! Frag, that's right- yeah, you're not scheduled 'til start of the evening, sorry." 

It was just as Prowl feared. He tried not to bristle at the blatant negligence that was Smokescreen forgetting to tell his sergeant when he was supposed to work, and added it to the small pile of things that he wasn't fond of in regards to the chief. Still, it wasn't as if he was going to be able to sleep in anyway, so he let it slide. Mostly. 

"I see," Prowl sighed. "Does anyone besides you work during the day-cycle?" There was a hint of bitterness laced in his tone somewhere, which he quickly wrestled down. 

Smokescreen looked awfully confused for several kliks, simply staring and blinking as if Prowl were speaking Old Cybertronian. "Does anyone... well of course!" he scoffed lightly, trying to play off... whatever his issue was at the moment. "We have a few officers on call, but nothing ever happens during the day, so..." 

Prowl's doorwings drooped minutely. So even if he were to get assigned to day shift, his days would be full of practically nothing. Great. He made a note to start destroying his recharge schedule. He would rather that torment than be effectively useless. "Ah," he replied, ever the conversationalist. 

"So yeah, just come back in the evening, cool?" Smokescreen finger-gunned lazily, but did not wait for Prowl's response before moseying off to his office. Prowl frowned at his back the entire way. 

Pyrite Cafe was open, to Prowl's pleasant surprise. It had been closed during the day the previous cycles, he couldn't guess as to why, but he could guess that Arcee was trying to make some extra shanix again, per their first introductions. As expected, the diner was empty, save for the pink and orange mech- Hot Rod, if he remembered correctly (and it wasn't a nickname, like 'Sunny' for Sunstreaker; 18.2%)- standing behind the counter where Arcee normally was. 

"Hey, Wee-Woo! How've you been?" Hot Rod greeted, perking up the moment Prowl cleared the door. 

Prowl hadn't actually spoken to Hot Rod before, but he returned a polite greeting just the same, dutifully ignoring the odd nickname. He'd never actually hit his sirens around them before (and they certainly did not go 'wee-woo'), so why it was seeming to stick was beyond him. "I have been well, how are you, Hot Rod?" He chose to sit at the counter this time, rather than a booth. It was a tactical decision for easier conversation, but the seats there were also easier to get out of in a pinch, said his tac-net. It also subtly slid him a highlighted exit route in case of an altercation, though Prowl told it that would be unnecessary. He was getting lunch at a diner with friendly staff, not infiltrating a drug den. Tac-net smugly retorted with a compilation of all drug-related instances since he arrived in Cool City, making his tanks reel with the reminder. 

"Oh wow, you remembered my name? Sick. Totally radical. I've been awesomer, but y'know, Arcee said we need the shanix, so here I am," Hot Rod complained light-heartedly, and Prowl reaffirmed that no, this was not a drug den, this was a very respectable diner with very respectable people. "She's in the back, by the way, want me to tell her you're here?" 

"That is up to you," Prowl replied. If he was being honest with himself, he was feeling more relaxed just by being there (despite what the tac-net was plotting). He couldn't for the life of him discern the point of origin for that feeling, but he suspected it was because of it's atmosphere, kind owners, and delicious food. He wasn't normally the kind of mech to go out anywhere much at all, but with no much time to waste until his shift, he didn't want to spend it all in his apartment (alone). Plus, why not take advantage of an empty diner? No loud noises, and no bots to worry about (except for Hot Rod and Arcee, but they didn't count, for some reason). 

Hot Rod slipped into the kitchen briefly, and when he returned, the pink femme was on his heels and smiling brightly. 

"Prowl!" she cheered, just like she had in the past. "I was worried about you for a klik- hadn't heard anything about you since you ran off with Jazz." 

Prowl tensed, just slightly, just a little, at the mention of that particular mech. "Ah... there is no cause for concern," he said calmly. He tried not to think about that night, but the events unfolded in the back of his processor; the chase, the capture, the intake, the- "But thank you." 

Arcee eyed him suspiciously, but didn't pry, which made him wonder if Sunstreaker had relayed his boundaries to her (68%- word spreads fast and even faster between friends, it seems). She and Hot Rod both looked like they wanted to say something very badly, but she moved the conversation along swiftly. "Of course! Gotta be looking out for our favorite officer. Speaking of- know what you want today?" 

Prowl was more than grateful for being left alone in regards to his personal life (Jazz). He also allowed a small preen at being such a welcomed customer, and offered up his order, and Arcee hurried off into the kitchen once more. 

Hot Rod chewed his derma for a moment, still looking like he wanted to say something and if he didn't, he was going to explode. Prowl sighed, conceding, and motioned the mech to proceed. 

"I heard from Sideswipe that Lugnut heard from Swerve who works down the street from Press Play heard from Blaster that you and Jazz were there last night and now Smokey's trying to get Arcee to ask you if- you know- sorry- happened yet because he's got a big pool going and Jazz hasn't said anything and no one's seen Jazz and no one wants to ask you because you don't want to be asked." Hot Rod scrunched up his face as if bracing to get sucker punched.

While Prowl did feel like sucker punching him for a moment, he did not, because he had self-control and dignity. He let his tac-net sort out the correct order of events and all of the names involved, coming to two very big conclusions. One, that Smokescreen's betting was on a grotesquely unprofessional level- what kind of chief of enforcers starts a betting pool on whether or not his new sergeant gets laid- and that Prowl was currently in the center of it. Two, that no one knew he slept with Jazz, which means Jazz was either keeping that fact to himself (respectful) or lying to whomever asked (either very respectful or the mech didn't want people to know for another, unknown reason- he gave that topic to the tac-net to come up with possibilities, but it only pretended to start initiating that process, much to his annoyance). 

"I know, I know, you want your privacy, I'm not asking you to tell me, I'm just saying that's what's going on, and-" Hot Rod had begun rambling, and Prowl realized that he had been frowning off into space (something that was happening frequently) instead of acknowledging the information he'd just been given. 

"It is alright," he told Hot Rod, raising a placating servo to interrupt the rush of glyphs. "I did prompt you," he admitted, settling his mildly ruffled plating with a sigh. "But you are correct. I will not be discussing this." 

Hot Rod slumped against his side of the counter with relief. "Hooh, thank Primus. I was gonna go crazy if I didn't say something!" 

The corner of Prowl's derma twitched upwards slightly, but he smoothed it out just as quickly as it appeared. "Not a problem." He was going to have words with his chief later.

Prowl had ended up spending the rest of his afternoon and early evening at Pyrite Cafe. Arcee and Hot Rod had animatedly told him all about their future plans for the diner, as well as the frame upgrades they think are 'totally in right now'. Prowl didn't have much to contribute, but they had been helpful in keeping his tac-net busy with new information, and as always, the food they served warmed his tanks. He bid them farewell just before his shift was due to begin, and made his way to the precinct once more. 

Prowl was the first to arrive once again, not counting Smokescreen, who was passed out in his office. Prowl did not disturb him, despite the festering irritation that made his plating prickle just at the reminder of what the chief had been getting up to. He instead wanted to wait for the shift to really get started before he started laying into his own boss.

He didn't have to wait terribly long for other enforcers to show up. He greeted each one at the door, committed their names and ranks to the files his tac-net had created earlier that morning, and watched as they walked to their desks with bewildered expressions as if they'd never seen a clean desk before. He preened openly, proud of his own efforts to make the precinct look orderly- presentable. For the most part, they were respectful, if not sort of bemused, and didn't engage with Prowl outside of common pleasantries, which was to be expected.

"No. Fragging. Way," a voice said from behind him. He frowned slightly- cussing on duty was a pet peeve of his- but his expression morphed into rare shock when he saw who it was. "Prowl? Holy slag! They transferred you to Cool City? When everyone was talking about a cop with wings and a red chevron and a scary face I was like 'no way they moved Prowl out here' but it's you, it's really you! Nice paint! Oh! You've gotta go with me to Sunny's ASAP so you can match with me and the rest of us! You've met Sunny, right? He's awesome. Are you staying at Icy Steel? Duh, we all are- I can't believe I haven't seen you yet! But I guess you never did go out to bars and stuff in Tagan Heights, so you probably haven't been out very much. Have you been out? It's super fun! There are so many cool places! Haha, I guess that's why it's called Cool City, amiright?" 

Prowl reeled back from the force of the impact that was Bluestreak. There was so much data all at once, and the tac-net groaned in annoyance as it tried to latch onto each racing topic, unable to get a firm grasp on their level of priority or their context. "Slow-" Prowl managed to bite out, frantically trying to prevent a building crash.

"Agh! Oops! I'm so sorry, I forgot! I'm just so excited to- oops, sorry, sorry!" Bluestreak physically restrained himself from talking more, but his doorwings were bobbing this way and that, a perpetual motion machine of ceaseless excitement. 

Prowl pressed his palm against his forehelm, holding back the processor overload. A few deep vents, a little thread trimming, a quick apology to his disgruntled tac-net, and he was over the worst of it. "It is good to see you, Bluestreak," he grit out, only from the mental strain. He really was glad to see the excitable enforcer, as much as he was surprised he was here and that he was happy to see Prowl. 

Bluestreak beamed, bouncing from pede to pede as he tried to contain his unbridled joy. "Gah!" he exclaimed, the only warning Prowl got before the Praxian lunged, wrapping his arms tightly around him in a crushing hug. "It's good to see you too! Really, really good!"

Prowl awkwardly returned the hug, gently, and waited for Bluestreak to get his fill before clearing his vocalizer. People were staring. "It is good to know that you have grown to enjoy working here."

Bluestreak let go with happy trill of his vocalizer. "I love it here! It's great! Sorry, Smokey's looking like he wants to strangle me now, he has to give us our marching orders, talk to you later, bye Prowl!" Just as abruptly as he appeared, Bluestreak flitted away to his desk, somehow managing to be loud without verbally saying anything about his now clean desk. 

Prowl was stunned, but forced his processor to stabilize. Smokescreen was standing on an elevated portion of the floor, giving him a more imposing stature than usual. The chief of enforcers announced Prowl as the new sergeant, who would be reporting to him, who was on patrol for the night, and who was in charge of dispatch. Then, without more than a plain dismissal, retreated back to his office. Where Prowl followed him. Because there were some important things to discuss. 

"Chief Smokescreen," Prowl followed his prepared script. "May I have a word with you?"

Smokescreen looked thoroughly annoyed, but it didn't carry into his voice. "Sure thing, Prowl. You can always talk to me."

Well, good. Because he was going to do a lot of that precisely right now. He recited the carefully chosen glyphs he and the tac-net had mulled over at Pyrite, explaining his distaste for betting and being the one bets were made on without consent, with a stolid expression and even tone. He had plenty of experience informing superiors of their wrongdoings, so there wasn't a hint of emotion bleeding through his speech- it was all cool, collected professionalism.

That is, until Smokescreen groaned. "Aw, come on, it's not that serious! Just a little bit of shanix added to gossip that's happening anyway, that's all!" 

Prowl's doorwings flared up and out, plating rattling with the rage that consumed him all too quickly. "Excuse me?" 

"Look, I'm sorry you don't like it, but this one's too big to just cut, y'know? I promise I won't start any new ones on you, but-"

"You are an inane, incompetent, disappointment of an enforcer to be hosting such highly disrespectful bets on your own subordinate's personal life. You should not be indulging in such illicit behaviors to begin with, and yet you sit here and do so, so shamelessly- have you no regard for your fellow enforcers? For the privacy of mech's lives? You disappoint me. Immensely." 

There was a low whistle from the doorway, and Prowl whipped around to aim his ire at whoever decided to eavesdrop. 

"He's right, you know," said the green mech poking his head into the office. "You've gotten crazy with this slag, Smokey. Couldn't even let the mech settle in before talking about his interfacing habits? Lower than low." 

Prowl flicked a doorwing. Looks like he'd be reserving that ire for Smokescreen, after all. He didn't recall meeting this enforcer just yet, but he was on his side, and that was more than enough to spare him at the moment.

Smokescreen scowled. "You should see the shanix this mech's raking in," he muttered.

"I am not-" Prowl turned back to the chief, icy steel in his optics "-a means to make you rich. I am your appointed sergeant, here to perform my sworn duty to serve and protect all citizens of Cybertron- of Cool City. I expect to see your behavior improve so we may collaborate and improve the functionings of your precinct. Am I clear?" 

Smokescreen's glare was sharp, but not enough to disturb Prowl. He was unashamed to stand up for himself, especially when it was such a great injustice he was facing. The entire situation made his plating crawl as though infested with microscopic scraplets. The chief relented, finally, and nodded. "Dismissed." It wasn't an apology, but it was a start to making it obvious that Prowl wasn't going to roll over just because he ranked lower. He had been part of the game his whole life; he knew how to work around incompetent mechs. He just hoped Smokescreen wasn't as bad as he thought he was.

Prowl spun on his heel, nearly running into the green mech that was still standing outside the office. "Can I help you?" Prowl, bitterness still dripping like hot bile in his vocalizer, huffed. 

"I'm Deputy Hound," the green mech stuck out a broad servo. "Thanks for snapping at 'im. He's needed a wake up call for a while, but it's hard to wake him up with so many bots encouraging him with their shanix, you know?" 

Prowl shook the servo, feeling the anger start dissipating from his frame. Steam off of the rust sea. He had been wondering where the deputy was... he studied Hound briefly, noting a lack of distinct and intricate markings like everyone else. He looked acutely normal, by his own standards. It was an odd relief in the turmoil that had become his life. "Sergeant Prowl. I do not, but... you are welcome," Prowl mused. As long as there was one bot who understood, he could make things work. Maybe he wouldn't have to fix the precinct alone. 

There was an offbeat, then Hound chuckled softly. "I'm having you patrol with me and TB for your first night. I figured you'd like a bit of a break from nosey mechs and a drive might be nice, don't you think?" 

"Yes," Prowl affirmed immediately. He would love a night without bots trying to poke into his business- business he was trying very hard not to think about because it made his spark casing ache and his processor ache and his whole frame ache and- "Thank you, Hound. I am ready when you are." 

Prowl returned to his apartment as the sun rose. This was particularly unfortunate, because he was both extremely tired from patrolling Cool City all night (it had been quiet, if you can call Cool City at night quiet), and because he could not get himself to recharge. His frame complained about the exhaustion, but his tac-net demanded that it was the wrong time now, that he had to be awake and be productive because the sun was up. He gave up trying to recharge after several breems of laying face down in his pillows and begrudgingly began to wander his apartment.

That was when he noticed the datapad. 

He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed it before- he almost started searching for signs of a break-in- but there was a datapad resting atop his bedside table. He certainly hadn't placed it there, so of course he approached it with utmost caution. Then, he realized that was ridiculous- it was just a spare datapad and he kept lots of those around- and onlined it with a roll of his optics at himself. He really was tired. 

The screen flickered on to a simple message, typed out rather than written with a lightpen. It was a comm. code. Prowl frowned. Read the next line. Offlined the datapad. All at once, he remembered how he had woken the previous cycle (had it been a full cycle already?!). The processor ache. The tackiness on his face. He had gone to Press Play, experienced Jazz, had a drink, and then... and then nothing. Nothing happened. His tac-net needed that to be true more than he did, really, but it was still high up there. But now he was teetering, wobbling on the precipice of possibilities. He had no idea what the first part of the message meant, but the second half, paired with the code, was abundantly clear. 

'Visages, two cycles from tonight, full set. Call me anytime! ~Jazz <3'

Something had happened. What happened? 

Chapter Text

Ideal scenario: Prowl had some engex in the vicinity of Jazz, did not make a fool of himself, and because Jazz was just as friendly as most other mechs he'd met in Cool City, helped him to his apartment and then left, and Prowl went into recharge. Nothing happened. But that didn't account for the coolant that had been dried on his face, nor the note on his datapad that he determined could have only been left by Jazz.

No matter how hard he and his tac-net clung to that ideal, best-case scenario, it would not remain the most plausible scenario, because facts never cared about Prowl's feelings. There were an infinite number of possibilities with an infinite number of combinations, and somehow, his pristine, ideal scenario hardly scraped the surface of 40% likely. Something else had happened. The chances that something were potentially threatening to his carefully maintained image were much higher than he would have liked, but not so high as to be a certainty. This was the only reprieve he could find. 

Worst-case scenario: Prowl had chugged a lot of engex, behaved like a mechanimal, embarrassed himself and Jazz, got them both forcibly removed from Press Play, where Jazz had no choice but to direct Prowl home, all the while Prowl spat nasty glyphs about this and that or maybe leaked case information he shouldn't have, and then upon entering the apartment, Prowl and Jazz got into an altercation, Jazz splashed coolant all over his face for some reason, then left. ...But that still didn't account for the note and comm. code left behind. 

Prowl, for some twisted reason, almost wanted that worst-case scenario to be true, but it was quite out of bounds for his usual character, as well as (potentially) Jazz's. He had little experience getting so overcharged that he forgot whole joors of time, but of the times he did get overcharged and could remember, he had merely become a little more open to conversation. Additionally, Prowl knew that even if he wanted to, he would never reveal classified case details. He could have said nasty things in general, but per the earlier analysis, he found that unlikely (unless something or someone had provoked him, which again, seemed unlikely). 

Scenario after scenario played out in his head from start to finish as he stared up at the ceiling from his berth. Recharge still hadn't even begun to make his optics dim, so he was stuck in a perpetual cycle of re-running simulations as their odds of accuracy slowly ticked up. He laid there for joors, arguing with his tac-net about this detail or that, and still he had only narrowed it down so much. His helm was physically warm from the effort of it all, and he was growing impatient. With no new evidence, he would be stuck. All he had was: Engex with Jazz (100%), walking to his apartment (86.9%), no signs of an altercation (78.72%), Jazz left a note (98.5%), he woke up hungover and with coolant on his face- unknown origin (99.21%). 

Then, a bright idea fired along his circuits, shooting through the darkness that was his exhausted processor.

::Mngh hello?:: Hot Rod answered Prowl's comm. just before it would be sent to voicemail. 

::Good morning, Hot Rod,:: Prowl felt guilty for a klik, forgetting that everyone slept during the day. He would be too, if it weren't for his stupid processor. ::I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.:: 

Hot Rod made some indistinct grumbling noises, clearly still shaking himself out of recharge. Oops. ::Uh, sure, lay it on me.::

::What, specifically, did you hear about the night I attended Press Play.:: Prowl knew it was a bad idea and a long shot. Despite many of the rumors and gossip in Cool City (that he's been aware of so far) being mostly accurate, he was still a firm believer that glyphs passed from bot to bot down a line of several bots should not be used as evidence. However. With nothing else to go on, it was as much of a long shot as it was his best shot. 

::About...? Oh, about that slag with Jazz? I thought-::

::I am conducting an... investigation, of sorts,:: Prowl interjected, frowning to himself. He did not want to admit to anyone, let alone someone potentially so loose-dermaed as Hot Rod, that he couldn't remember that night's events. It was a little more than mildly embarrassing. ::I do not mind being told what information you know.:: But he would be slagged if he was going to tell Hot Rod anything. That was his own business, and it would remain that way even if he didn't have a chief trying to peek into his personal life. 

::Oh, ok. Gnarly. Well, like I said before, Sideswipe heard from Lugnut heard from-::

Prowl pinched his nasal ridge. That was his fault, he didn't clarify. ::You do not need to tell me who said what.::

::Right. So. The general conses- connes- consene- whatever- the idea is that bots saw Jazz invite you for drinks, and you looked pretty slagged 'before [you] even finished one drink' and then you both left.::

::Consensus,:: Prowl uttered, unable to let that one slip without correction. ::Alright... what else?:: 

::Um, I guess there were a buncha wannabe bots who thought you were the 'lucky frag of the night',:: Hot Rod sounded like he was making that same face he made at the diner the previous cycle. Prowl didn't know how he came to that conclusion, but it felt accurate to the mech. ::Someone said something about seeing Jazz helping you walk home and that you both looked pretty happy, but that's all I heard. Promise.:: 

::Hm.:: Prowl ruled out some of the less fortunate scenarios he had come up with. Looking pretty happy... that could, theoretically be possible. ::One more thing.::

::Yeah?:: Hot Rod yawned. 

::Jazz left a note for me,:: Prowl began, mildly regretting asking anything at all due to the implications... but his strive for solving the mystery conquered. He recited the note, glyph for glyph (excluding the details of the comm. code and the '<3' at the end). ::What does that mean?::

There was a blast of static on the other end, followed by muffled cackling. Prowl didn't see what was so funny-

::Prowl!:: Hot Rod giggled, struggling to recover from his outburst. ::Dude, he's telling you about his next gig! And also gave you his comm., so like...::

Prowl was silent, and Hot Rod (correctly) took that to mean he needed to clarify. 

::He's basically asking you out, Wee-Woo! You should check out his set at Visages tonight or at least comm. him!::  

::Ah...:: Prowl's optics widened and he spared a glance at the datapad still sitting on his berthside table. ::Thank you for your assistance, Hot Rod. You have been helpful.::

::No prob,:: Hot Rod replied, sounding like he was about ready to drift off into recharge again despite the previous burst of excitement. ::Happy to help! G'night.:: 

Prowl ended the comm. then, feeling only slightly better than he had before. He dismissed any and all thoughts about the datapad. He was not pleased with the impression that others seemed to view him as competition or just a piece of metal, or that Jazz was apparently very popular as a berth partner. And then gears started turning, clicking into place.

Why didn't they interface? The first time Prowl had been out with Jazz (had even met the mech), they had wound up interfacing. For what reason would that not be the end result of a night with drinks? He swallowed the accompanying, conflicting feelings and views on the matter, turning the tac-net's focus to what might have happened once they made it to his apartment. It did so begrudgingly, but it did so, and Prowl took whatever he could get from the piece of hardware. 

Like before, infinite scenarios flooded his processor, then were cut down and cut down and cut down until he had the most plausible results- and then he didn't look at them because he was afraid of what he'd find. In the back of his helm, he had memorized every possible reason someone would not engage in intimate or romantic or even platonic actions with him. He could not bear to acknowledge that Jazz could have even remotely similar reasons, and that made him feel like purging. Why did he care so much? He shouldn't care at all. He was a distraction and a stranger, not his lover or even a friend. 

The tac-net deleted the joors of hard calculations and predictions about his missing memory files before Prowl could protest. Then, he found that he didn't care. Whatever happened didn't matter, because all worst-case scenarios had been ruled out, as well as the best ones. The tac-net hummed contently, running background processes like it was all it was made to do. There. That was solved.

Recharge finally caught up to him, pulling him into a fluxless void. 

Prowl had managed to glare at three separate enforcers (twice at Cliffjumper, for crass language and for neglecting to sign off on a case report) before Hound encouraged him to hit the streets again. He didn't know how the green mech knew it, but casual patrolling was always a soothing balm to his over-worked processor. He wasn't normally so uppity (not that anyone would agree with that), but the lack of recharge and the deal with Smokescreen and all the time he spent mulling over that mech he couldn't bring himself to call by name at the moment had made his wires fray. He assured Hound that he would not be an issue once he properly adjusted to the night shift, but Hound only shook his helm and chuckled warmly.

"It's understandable, Prowl. I'm just here to make sure that transition goes as smooth as possible for you, ok?" 

And then Prowl had left with a little more warmth to his cold frame. Cool City wasn't all turmoil, sometimes. He made sure to include Pyrite in his patrol route, if only to make sure nothing was amiss. He did not stop, despite the subtle tug he felt as the neon sign came and went. The sidewalks were busy, as usual, clotted around the most popular bars, but everyone seemed to just be grooving along to whatever was happening. He kept having to force himself not to interrupt every mech he saw openly taking some drug or another, reminding himself as well as the tac-net that there was nothing he could do about it just yet. He had confirmed with the precinct's database that, yes, drugs were legal, so long as they were purchased from an approved retailer and the purchaser held the appropriate medical certifications- and interesting piece of knowledge that he had yet to further look into. There were only two hospitals in Cool City, and he had yet to explore them at all. Something for another day. In the meantime, he let the feeling of the asphalt under his tires ease his helmache. 

And then he was driving by Visages. 

Prowl did not stop there, either. The tac-net rightfully reminded him that he was on-duty, patrolling, keeping Cool City maintained. He didn't have time to enjoy himself, as if he could possibly enjoy standing in a crowded club. 

And then his circuit repeated with only a brief stop to issue a minibot a speeding ticket- breaking the streak of non-incidents. And he was in front of Visages again. It would be... considered rude to not show his face after being specifically invited. He would rather comm. and explain to Jazz that he was busy, working, on-shift, but he would also rather not try to interrupt the entertainer's own job just to decline the invite. 

"Look who it is," one of the bouncers said smugly as Prowl made up his mind and approached the door to the club. He skipped the line, naturally; he couldn't spend his whole shift waiting when he didn't want to be there in the first place (or that's what his tac-net was telling him, anyway). "Thought the boss was jokin' when he said to keep an eye out for you." 

Prowl payed the heavy-duty femme no mind. So he was expected. That was convenient. "May I enter?" he asked cordially, easily hiding his unease beneath his usual stoic demeanor. 

"I dunno, can you?" the femme challenged. Her partner, an equally large mech in dusky brown as opposed to her burnt orange, shook his helm.

"He said 'may'. It doesn't work now, and you look like an idiot," the mech grumbled, optics focused on his task of checking idents. 

The femme paused, then drooped comically. "Aw, turborats. I've been waiting to use that line for a whole orn!" 

"Well, ya biffed it. Just let him in already, you're gonna slag the boss off." 

Prowl watched the exchange with a little amusement, and dipped his doorwings at them as they moved to let him into the overfull club. 

Visages was very much unlike Press Play. The aesthetic was completely different- classier, if a club could be classified as 'classy'- pale blues and warped glass everywhere, crystals hanging from the ceiling and refracting white and pink lights like a cavern of geodes. It was stunning, but it was still loud and stuffed with bots just the same as the ones in Press Play, which Prowl would now describe as 'industrial' in comparison to the elegance that was Visages. The stage was set across from the bar, mirrored semi-circles projecting from their respective walls, and decked out with speakers, effects, and grand curtains that reminded Prowl of the image captures he'd seen of Iacon. 

Of course, he knew the mech that was on the stage. 

Jazz was bathed in silver lights, dancing with the same instrument he had played at Press Play (he made a small note to research what it was). The song he was singing felt distant, despite the sound systems being cranked way too loud. It was familiar, in the sort of way a washrack is familiar no matter where you stay. Maybe the settings have more options, or maybe it has different colored walls, but it is, irrefutably, a washrack, just as Jazz's song was music. 

Prowl slunk through the crowd, finding an easy spot to stand perfectly still in without somemech crashing into him during an exaggerated dance move. He set a timer on his HUD: half a joor. Then, he would have to take his leave and continue his shift like he intended. While he idly listened, he let his attention wander around the establishment, taking in the certifications plastered on the wall behind the bar (up to code and fully licensed), the overcharged mechs and femmes, the brief flashes of wristbands and boosters. 

Something in the air shifted.

Prowl got an alarming sense of deja-vu just then, and he switched his gaze from making sure no one in the crowd was causing trouble and up to the stage on instinct. His spark stalled when the blue visor met his optics, just as it had that night at Press Play. That night had been so recent, but felt like a lifetime ago, and now both the memory and the present moment were colliding, swirling and building on something that had once been so small in him. The music began to breathe as though it were a living, loving, complex thing, but no one around him seemed to notice. That familiar feeling was gone and in its place was something new, enticing, whole. Jazz's smile became genuine (how had he not noticed the counterfeit that held his face beforehand?), brighter than the lights and sweeter than the melody he was effortlessly spilling from his very spark. 

Prowl wasn't aware when he moved through the crowd, closer and closer to the front of the stage as if Jazz's songs were possessing his frame. He couldn't find it in himself to care if that were true or not; the music engulfed him entirely, picking him up in the crescendos and letting him float weightlessly on the glyphs that had no real meaning. An alarm buzzed in his helm but he dismissed it swiftly, unable to see or hear or feel anything that wasn't Jazz. 

And then Jazz began another song. And another. And another. Each new tune was unique yet identifiable by its creator, and each was just as beautiful as the last.

Before Prowl knew it was the last song, Jazz began bringing his set to a close. The visored mech knelt at the front of the stage, just in front of Prowl. Mechs and femmes were screaming, reaching out, waving their servos, anything to steal just one glance from the entertainer, but the visor knew its target and would not let anything make him miss. Jazz reached out with both servos, cupping Prowl's chin with trembling softness, visor so blindingly bright, vocalizer carrying one last perfect note, and when their derma pressed together, the world exploded. 

Kissing Prowl from the stage was easily one of Jazz's top five best spontaneous ideas ever. The crowd was stunned, outraged, absolutely rippling with shock, but he couldn't care less- not when the kiss hardened for a moment, their nasal ridges smashing together, Prowl's servos clutching Jazz's wrists like he never wanted to let go- until Jazz blinked and that pretty enforcer was- running away?! 

Jazz caught the startled look on Prowl's face, the way he wiped his derma with the back of a servo as if he had just purged, before he briskly turned heel and forced himself through the enraged crowd. Alright... maybe not in his top five best ideas ever. He hadn't even realized he was still kneeling at the edge of the stage, slack-jawed, until Mirage was pulling him to his pedes and dragging him behind stage. 

"What was that?!" Mirage hissed, turning Jazz's helm this way and that as if looking for damage. "I thought you said he was a friend of yours!"

"What, I can't kiss a good ol' buddy?" Jazz murmured, the usual humor in his vocalizer fallen flat. The gravity of the situation was getting heavy on his shoulders, and he didn't need Mirage telling him how badly he just fragged it all. 

"Jazz," Mirage huffed. "You've never done that. Period."

"Wha- kiss somemech? Psshh, do you know who yer talkin' to?" 

"That's the problem." 

Jazz pouted. Problem? The only problem he knew about was the fact that he had just scared off the sweetest, dorkiest, somehow also sexiest, enforcer in Cool City with that little stunt. Maybe he got a little excited when Prowl actually came to the show. Maybe he got a little excited when the mech watched so intently, like he wanted to solve all of Jazz's little mysteries, like nothing else on Cybertron mattered. Was that so wrong and bad? He just had to find him again and apologize and start all over again. Find him... he had to go after him! Right now!

"Aht-! Don't you even think about it, mister," Mirage scolded, physically barring Jazz from running out the side door to chase his enforcer down. 

"Miraaaaage! 'Raji! Mira! Please, mech, think about this!" Jazz whined, trying to duck and weave the owner of Visages. Mirage was a crafty mech, but Jazz was craftier. 

"Jazz, what is- Jazz!" Jazz cackled as he broke free and slammed his way through the side door and into the alleyway. "Jazz, get your sappy aft back here-!" 

Jazz transformed and hit the street hard. Sorry, 'Raj- he's got a cop to catch. 

Prowl was not hiding. He was merely running radar; parked in the shadow of a building with his lights off. He had a duty to do. He was actively on-shift. There were rules, in his helm, and he had just broken two of them in the span of a joor. It was fortunate that there hadn't been a call, or else Prowl would have seriously damaged his reputation as a good, attentive, efficient enforcer. 

His tac-net was incessantly screaming about how everymech in the entire city was going to know before sunrise, and that would do enough to sully his image, but there was nothing he could do. So he huddled in his alt, waiting for a poor sod to issue a speeding ticket to make him feel better. He was definitely not also falling into recharge when his radar finally clocked a speedster alt cruising 23 mpj over the posted speed limit. 

Prowl peeled out without a second thought, firing up his lights and sirens, tires squealing as he accelerated sharply. Finally, a little bit of justice to be served and make him feel validated. The speedster did not show any signs of slowing or pulling over, and Prowl began writing up the 'evasion of a police officer' citation in the back of his processor as the brunt of his focus remained on the pursuit. He was tired. He was scared. He wanted to scream and he wanted to bury himself under the city and never resurface. 

The speedster didn't put up chase for long, to Prowl's satisfaction. It was as if they changed their mind about running last-second, and gradually slowed down. Those taillights looked- oh, for Pit's sake. 

Prowl transformed once they stopped against the curb in a part of the city he hadn't explored much. Of course it had to be Jazz. Of course. Because Primus hated him and wanted him to suffer for- for- whatever it was that he did wrong, at some point, in his life. The tac-net fed him his lines, gave him strength, encouraged him to deliver sweet justice to the lawbreaker. 

"Transform but remain seated on the ground," Prowl ordered, steeling himself. His spark was doing all kinds of acrobatics in his chassis, and his engine was having trouble settling, and his tanks were curdling, but, above all, he had to do his job. His job was easy to definitely not hide behind. Jazz unfurled from his alt, all perfected grace and style, and gazed up at Prowl with a slag-eating smirk from the ground. He did not acknowledge it. "Are you aware you were traveling up to 34 miles per joor over the posted speed limit, and then attempted to evade a lawful stop by an enforcer?" 

"I could never evade you, beautiful," Jazz purred, sending Prowl's circuits into disarray. The tac-net stabilized his processor without hesitation, too on-the-ball with how it kept protocol at the highest priority. 

"Are you denying your attempt to avoid getting pulled over?" Prowl droned, all by the book. He was doing his job. He was doing his job correctly, with no room for error. He was a good enforcer. 

Jazz leaned back on his hands, accentuating his chassis and the curve of his waist. Prowl pretended he didn't notice. "Nah, ain't a thing. I'd let you pull me over any joor of the night." Jazz's voice was all honey and song and it was warm, so warm, his glyphs so tantalizing-

"Please provide me with your designation and ident number." Prowl did not break. He was cold, precise, professional. He could not be swayed. He was a steel beam in concrete. 

"Prowler," Jazz laughed that sweet, charming laugh. "I already gave ya my number! All ya gotta do is give it a ring." 

"Designation and ident number."

Jazz pouted, cocking his helm to the side. "Baby, you know me~ don't tell me you've gotten all shy after-"

"Designation and ident number, or I will have to take you into the precinct where you will have to be processed and spend up to two cycles in custody, as well as pay the designated speeding ticket and citation for evading a lawful stop by an enforcer and citation for refusing to provide identification to an enforcer during said lawful stop, unless another individual pays your posted bail." 

"Designation Jazz of Stanix, ident 0125627351," Jazz said quickly, straightening his seductive posture when he finally realized that Prowl was serious- of course he was serious. He was doing his job. He was good at his job. He wasn't sure if it was the tac-net flooding his frame with satisfaction or if it originated from himself, but he latched onto it all the same.

"Thank you, Jazz of Stanix," Prowl's voice was impossibly neutral, even to his own audials. He pulled his ticket book out of subspace, wrote up the speeding ticket, then began the other citation without mercy. When both documents were handed to Jazz (who grimaced at the 100 shanix fine), Prowl concluded his stop with the proper glyphs and procedures, and promptly left to finish his shift at the precinct. He did not think about the visored mech's gaze following him until he turned a corner. He did not think about the things he wanted to say had it not been for his code-deep need for proper procedure and following professional ethics. 

The farther he drove away from Jazz, the more unraveled he became. He didn't look at any of his fellow enforcers when he entered the precinct, didn't even look at Hound when the deputy asked how his patrolling had been. He filed the necessary paperwork for both the stops he had completed, offlined his monitor, and stared blankly at the far wall of his office until it was time to go home.

Chapter Text

It had taken less than a cycle for Prowl to go from 'that new enforcer' in Cool City, to 'that enforcer that broke Jazz'- whatever that meant- and he could not be feeling more ashamed of himself. 

At first, Prowl had only been ashamed. The first and only thing his coworkers wanted to ask him about was The Visages Incident, to which he politely declined any comment, and then gently redirected the focus to task assignments. The redirection never lasted long, however, and he would hear them talking about it once his back had turned. To avoid overhearing, he determined that doing datawork and research in his office would be a good idea.

By the end of his shift, Prowl felt angry. Prowl, despite his never-ending irritation and dissatisfaction with certain mechs, laws, and cities, rarely got angry. Sure, he was plenty well known for snapping at incompetent bots, but he was hardly angry when he was snapping- just disappointed (his altercation with Smokescreen was an exception to that- he was- still is- mad at Smokescreen). The Visages Incident made him feel angry, and it put him in a violent tug-of-war with his tac-net on where that anger was supposed to be directed. The tac-net was pulling towards Jazz, and Prowl was pulling towards himself, but neither were gaining any ground. So Prowl sat in his office and learned about a vornly parade showcasing the various businesses of Cool City. Angrily. 

Being angry at Smokescreen was easy; the rage was easily pointed at the chief because the chief was undeniably guilty. Smokescreen made bets on Prowl's personal life knowingly, openly, and without remorse, even after confrontation, and so he had rightfully earned Prowl's ire. 

The Visages Incident was hard to be angry about, but that didn't stop that feeling from being a smoldering lump of magma deep in his chassis. Jazz could only be blamed for being so bold, in the end. Prowl, on the other hand, could be blamed for his negligence, his inability to adhere to his own strict guidelines, his panic, among other things. It should have been easy to be mad at himself if only for the abundance of evidence proving his misconduct, but the tac-net planted its heels. If he weren't so busy feeling angry, he would point out that the tac-net was usually all for self-pitying as a means to correct his behavior. 

"Prowl?"

Prowl's helm snapped up, a glare that's been owning his face for the last few joors locked and loaded to dare the next bot to ask him about The Visages Incident. 

"Shift's over, Sarge. You best try and get some rest." Hound was leaning casually in the doorway, quiet concern furrowing his optical ridges. 

The fire in Prowl's optics flickered, but didn't fade. Hound never did anything to provoke him (he was one of two mechs who hadn't mentioned The Visages Incident or Jazz at all). In fact, Deputy Hound had been the only enforcer to go out of his way to be kind and courteous to Prowl. "Thank you," he grumbled, peeling himself from his chair and switching off his monitor. When he was done closing everything up, he found Hound still standing in the doorway. 

"Chief's still here," Hound explained after Prowl's inquiring doorwing tilt. "Don't want him getting any ideas like the start of shift." 

Don't even get Prowl started on his interactions with Smokescreen at the beginning of his shift. He had come in, fully prepared to be scolded for abandoning his post to fraternize with citizens at a bar. That reprimand never came. Instead, Chief Smokescreen laid into Prowl saying 'how could you just run away?!' as if any alternative would have been better. Removing himself from the situation as quickly as possible was the only thing that had made sense at the time, and was still the only thing that made sense. 

Smokescreen had complained that Prowl shouldn't feel like he can't enjoy himself during his shift, shouldn't be afraid to be intimate with others, and shouldn't feel the need to write up speeding tickets for bots driving only 3 mpj over the limit, which Prowl did not take well at all. The interaction ended with a scowl sharp enough to silence a sitting senator and Smokescreen quickly retreating into his office before the slagged-off sergeant could throw something at him.

Prowl nodded an acknowledgment to Hound- the only thing he could muster with the fear of lashing out like he had at the chief- and allowed the deputy to escort him out of the precinct. The sun was rising on Cool City, washing the neon signs out until they blinked off one by one. The glossy, oil-spill contours became regular old buildings and roads. The last echoes of club music faded into blissful silence. It was truly peaceful, and even that did little to displace the anger that was trapped in his frame. 

"Would you like the night off tomorrow?" Hound asked. Prowl then fully realized that they had been walking together for the last few breems. He was about to ask why, when he remembered that apparently, most of the enforcers lived at Icy Steel. He seldom saw his neighbors, which he attributed to the recharging schedule that Prowl still couldn't get with. 

"No," Prowl answered swiftly. "I do not wish to be coddled." He could admit to himself that he had not been in the best of moods. He still couldn't get enough recharge, and he was at his wit's end with the entire city knowing how terribly he'd messed up, but he would never try to run from his duty. He had a job and he was going to do it, even if it meant doing so in a fowl mood. 

Hound chuckled softly beside him. "Giving you time to rest and recover isn't coddling, Prowl."

"Even so," Prowl scowled, "I have not earned that time." 

"You don't need to earn it to need it," Hound supplied gently. Everything the big green mech did seemed gentle. It was off-putting but in a welcoming way- probably the point of being gentle in the first place.

"I do not need it." 

"Do you want it?"

Yes, crowed a tiny voice in the back of his processor. He was so tired. He was so angry. He would do anything to make it stop. 

"No." Prowl bit back, his glossa too sharp on the glyph. He didn't deserve it, nor did he deserve to want it. There were things more important than how tired or angry he felt. What he wanted was to recover his reputation and for bots to stop looking at him the way they looked at him. 

He waited for Hound to argue, but an argument never came. Instead, when they arrived at Icy Steel, Hound bid him good recharge and slipped into his own apartment, leaving Prowl to fester alone once more. 

The next cycle, Prowl was still the talk of the town. He kept his helm down, attention on things that actually mattered: scheduling a meeting with the lead doctor at Cool Hospital (a name he was not amused by) to see firsthand what medical certifications were needed in order to legally purchase drugs, for one. He had also been trying to reach a city planner regarding the lack of street signs, but none of his messages seemed to go through- perhaps he was trying to contact the wrong bot. There was also the usual workload that came with being a sergeant. He couldn't afford to keep being so mad at the gossip. He had to move forward. 

The cycle after that, the chatter had dialed down into whispers. He-said-she-saids and other such rumors that held very little accuracy compared to the blatant truth of The Visages Incident. Prowl kept working. After work, he would go to his apartment and try to recharge. Re: Try. 

Over the next six cycles, Prowl had gotten maybe a grand total of 17 joors of recharge compared to Prowl's typical 36-48. Suffice to say, he was miserable when he clocked into his eleventh shift in a row. Recharge deprivation had started playing tricks on him; shadows moving in his periphery, distant shouts, phantom sensations against his doorwings, the whole shebang. The tac-net had been temperamental at best, spitting lines of binary in place of normal statistics and failing to calculate simple formulas. He was also becoming forgetful, which was affecting his efficiency, which was bringing his entire goal to the ground. He didn't need Hound to tell him that he needed to take care of himself to be a good enforcer- he knew that. It wasn't his fault that recharge simply wouldn't stay with him whenever he managed to find it.

Like the previous cycles, Prowl mostly kept to his office researching or filing datawork or checking over his subordinate's reports. There was a hefty stack accruing, and even half-functional the tac-net could pick out a pattern.

"Minor battery charge: assailant and victim got into an argument, resulting in the assailant rubbing their servo on the victim's face in order to 'shut [their] lying aft up'. Victim claims that the reason for the argument was because the assailant believed popular musician Jazz to be retiring, and the victim could 'not stand for that kind of blasphemous talk'. Victim decided not to press charges, and instead wandered off into the nearest alleyway to fraternize with the assailant." 

"Forceable removal of a mech due to a verbal altercation taking place at Swerve's. Witness/victim quoted below: 'He was asking me why I don't have Jazz playing this orn, so I told him I've been trying to get him on, it's not my fault he's not answering any comm.s from any one of us club owners!'. When prompted on his opinion on whether or not Enforcer Prowl could be to blame for the popular musician, Jazz, being absent from the club scene, the witness/victim replied: 'Listen, I'm not in charge of keeping tabs on that plot line. But hey, good ol' Swerve has got a much better story I could fill you in on. There's this guy named Blurr, he opened this bar called The Oil House just last vorn, and-' statement ends abruptly. Reason for missing statement: 'I ain't writing allat -xoxo, Cliffjumper'"

"Hi Prowl! Here's my reports from the last cycle! There's a looooot of them tho, bots have been so weird lately! Wonder what that's about... ok bye I hope you like my reports!" Followed up by several attached files detailing angry crowds causing bartenders and club owners trouble, all of them outraged by the lack of Jazz. In one report, a femme had attempted to clobber a musician over the head with a barstool that hadn't been properly bolted down to prevent musician clobbering.

Things were getting brutal in Cool City, and Prowl, somehow, was half to blame. He really needed a nap. Or five. Hundred. 

And taking five hundred naps was exactly what Prowl was planning on doing by the end of his shift. He (very begrudgingly) accepted a day off, primarily because he would have been scheduled one soon anyway, but also because Hound had made it seem more like an order than a suggestion. Prowl couldn't just ignore an order from his superior. Loopholes... no matter. 

So, with his processor half-melted to slag due to shame, anger, glaring and snapping at mechs, working too hard, not recharging enough, and still somehow being at the core of the entire Cool City population's gossip and potential social collapse, Prowl genuinely believed he had been hallucinating when a mech appeared out of thin air in the middle of his living room. 

"Hello, Prowl," the hallucination, in the form of an elegant blue and white mech, said dramatically, legs crossed on the couch. "Let's have a chat, shall we?"

Prowl didn't even have the energy to startle, so he really just stood there, blinking with owlish optics. He was seriously losing it. He should go to the nearest hospital and ask to be put in a medical induced stasis at this point. "Ah... sure?" What was he going to do? Arrest him? ...He probably should, seeing as this mech was breaking in and entering. 

The mech frowned, clearly not expecting the response Prowl gave. He was sure he was supposed to put up a fuss, threaten to arrest him, blah blah blah... and then the mech would use whatever witty comebacks he had. Or maybe blackmail. Was he about to get blackmailed? This felt like a blackmail situation... too bad there was nothing Prowl had done that the entire city didn't already know about. Except two things. Oh Primus he was about to get blackmailed, wasn't he. 

"Are you... ok?" the mech asked slowly, sitting up from his dramatic and sinister pose to look at Prowl with concern. "You're not on something, are you?"

Prowl snorted. "No." To both questions, that was true, but he let the answer ride more on the latter. "Who are you?"

Again, the mech looked completely caught off-guard. "Who am- Prowl. You've been here for two orns and you don't know who I am? Are you sure you're not on something?"

"Apologies. I have not recharged much lately," Prowl said, wishing the mystery trespasser would just get on with it. "Who are you?" 

The mech huffed, either offended or exasperated, Prowl couldn't tell. "Mirage. Owner of Visages? You've heard of me."

Prowl shook his helm slowly. Maybe in passing or in a report, but the designation really didn't ring a bell. 

"Ok. Whatever. Point is- I'm Jazz's best friend and roommate. And sometimes his boss. And I need you to talk to him because, and I don't know if you've noticed, Mr. Recharge Deprived, but he hasn't been working at all and he's not acting like himself and I think you broke him." 

Prowl had heard that particular line close to a hundred times by now. He didn't know how to properly convey that he didn't do anything- Jazz was the one who decided to give Prowl the simultaneously best and worst kiss of his entire life. Had he reacted a little strongly? ...Yes, but it was still within reason given the circumstances. Actually, now that he was reevaluating the entire Visages Incident, Prowl was pretty sure he was the broken one. 

"Why should I talk to him?" Prowl sighed, allowing the idea to float in his processor while the tac-net swiped at it, trying to knock it down. 

"Well, for one," Mirage began, adjusting his plating, "I haven't had a hot shower in cycles because he spends over a joor self-servicing in the washrack. He thinks he's being quiet but more than once it's been your designation he's been moaning. And he won't stop writing these awful, slow, poetry songs about love or some scrap like that. Totally not his usual vibe, awful to listen to. And he won't go out anywhere at all- he loves going out! It's all he does! He's starting to stink up the place with his sad, sappy mood. And I'll tell you one more thing-" thank Primus, because Prowl was surely making the most emotionally constipated face in the history of Cybertron "-he actually paid that stupid speeding ticket you gave him. He was supposed to spend that 100 shanix on replacing the glasses he broke last orn." 

"That is good to hear," Prowl murmured, of course only latching onto that last part about Jazz paying his speeding ticket. He didn't issue it for nothing, after all. 

"Good to- Prowl!" Mirage was standing now, hands pressed together in a pleading gesture. "You need to talk some sense into him. I don't care if you do it by breaking his spark or by doing whatever freaky slag you two do when you're alone, but I'm at my wit's end-" 

"Fine," Prowl bit out, too tired to listen to this mech complain any longer. "I will..." he didn't know what he was going to do. A comm. call felt impersonal and rude. Going to see him in the metal would only lead to disaster. "Talk to him," Prowl decided on lamely. The tac-net was annoyingly silent in his helm, not helping at all. 

"Hoh, thank The Primes. Thank you, Prowl. You're saving a poor mech's life, trust." Mirage's display of gratitude was a little excessive, but accepted considering the mech literally broke into Prowl's apartment. He still thought he should at least write up a report on the matter, but he was so tired, he wasn't sure he was going to make it to his berth. "I left my comm. on the counter if you need anything. Sweet fluxes, Officer!" 

"And... to you?" Prowl blinked and Mirage had vanished just as suddenly as he had appeared. But then the mystery ended when his door opened and shut on its own accord not two breems later. An outlier, probably. He would look into it later.

Why did everyone have to be so theatrical... 

Chapter Text

Jazz was floating. Not really, he was kind of too heavy to float on anything, but it felt like he was floating. What was he floating on? The most powerful drug known to mechs... 

Love!

Jazz was in love. He was pretty sure, at least- the symptoms were all there, but if you told him to describe said symptoms, he'd just start beeping like a sparkling. Every time he thought of Prowl, his spark sang some unsingable tune that was driving him crazy trying to make his bass and vocalizer replicate. Yeah, he was still a little miffed about how he fumbled during his last gig, but he knew Prowl hadn't meant to look so disgusted. He wasn't sure how he knew- felt it in his spark, like everything else, probably- but he couldn't stay upset at the enforcer. He would start giggling to himself every time he replayed the memory file of Prowl pulling him over all professionally and stern afterwards... 100 shanix was worth it. He was high in the stratosphere with all the love he felt. That is, until whenever Mirage would complain at him and tell him to just go and talk to the mech. He'd clam up so fast- shut down faster than a club that served poison instead of engex- unable to bring himself to do anything about anything.

...And then he'd get to thinkin' again and get all bashful and maybe write another song or two. 

That was just the thing- he was perfectly content (for now) shooting up on memory files and living in the love by himself. It was sad, in more ways than one, but he was also crazy happy. He would never admit, especially not to Mirage, that he was scared to lose the joy he had by trying to get more. Two in the cache and one in the servo... or whatever they say. As much as Prowl drove him crazy, he didn't want to push his luck by getting arrested and then he really couldn't go back to what he was already calling his 'old life' if he wanted to. Can't get your spark broken if you don't put it in the crusher's open maw! Simple. 

Jazz could float on forever this way, so long as Mirage or no one else decided to tell him what he was supposed to be doing. Which was now his old life. Looking back, his old life had gotten so stale. How many times can one mech play the same top ten hits at the same clubs? The people of Cool City were so unreceptive to anything truly out of the norm it was astonishing. The whole point of the city was for it to be different from anywhere else and to always be in a state of change. Now...? Jazz couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked him what his favorite color is or what he thought about the history of bass-crafting or what his damn ident number was so he can get written up for speeding. 

As it were, Jazz was sitting atop the coffee table in the apartment he shared with Mirage. He had flimsies scattered around himself; scribbles of lyrics and melody ideas scrawled all over them. He was singing over a backing track he had recorded with his bass earlier as he tried to make his next tune perfect. And then he would file them away in a special place in his processor, and he would reserve them for himself. ...Perhaps the one they were written about, too, but that was in the uncertain (different, changing!) future. His song broke off into another reflexive giggle at the thought of a future with that strange enforcer. 

The sounds of a hushed argument was audible just outside the front door, but Jazz kept singing, softly, as he crossed out one line and replaced it with a new one. He didn't quite hear the door open, but he watched it in his periphery, getting a glance of Mirage's familiar color scheme. 

"You are ridiculous, I mean just ridiculous!" Mirage hissed, still in the doorway. Jazz looked up, assuming he was getting yelled at for being 'weird and off-putting' again. Instead, he saw Mirage reach back, grab a black and white arm, and slingshot- Prowl?!- into the room. The worst part? Mirage left. Slammed the door behind himself, leaving the frazzled enforcer standing awkwardly in the entryway. 

Jazz stopped singing. Prowl stared, expression unreadable save for the shock in his widened optics. Jazz stared back, stuck between being slack-jawed and grinning (the result was a weird open-intaked smile that was probably hard to look at). Neither mech dared move or even vent. The tension in the air was so thick, Jazz could probably float on it, and wasn't that ironic? 

"I don't hear any talking!" Mirage shouted from the other side of the door, knocking loudly on it. That seemed to get Prowl unstuck from whatever daze he was in, and he shook his handsome helm and pretty doorwings out. He opened his intake to say something, but his vocalizer clicked, and then his face twisted into embarrassment as he tried once more to recollect himself. It was the cutest thing Jazz had ever seen- aside from that time he talked about A Mystery in Lower Tarn, or that time he panicked after crashing on Jazz's chassis, or that time at Pyrites when their servos were joined together, or that time he was overcharged and so endearing about Jazz's music, or that time- 

"I am here to apologize," Prowl began after clearing his vocalizer a couple times. His doorwings then dropped low, flat to his back, which was swiftly added to the mountain of data about Prowl in Jazz's processor. "I did not intend," Jazz loved it when he said those glyphs, "to offend you with my actions during the vis- during your show at Visages. I have never..." he trailed off, optics dimming for a moment as he stared somewhere past Jazz. "I cannot see you again." 

Jazz's tanks flipped, but his spark had other plans. He was not the one bending to the whims and wills of his frame and processor- he was the one bending them to his own whims and wills. The glyphs stung, but they weren't believable. Sure, Mirage probably dug up some dirt on the enforcer in order to make him apologize for something Jazz had already decided to forgive, but he was still here, wasn't he? The giant tree of hope within him had experienced worse storms, and as menacing and violent as Prowl could seem, he was nothing but a worried breeze. 

"Prowler, you don't haveta be sorry about a thing," Jazz said, sinking into his easy-going demeanor without a hitch. "I'm the one who should be sorry for forcin' that on ya." 

Prowl's doorwings lifted slightly, and now Jazz could see how they vibrated just slightly. "You did not force yourself on me," the enforcer replied swiftly. "But... it was unexpected, and the consequences have been... unsavory." He frowned over the last glyph, clearly wanting to say something harsher. Jazz would welcome it, but he knew well enough from Mirage's complaining that Cool City was missing their favorite funtime entertainer. They could suck on rusty bolts, for all he cared. 

In any case, his hope and relief twirled around each other in a happy jig knowing that he hadn't totally violated the poor enforcer (if that were the case, he was 100% confident that he would have been charged with assault by now). 

"That's why I'm sorry," Jazz explained smoothly, sliding off of the table he had been using as a desk/chair. "Bots can be ruthless. I should've known this'd turn into a scandal." 

"A scandal," Prowl repeated with a quiet scoff to his vocalizer. "That is a glyph to describe the inci- what had happened."  

"Please don't tell me you've been calling me kissing your sweet derma on stage an 'incident', Prowler," Jazz smirked, coming to stand a few feet from Prowl. He glanced at those derma, mildly regretting coming so close because temptation was sweet.

Prowl's wings shot up fully, waving, practically shouting 'I've been caught!' or something similar. "What?- I-" the enforcer sputtered. "No-" 

"I fraggin' love you." 

Jazz froze. Prowl froze. Once more, they were trapped in a silent staring contest of bewildered shock and awkward tension. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. It was true, it was what he'd been thinking to himself for the past orn, but for the sentiment to have escaped his vocalizer so freely, so raw? 

"Sorry," Jazz started to say, fumbling for his laidback grin- where did it run off to this time?- searching for a way to recover. But then, Prowl was taking the steps to close the distance between them, something intense and yearning in his optics, and Jazz could have sworn his spark stopped from being too happy, and-

Oh. 

Prowl crashed. On his chassis. Again. 

"Oops!" blurted Jazz as he scrambled to get a good, supportive hold on the two-ton brick of enforcer- a feat that was harder than it looked. "...'Raj?" 

"Are you-" Mirage went through all five stages of grief before he even made it through the doorway. "What is happening right now," the mech demanded, squinting at Prowl's back suspiciously.

Jazz shrugged as best as he could with an unconscious enforcer draped over his chassis. "He crashed, I think."

"Gzzgktchhhh," said Prowl in agreement. Sweetspark was already waking up again, how wonderful! "Tchchchchgnnnn..." 

Jazz hushed him gently, rubbing soothing circles on Prowl's backplating just above his doorwings. He didn't know very much about bots who suffered from processor crashes, but based off of the first time this situation happened, spitting static wasn't healthy or normal. Remembering that heightened sensitivity to sound seemed to be an issue for the mech, he tried to beam what he needed help with into Mirage's helm.

Of course, Mirage could turn invisible, not read minds, so it took a lot of vague helm nodding and mouthing glyphs to tell Mirage 'hey mech, best friend, light of my spark, help me carry this surprisingly heavy and super cute, super sexy enforcer to my berth so he can lay down and recover from the nasty crash I think I accidentally induced, thanks, appreciate it!'. Well, ok, Mirage didn't get all that, but he did sling one of Prowl's arms over his shoulder and diligently helped Jazz guide him to the unmade, rumpled berth. 

"Grrggrgnngrggsssshhhh." 

"It's okay, you're safe," Jazz murmured, delicately tucking a sheet over the enforcer. His face was twisted in a grimace, one of his optics flickering as it tried to calibrate. "Take your time rebooting, ok?" 

"Guh." That was almost a glyph, so Jazz took that as progress. He queued up his favorite doc's comm. code just in case his condition took a turn for the worst, but he remained optimistic. Prowl was a tough bot. He could see it in the way he carried himself and how unwavering he was in his ideals- just another thing that made Jazz so crazy about him. He was everything. And wasn't that just something?

"I'm going to actually purge," Mirage grumbled as he vacated Jazz's berthroom. "Have fun with that, I'm gonna go open my club. Come play if you're feeling better."

Jazz gave a rare frown to that. He'd been feeling better lately- it was before the incident with Prowl he'd been feeling out of a groove- and he didn't see what all the attitude was about. It was harshing his vibe. But Mirage didn't see it; he was already vanished by the time Jazz took offense. What should he care, anyway? He technically got Prowl into berth again! No, bad Jazz, bad! The poor mech just crashed! He fidgeted as he silently watched over the rebooting enforcer. 

"Apologies..." Prowl croaked after several breems of quiet rebooting. Jazz was at his side in an instant, visor dimmed with worry, servos hovering in the air, ready to do anything he could to help. "I have not... recharged..." 

Aw, Pits. No wonder Prowl had gone down so hard, then. "Not a thang, sweetspark. You should try to recharge now. Need anythin'? Energon? Coolant?" 

Prowl's head lolled from side to side in lieu of a verbal answer.

"Sure?" 

Prowl thought for a moment, then repeated the motion. He did, however, shakily extend a servo towards Jazz. "Thank you... you may... stay... if you wish..." 

Jazz chuckled softly at that. "It's my berthroom you're in," he reminded Prowl. When Prowl gave him an equally soft frown, Jazz realized what he really meant and he was floating all over again. Maybe, just maybe, Mirage had been right to tell him to tighten his screws and talk to the mech- he'd nearly forgotten how utterly addicting he was on all fronts. The enforcer didn't even mean to be so endearing, but he was, and somehow Jazz was the only one to see it. 

"Oh," Jazz breathed, feeling heat spread across his faceplates. "Sure thing, Prowler." 

Jazz settled himself awkwardly on the other side of his berth. It wasn't large, by any means- there was enough room for two mechs, but with little space in between- so he was sure to be extra careful of the doorwings and Prowl's space in general. He was scared to do too much, to be too much. There was no telling how sensitive the mech could be, still so fresh from a (apparently recharge deprived) crash. 

It was only the beginning of the night cycle, so Jazz wasn't at all ready to truly recharge, but he was overjoyed to simply lay in silence beside the mech of his dreams. He imagined what it would be like to do this all of the time, and that love feeling made his spark spin a little brighter. And then, just when he thought it couldn't get any better, Prowl huffed and turned on his side to pull Jazz to his chassis. 

Jazz was in the Allspark. He was having a cup of enertea with all the greatest musicians of Cybertron. 

Prowl was warm (probably from overheating systems, but that was besides the point) and his arms were a comforting weight around his frame, and his face was all serious with his optics shuttered like he was trying really hard to relax and fall into recharge. He was such a sight to behold, that Jazz couldn't help but start humming one of those songs he had made, just for them. The low tones slowly smoothed out the creases between Prowl's optical ridges, his nasal bridge, the corners of his derma, and bit by bit eased the tension in his frame until, at last, he slept. 

Jazz hummed until he, too, fell into the loveliest recharge of his entire functioning. 

Prowl woke when the sun sank behind Cool City's skyline. He allowed his reboot to come slowly instead of rushing it, and he let his most recent memory files play out. Embarrassment swept through him, quickly replaced with a general sense of calm. He knew where he was. He was safe. There was no longer a comforting weight in the berth with him, but there was energon, coolant, and a small assortment of snacks on the berthside table for him. One glance at his HUD told him that he was starving, and also that he had slept for a solid 22 joors.

He felt better, certainly, but only consistent recharge would get him back to peak efficiency. He took waking at the start of the night cycle as a good indication that he had finally broken through the worst of it. He felt better after ravenously devouring the fluids and delightful little treats, too. Not even the tac-net's mutterings could bring him down now. 

Prowl carefully rolled out of berth- Jazz's berth- and meticulously stretched and tested every joint and piston. He was stiff and sore, which was to be expected from crashing and then sleeping through an entire cycle. He took in the berthroom next, noting the abundance of clutter, but quickly editing that note to 'meticulous clutter', because much of the items strewn about seemed sentimental. The walls were multicolored; painted by what looked like several different bots. There were signatures scrawled about, likely left by friends. Overall, the room was very much like Jazz, and instead of getting the nagging feeling to tidy up, he quietly admired its liveliness.

With his mobility tested and diagnostics running green, he set off to find where the visored mech had gone. Luckily for him, it was an easy task: follow the music.

He found Jazz in a room just off to the side of the living room. It was a cluttered mess, first and foremost, but it was also full of various instruments and flimsies with scores of music printed on them. A sizable console was up against one wall with an intense array of buttons and dials and recording devices and speakers. The sheer amount of stuff made the room feel tiny, especially when Jazz was in the center of it all; singing and strumming with his back to Prowl. He took the advantage to stand quietly and listen to the melody unfold. It was so different from club music- even the club music Jazz had played. There were no loud beats, no zings and zangs of electronic pings, no quirky vocal filters, just Jazz and his smooth voice and soft bass. It wasn't as hypnotic as his other music had been, but it was still wonderful and whole. 

When the song ended, Prowl announced his presence by clearing his vocalizer. Jazz spun around quickly, a goofy, lopsided grin adorning his faceplates. 

"Hey, Prowler!" the musician chirped. "Feelin' better?" 

"Yes," Prowl hummed. "You sound..." he floundered briefly, trying to come up with the right glyph. 'Acceptable', is what the tac-net grumbled, but he dismissed it. "Beautifully." 

Jazz, of all mechs, grew a bashful look about him, suddenly trying to hide his giddy grin behind his instrument. "Thank you," he squeaked out, his usual air of charisma taking the backseat. Prowl didn't think he needed it, anyway. 

"Thank you," Prowl returned, "for taking care of me. It was very generous of you." 

"Psshaw... ain't a thang," Jazz mumbled. "'Sides, I recharged great too. If you wanted..." he trailed off, exuding uncertainty that seemed so out of place. 

"If I wanted...?" Prowl prompted, tilting his helm to the side. "Clarify?" 

Jazz heaved a chuckling sigh. "You could crash- not crash! Ohmyglyph- you could recharge here. If you ever felt like it. You don't have to, but, I wouldn't mind if ya did." 

"I think Mirage would mind," Prowl muttered, remembering that the mech shared this apartment with Jazz, and could also turn himself invisible at will. He increased the sensitivity of his doorwings to try and detect any disturbances in the air, just in case said invisible mech was lurking around. He may have been recharge deprived when they had first met, but he was still fairly certain that Prowl was disliked by him. 

"'Raji? Hah, nah, he'd get over it." Jazz waved a servo dismissively. Prowl gave him the benefit of the doubt. 

"Is he...?" Prowl gestured to the open air, not receiving any unusual environmental data, but still feeling weary. 

"Is he bein' a creep? Nah, he's down in Visages now. Won't be back 'til sunrise." 

Prowl wasn't so sure Jazz could be sure about that, but again, he took his word for it. He nodded, conversation falling flat on his end. And then the real weight of what Jazz had offered sunk in. The tac-net screamed 'trap!' and 'danger!' at him, urging the right electro-chemical messages to trigger the right circuits, but for once, Prowl's spark was the one driving. Jazz wasn't the least bit perturbed or miffed about him taking over his berth for the last 22 joors after (for a second time) crashing on him. He wasn't poking or prodding him about this and that and whatever else. He simply asked how he was doing, offered him a place to recharge, and somehow, that was even sweeter than the impromptu confession that had slipped from the visored mech's vocalizer.

That confession... the four glyphs and sincere shock came back to him. Jazz had startled him with that- worse than The Visages Incident had- and he and the tac-net spun out of control with all of the things he could possibly take from those four casual glyphs. The crash itself may have been less painful had he been getting enough recharge and defrag, but either way, it was intense. He still wasn't sure how to take it; still couldn't tell what he wanted and what was logical and what could be both. So, like the first time he sat down with Jazz, he let the most absurd, risky phrase queue and play from his vocalizer in an even motion.

"May I kiss you?" Prowl said over the silence in the room and the babyraging tac-net in his helm. 

Jazz's intake fell open just then, his sheepish smile clattering on the floor. Prowl didn't see what the big deal of asking was- Jazz had asked him the same last orn- unless he had somehow misread literally everything. He prodded his tac-net to run some simulations on his memory files through different lenses, which it very much refused to indulge in. 

"Wh- uh- huh? What? Yes? Yes. Yes, please, uh, sir...?" Jazz babbled, struggling to put his instrument on its stand properly. The random formality tacked on the end was amusing, and Prowl let him know by letting a half-smirk creep along his faceplates. Did the mech ever get flustered like this with other bots? Greedily, he hoped not. Aggravatingly, the tac-net slapped a statistic on that thought, which Prowl chose to distract himself from by taking the first steps forward. 

Jazz finally got his instrument to settle by the time Prowl got to him. But now... that awkward feeling rounded on him again, and he wasn't sure where he was supposed to put his servos or his optics or really his whole frame. He couldn't just stand there, either, so he forced his (now trembling) hands to find Jazz's helm, barely resting on either side of his primary vents. Jazz brought his own servos up, stroking the sides of Prowl's face with his thumbs, the tip of his nasal ridge brushing against Prowl's own as their derma lingered just apart from one another.

Unable to stand the distance any longer, Prowl tilted his helm at just the right angle and leaned forwards, finally connecting them in a slow, sweet kiss. The tac-net was slagged, banging pots and pans on the inside of Prowl's helm, but it could do little else without the parameters to take control of his motor functions. 

The kiss remained gentle, only the softest contact of their frames and their quiet venting filling the air. As it went on, it became harder for Prowl to stop himself from wanting more, from cascading down the slippery slope that was being near Jazz. He let the tac-net tire itself out before he drew back just enough to speak. 

"Thank you," Prowl murmured, gazing into the dazed blue visor. If he tried really hard, he could almost make out where his optics lay beneath it. There was a multitude of things he was thanking the mech for, and he only hoped it would spread far enough to cover it all.

"Don't thank me just yet," Jazz replied, a hint of cockiness lining his tone. But then he hesitated, servos beginning to retreat, which was the exact opposite of what Prowl wanted to happen, so he dove in for another kiss, pulling the other mech in by his helm.

Again. Again. Again. Parting just to clash once more, smothering the delicate tenderness with a blanket of unabashed desire. Prowl let himself cascade like he knew he would, and Jazz was there tumbling along with him. He pressed closer, deeper, let his frame find Jazz's in ways only they could fit together, let his servos wander the smooth expanses of plating and seams. Jazz matched him every step of the way; adding smiles to their kisses, engine rumbling softly, his own servos fondling Prowl's doorwing hinges. Again. Again. 

Engines picked up their idling, cooling fans spun to life, plating got hot to the touch, vents became quicker, and yet there was a need for more, more, more, never enough, too much, never enough, more. They stumbled through their dance against this wall, that wall, a table, down the hall to another wall, fighting for that something more until something could give. 

Prowl had Jazz against a wall somewhere in the apartment, Pit if he knew exactly where, and he had made the wonderful discovery of audial horns being sensitive to touch, much like his very own sensor wings could be. The mutual assault on each others delicate features had turned them into desperate, drooling, gasping fiends. Jazz came undone under Prowl's servos firmly rubbing his audial horns; likewise Prowl succumbing to the digits stroking any accessible part of his doorwings. It took everything in him not to let them both sink to the floor to continue their tactile ministrations.

Prowl wasn't sure what he was doing when he nosed beneath Jazz's jaw, grazing his mouthing against the cables and wires while he pressed his thigh against his codpiece, but Jazz shuddered through a minor overload just then, so he took the victory and filed it away. 

"Primus," the visored mech gasped. "I've been dreaming of you touching me like this."

Prowl's engine revved at that, but he drew back slightly anyway to give Jazz a moment of recovery. 

"You don' even know how slaggin' sexy you are," Jazz purred, still gently petting Prowl's wings. "The things I'd let you do ta me... the things I wanna do ta you..." he nipped at Prowl's jaw lightly. "Just say the glyphs, 'n' I'm all yours." 

Prowl suddenly became very aware of the lubricant pooling behind his valve panel, and of the commands ready to release and pressurize his spike. The haziness in his frame became acute, and he groaned into the side of Jazz's helm. 

"I am at your mercy," Prowl whispered, meaning it fully. 

"Frag, that's hot," Jazz murmured, grin widening with mischief.

And then Prowl was being pushed and pulled and spun around and around until he was in a new place, flat on his back with the visored mech firmly pressed atop his frame. He got flashbacks to the first time they'd coupled on a berth, though the other way around. Jazz ravaged Prowl like a mech starved, glossa and hands all over his plating as he rocked their hips together in slow, enticing movements. 

"Panels-" Prowl panted, clutching Jazz's shoulders tight enough to leave whispers of dents. "Please."

This time, they both had the foresight to pop both sets of panels. They took a moment to giggle at themselves for sharing the revelation, but also to appraise each other's equipment again. Prowl didn't think much of his own spike, but one look at Jazz's told him it was most likely modded. What mods in particular, only Jazz could tell him that, but for once the unknown was thrilling instead of frustrating or terrifying. 

"What's the protocol, captain?" Jazz asked in his most sultry voice, slowly canting his hips so that their spikes slid against one another. It was a clear attempt at some flirty roleplay, but Prowl physically could not stop himself. 

"Sergeant," Prowl corrected with a moan. Because that's what he was. 

Jazz's dark and seductive demeanor crumbled into cheesed laughter. "Sorry, sorry," he giggled, burying his face in the crook of Prowl's neck. "That's my bad. What's the protocol, sergeant?" he said, not quite fully transitioned back into his interface-time persona. 

Prowl snorted, planting a wet kiss to the top of Jazz's helm. "The protocol is to let you do, quote, 'the things [you] wanna do to [me]', end quote." The vibrations that Jazz's next round of half-suppressed giggles sent through his frame made him squirm. "With haste, if you please." 

"On it, ch- sarge!" Jazz sat up just to do a mock salute, which Prowl absolutely rolled his optics at despite the warm fondness that bloomed in his spark, then flipped on a credit and swallowed Prowl's spike without warning. 

Prowl choked on his own oral lubricants. He would normally feel embarrassed, but his processor was yanked under the torrent waves of pleasure once more, lost to feeling the charge and the heat. And then a digit sank into his valve, and all he could do was open his thighs wider, try to give himself more to the pretty mech. That glossa was too experienced, too sinful as it swirled around his spike. And then one digit became two, and he bit into his derma at the long-forgotten sensation of being pried open. There was little discomfort, but any pain was numbed by how eager he was for more, more, more. A moan wrestled its way out of his vocalizer when a third digit joined the rest, and he was pretty sure-

Prowl overloaded prematurely; spike spilling transfluid down Jazz's intake while his valve cycled down around his fingers. "Ah- hah- apologies-" he began, slapping both of his servos over his faceplates. He heard and felt Jazz's mouth leave his spike with a pop. He shuddered, plating rattling slightly as he came down. 

"Hush about that," Jazz told Prowl, gently peeling his servos from his face. His digits were still inside of his valve, which was something to feel something about- "You're so beautiful." 

Prowl tried to hide his face again, feeling the heat beneath his cheeks and the bashful smile on his derma. But then he was immediately thinking about the digits in his valve, idly pumping slowly and shallowly, and the gratification from the first overload was rust in the wind. Glyphs weren't coming to him, so he canted his hips slightly, inviting the more he was still craving. 

"Do your pretty wings need a break?" Jazz asked, dutifully indulging Prowl by moving his digits deeper, brushing against internal nodes that made his charge climb right back up. 

"Yes," Prowl admitted with a sigh. "Shall I...?" 

Jazz was already pulling Prowl upright, himself sitting back on his heels. "Ride me? Absolutely." The way he said it was full of hunger, and Prowl shivered again as he got a great view of that spike. It wasn't exactly what he had in mind, but he wasn't really sure what would have been, anyway. He hadn't been spiked in a very, very long time. But he figured the positioning out well enough, with a little bit of guidance. He straddled Jazz's lap, looping his arms around the mech's neck. 

From this angle, Jazz's spike was pressed against Prowl's anterior node deliciously. "Slow," Prowl cautioned, barely undulating so that both of their equipment got a little friction. He indulged in a deep, glossa-filled kiss as he worked up the nerve to spear himself. "It has been... a while." 

Jazz's engine rumbled lowly. "I don't mind one bit. Take your time, lovely." 

And Jazz was as patient as Jazz could be for a mech with a willing valve nanometers from his twitching spike. Prowl reveled in the restrained moans that came from the visored mech, preening at the effect he was having for once. But then he got himself all worked up and couldn't bear the wait any longer. He rose up on his knees, whispering the go-ahead directly to Jazz's audial horn, and the mech guided the tip of his spike into the entrance of Prowl's valve. Prowl sank down impossibly slow; fear of hurting himself as well as savoring every bit of stretch and give. His doorwings fluttered proudly when his pelvic plating finally met Jazz's.

They fit together perfectly, and they both seemed to know it. 

Jazz's servos guided Prowl's hips into shallow rolls, eliciting obscene moans from the enforcer. The pressure was just right. His internal nodes were alight with buzzing electricity. It was bliss. Somehow, some way, the interfacing just got better and better. Like their first time, the steady, gentle grinding devolved into rough and needy fragging. They were both shamelessly vocal throughout, especially Prowl as he bounced vigorously in Jazz's lap.

More, more, more.

Prowl heard his name being sung, and it was all he could do to keep it happening. He could feel the cliff's edge approaching fast, and he offlined his optics to give in fully to the impending drop. Jazz was pistoning his hips up and up as best as he could, Jazz had a digit curled under a door handle, flicking it, Jazz's engine was practically redlining, Jazz was in and all around him, Jazz was everything. Prowl's bumper pressed hard into Jazz's when he arched his back and electricity crackled at the point of contact, firing directly down to his array and tipping him into the most intense overload of his life. His calipers seized and rippled arrhythmically through the crest and afterwards, no doubt assailing Jazz's spike with its contractions.  

"Prowl," Jazz gasped, still bucking his hips up into Prowl, still chasing his own overload. "I'm so close, oh Primus-"

"Not inside," Prowl squeaked out, his processor still absolutely reeling. "Here." He lifted himself off of Jazz's lap, thighs shaking with the effort and valve mourning the emptiness despite it becoming oversensitive.

Jazz whined in protest, but he was quick to make amends; took the poor neglected spike in hand and furiously stroked it. Jazz had no trouble fragging Prowl's servo, and before long achieved his well-earned overload with a sob of relief. For the first time since the whole encounter began, the tac-net piped up to track the exact trajectory of each spurt of transfluid. That horrified Prowl more than anything; to a point where he quickly partitioned himself from the cursed computer. 

And then they were kissing again- could they ever stop?- and Prowl didn't care about the transfluid or lubricants or slobber all over their frames and the berth. There was no way he would be able to survive another round, but the idea was nice enough to store away for later. 

"Jazz?" Prowl whispered once they finally parted enough to begin cooling down. 

"Yeah, Prowler?" 

Prowl took a moment to savor the unhinged, utterly debauched picture of Jazz. They were both out of their processors with satisfaction and delight, soaking in the afterglow like warm oil. He took time to catalog every new sensation Jazz had shown him. He took a deep vent before he laid down properly on the berth, urging Jazz to lay with him.

"That was awesome."

Chapter Text

"That was awesome," Prowl sighed, figuring it was just the right thing to say after the interface they just had. He felt it was true; it wasn't his usual choice of glyphs, but it was accurate. He shuttered his optics and let his frame relax into the soft berth and Jazz's side. 

Jazz got going on a laughing fit, chassis shuddering as he tried to stop, only for the sweet sound to become uncontrollable. The visored mech turned into Prowl, curling around his frame to try and muffle the laughter in his shoulder, which had little effect. 

Prowl opened his optics to frown at the black helm. "What is so funny?" he murmured, pushing away the threads of doubt and worry as swiftly as they came. 

"Nothing!" Jazz insisted, still giggling. "It's not funny-funny, it's just-" he lifted his helm, propping his cheek in his palm. "I said that to you."

"Yes, you did." Prowl still didn't see what the big deal was. He was well aware of the glyphs Jazz had spoken that first night, just as well as he was aware of all the others. It was a deliberate callback with the intention to connect the two ideas in- oh. Yes, now he could see how that could be amusing. 

"And now, yer sayin' it to me!" Jazz beamed, finishing Prowl's revelation at the same time he had it. "That's so- arrghhh!" Jazz hid his face again, this time in the crook of Prowl's arm. 

"'That's so' what?" Prowl prompted, bringing a servo up to gently pet the mech's helm. The mech in question beeped. 

"Never mind allat." 

"I think I will mind."

"...you would." 

"'[I] would' what?" Prowl was grinning, if one could believe it. His gentle teasing did nothing to sate the visored mech hiding in his plating, nor his occasional muffled giggle. 

"You would be so adorably nosey," Jazz replied. "You don't even know how sweet you can be, do ya?" He slowly came out of his hiding spot, returning to his perch on his servo to stare at Prowl's face with a dopey grin. 

It was Prowl's turn to get bashful. "What?" he blurted. The tac-net was equally lost, dropping the files it had been juggling to fixate on that particular string of data. 

"I knew it." Jazz grinned. "You don't even know it! Oh, Primus, save my poor spark from this cutie-pie-"

"I am not cute," Prowl scoffed indignantly, but none of the irritation was actually there. If anything, his doorwings were quivering with shy giddiness. "Retract that statement immediately." 

"You can't just say 'take that back!', and that's exactly my point! In any case-" Jazz hooked two digits under Prowl's bumper guard, tugging lightly "-I refuse to retract my statement." 

Prowl's engine rumbled without his permission, and he frowned down at his own hood. 

"C'mon, admit that you're at least a little cute," Jazz was also staring at Prowl's hood. To be fair, when was he not staring at Prowl's hood and bumper. 

Prowl considered this. There was very little reason to resist; it wasn't as if he were confessing some dark, hidden secret to a coworker. Feeling embarrassed over the matter was frankly ridiculous considering the fact that they had just been very intimate moments ago, and were still behaving quite intimately. His pride wasn't on the line, either; he wasn't an insecure mech by any means. In most cases, he had no trouble admitting to or saying the things that needed to be said or doing things most others found uncomfortable or difficult (anything regarding Jazz was an outlier, of course). His tac-net decided to be stubborn- not outright inflamed like it had been lately- briefly jamming Prowl's speech functions quite rudely. 

"No," Prowl spat out, kicking the tac-net back. "I will not." 

Jazz pouted dramatically. "Please?" 

"No." Prowl had to suppress the amused smile that wanted very badly to make its debut on his faceplates.

"Well, then... I guess I have no choice," Jazz sighed dejectedly, crawling to be half on-top of Prowl's chassis. 

"No choice in what? What are you-" okay, Prowl could forgive the interruption when it was via Jazz's derma on his. He hummed what was going to be the rest of that sentence as he instinctually reciprocated. The tac-net grumbled, but didn't try anything. 

"I'm gonna kiss you," Jazz said, pulling away oh so cruelly, "all over until you say you're cute." He framed it more like a challenge than a threat, which, shockingly, the tac-net accepted bravely. To prove his sincerity, Jazz placed a feather-light kiss to Prowl's chevron. 

It was so on, declared the tac-net, and for once Prowl let it surge to the forefront of his processor. 

"Say it." Jazz kissed between Prowl's optical ridges next, a little more pressure than the first. 

"No."

A kiss to the bridge of his nasal ridge. "Say it."

"No." Prowl couldn't stop the smile as it broke free at last, almost giving his vocalizer the hint of a laugh. 

A kiss to the tip of his nose. His cheekbone. His other cheek. The corner of his derma. His chinguard. "Say it." 

"Not going to happen!" 

Jazz moved on from his helm and down his neck cables. The sensation was almost ticklish, and Prowl could not let himself laugh. Correction: the tac-net was determined to keep his composure for him. It had accepted the challenge, and it was going to make sure it won. 

Prowl turned his helm- the only thing he could do to try and save his dignity- and his processor finally caught up with one key detail about the room they were in. He knew what Jazz's berthroom looked like. He had woken up there just earlier in the night cycle, and he had studied it briefly before moving on. This was not Jazz's berthroom. The walls weren't painted the same, there weren't various things plastered all over them, the floor was clean, and the berth was in a totally different spot; in the middle as opposed to in a corner. He silently cursed the debilitation of awareness that arousal inflicted upon him, because the conclusion was plain as how he took his energon. 

"Jazz...?" Prowl patted blindly for Jazz's faceplates. As much as he was enjoying the giddy feeling of being kissed all over, mortification was a stronger animal, and the tac-net was quick to give up the game in order to activate survival protocols. 

"You can't escape this, Officer. You have to carry out your entire sentence," Jazz purred, kissing into Prowl's palm when it found its target. 

Prowl rolled his optics at the cheesy roleplay. It was inaccurate at b- nope, more important things at hand. "This is Mirage's berthroom." 

"No it's-" Jazz's visor brightened with realization. He propped himself on his hands and knees, surveying the room as he recognized his surroundings for the first time. "Oh, frag. This is Mirage's room. Oh frag. Ohhhh frag. We have to clean up before he comes up here and-"

"Jazz of Stanix!" bellowed the uncouth fury of the typically well-refined owner of Visages from the doorway. 

Prowl wanted to offline. This was worse than every other incident he'd been caught up in with Jazz. He should have known that this little fling would be a disaster, too. He could never just have the things he wanted, could he? In a panic, he quickly stood up, doorwings high and tight and he scrambled to find something to hide the copious amounts of fluids plastered on his plating. It was no use. The berth was a righteous mess. Jazz was an even worse mess. Everything was a mess. 

"'Raji! You're back early!" Jazz squeaked, doing exactly what Prowl was doing, pitifully. "How was-"

"Zip. It." Mirage jabbed a finger at Jazz's chassis. His dentae were grinding like old brakes, optics blazing with intense disbelief. "And you-!" he wheeled on Prowl, digit aimed like a dagger at him next. "What the frag?!" 

Prowl hung his helm in defeat. Normally, he wouldn't take that kind of accusation or criticism. But... 

"You said you were gonna end all this droneslag! And now you're up in my room clanging my best friend-"

"Woah, woah," Jazz interjected, servos raised in defense. "Calm down, mech, I didn't know what I was doin' and-" 

"Zip it!"

Jazz zipped it. 

"Whatever your end game is here, you better have it figured out," Mirage sneered at Prowl. "But if you dare break his spark I swear to Primus I will-"

The tac-net took the liberty of censoring the slew of profanities and violent threats for Prowl, sharing the equivalent of a knowing side-eye. Meanwhile, Prowl was feeling another rare feeling- intimidation. The only other mech to make him feel like a minibot beneath a titan's pede had been Ultra Magnus, though that had been primarily out of respect and awe. 

"Am I fragging clear?" Mirage ended his rant at last, glaring venomously at the enforcer, who quickly nodded, optics fixed pointedly at his pedes.  "Good. Now clean up my berth. Fragging freaks... fragging hate this fragging city where's my fragging vape?!" Mirage kept shouting as he stomped out of the room. The air he left behind was now completely devoid of the sweet lust and adoration that had accumulated. 

Jazz sighed, the first to break the uncomfortable silence. "I'll clean this up, if you wanna use my washrack. Right across the hall." His visor had a forlorn look to it, and Prowl could only sympathize. "I'm so sorry about this." 

Prowl shook his helm, but didn't elaborate. He hoped Mirage wasn't as big on gossip as the rest of the city was. There was absolutely no way they could lie to the mech- the evidence was concrete save for witnessing the action itself (which he only assumed was true because Mirage surely would have stopped them sooner). Tac-net spun up some half-baked pleas for mercy as he swiftly crossed the hallway into the washrack, frame dripping with shame. What a disaster. 

As he scrubbed at his plating a little harsher than necessary, Prowl heard bits and pieces of more one-sided arguments. He couldn't put together quite enough without knowing Mirage or Jazz more, but either way, it was obvious that Mirage was slagged to the Pit and back. At the tail end of it, he could hear Jazz shouting back, and then the door to the washrack slid open and shut violently, the visored mech grimacing like he had just ingested spoiled engex. 

Prowl stared at Jazz from under the solvent spray incredulously for a moment. He meant to ask what the arguing was all about, but the look on the mech's faceplates had quickly turned slack. The blue visor brightened, and Prowl realized he was being ogled. How the tables had flipped... There was a mirror in the washrack itself, and Prowl could see how maybe the solvent running down his frame could be attractive. Had he not just been scolded, he would have dared the risque move of jutting his hip or running the cleaning rag between the bars of his bumper guard. 

"Sorry," Jazz peeped when Prowl just stood there with a flat expression. "I'll- um- behave. If you let me get your back?" 

Prowl raised an optical ridge. He, rightfully, did not trust Jazz (nor himself) to 'behave' in any sense of the glyph. "We should not," he mumbled, knowing his limits despite the sinking feeling in his chassis. 

Jazz deflated, looking akin to a drenched cyberkitten. "That's... fair," he sighed, sinking against the door until he was sitting on the floor. "Let me know when you're done, 'kay?" His visor offlined, helm thunking against the door softly. 

Prowl had full expected Jazz to watch him wash up the rest of the way. He had even decided that he would be fine if he did; he was not used to that kind of attention, but he wasn't entirely shy- just smitten around the pretty mech that was being very respectful of his privacy and boundaries at the moment. His doorwings fluttered against his will, and he was glad Jazz hadn't been able to see it. He diligently groomed himself, silently thanking whoever designed this washrack to have a built-in mirror, because it allowed him to get every trace of interfacing off of his frame. When he retracted his panels to clean his array, he noticed Jazz twitch at the telltale noise, but otherwise kept his visor offline. His wings and spark fluttered again, which he gently set aside for another time instead of crushing it beneath his heel. 

"Finished," Prowl announced as he stepped out of the washrack apparatus itself and into the small space beside it to dry off. "Thank you." 

Jazz's visor blinked online, immediately falling on Prowl again with a sort of hunger that never left. Prowl made a note to visit again soon, despite the fear of Primus that Mirage was instilling in him. The reward was much greater than the risk, his spark decided. His processor and tac-net were iffy on that, but decided that there wasn't enough data to wholly refute or rectify the claim. He would just have to be more strategic next time. 

"I will take my leave," Prowl said as Jazz stepped into the washrack and fiddled with the dials. "Thank you for allowing me to rest and recover in your home. And for indulging me sexually," he added softly. Jazz sniggered into the solvent spray that was already beginning to create steam with its heat. "You are... a pleasure to be around." He didn't just throw that around lightly. His spark wrenched, and he wasn't quite sure why. He ignored it. 

"It's all pleasure," Jazz retorted smoothly. "Um... when should I indulge you again?" 

Prowl's smile broke free a little easier, feeling less strange on his faceplates. And then it faltered. "I... do not know when I will next have a cycle off-duty," he admitted. Jazz got uncharacteristically quiet. "I will comm. you?" 

"Sounds like a date," Jazz hummed, poking his head out of the apparatus to give Prowl his signature cocky grin. "I'll hold ya to it." 

Prowl neatly folded the towel he had used and hung it up to dry, then ruffled and resettled his plating one last time. "I will not let you down."

Prowl walked the streets of Cool City with renewed confidence. The mechs and femmes that were out waiting to get into their favorite clubs gawked at him, whispered Jazz's designation, but he cared a lot less about the gossip. So long as Mirage didn't mention The Berthroom Incident, he would be just fine. As he had left the apartment, he implied his wishes for the mishap to remain under wraps, and Mirage seemed just receptive enough under his outrage and the frantic digging in couch cushions he had been doing. As far as he knew, the aforementioned vape of his still hadn't been found. Shame (no pity whatsoever). 

He still had the remaining quarter of the night cycle to enjoy, and it was too nice to stay indoors. As he usually seemed to do when he had extra time on his servos, he defaulted to Pyrite Diner. The diner was busy this night, with all of the booths filled and much of the counter being occupied by half-slagged bots. It was still much more demure than the clubs, but that couldn't stop the never-ending party that thrummed in every frame when the sun was away. He scrunched his nasal ridge at a femme who was slotting boosters into a jack on her arm, but stopped himself from confrontation. The immediate attention he received from the establishment owners helped take his processor off of the atrocities. 

"Prowl!" Hot Rod and Arcee exclaimed in unison. The shout garnered attention from several customers, who all either side-eyed or full on glared at Prowl before deciding to get back to having their fun. 

"Arcee. Hot Rod. Good evening," Prowl greeted, shaking the hostility off easily. They could never be Mirage. "I see you have been busy tonight." 

"Aw yeayah!" Hot Rod mimed playing a riff on an electric guitar. "We're poppin' tonight!" 

"But we're also really glad you're here," Arcee interjected, optics widening at her co-owner as she tried to communicate telepathically. Or maybe they were sharing a comm. at the moment. Either way, Hot Rod got the memo and winked dramatically before running off to tend to another customer. "We've kinda got ourselves in a pickle, see..." Arcee murmured behind the back of her servo, leaning over the counter towards Prowl. "It's a bit of a mystery, but I think we've got a bit of a thief." 

The tac-net sprang into action immediately at the glyph 'mystery'. "A thief?" Prowl echoed, letting the hardware do its thing. It had been good for him most of the night, why not let it have a little treat. Besides, he loved investigations. 

Arcee nodded gravely. "At first, I thought it was this new guy we hired- Springer, awesome mech, you'd love him- but now I know it's not him because... well, ok, I don't actually know for sure, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't have anything to do with it. Anyway, our mugs keep disappearing, and sometimes our spatulas go missing just to reappear orns later, and the count in the register is off almost every cycle now." 

"Hmm," Prowl said elaborately. The tac-net greedily munched on every detail, spinning threads and connecting datapoints swiftly. "I will open a case next cycle when I am next on-shift. From there, you will have to keep me informed of all details regarding these issues." The tac-net drooped, but conceded. He couldn't really begin an investigation properly if he wasn't currently on the job. Such is the way. 

"Really?" Arcee brightened. She filled Hot Rod in when he returned, and he, too, looked relieved. "Thank you Prowl, really, super thank-you! I don't care what everybot thinks about you, you're still my- our- favorite enforcer." 

Prowl fanned out his doorwings, proud to be good at his job first and foremost. "It is my sworn duty to uphold the law and bring justice to those that break it," he said confidently. "I will do everything in my power to amend this wrong... for my favorite diner." That last part was off the record. He couldn't morally imply that he was going to do his best just because he liked the two- he would do his best no matter the bot- but he felt he should return the sentiment at least. 

"D'awwww," Hot Rod crooned. "Hear that, 'Cee? We're Wee-Woo's favorite diner!" 

Arcee fist-pumped with a 'whoop!'. 

Prowl still didn't get the nickname, but he welcomed it more than ever. He spent the rest of the night at Pyrite talking with the diner owners whenever they had the time to spare between patrons, and left with his processor firmly dialed in on his next mission: catching a thief. 

Chapter Text

"Sergeant Prowl." Today, Smokescreen was on the more aware and attentive side of his ever flip-flopping demeanor of either totally unfocused or high-energy. "Where have you been?" 

Prowl greeted Smokescreen with the usual doorwing bob despite the rude lack of a simple 'hello' from his chief. "I had the last two cycles off," he reminded him plainly. His sleep hadn't been perfect during the last day cycle, but it was a massive improvement to the previous orn. It was much easier to hold down the violent urge to slam the gambler's helm into the energon counter with proper recharge. 

"I know that!" Smokescreen hissed, pointing an accusatory digit at Prowl. "But what did you do?" 

"Pits, you're awful," Hound murmured, sliding up to the counter to dispense himself a warm cube. "Try: 'Good morning, Sergeant Prowl, I hope your cycles off were well. Did you do anything fun?'" 

Smokescreen glared at his deputy while Prowl sent the green mech a grateful nod. 

"My cycles were well, thank you, Deputy Hound," Prowl said pointedly. "I merely caught up on recharge and I am running much more efficiently. There is a case I wish to open, however, and was hoping to discuss it with both of you." 

"Just recharged, my shiny metal aft-" 

"Smokey," Hound clasped a wide servo on the back of the chief's neck in a- somehow gentle- warning. Smokescreen grumbled under his vents, but managed to steel himself enough to listen instead of digging for the root of the latest gossip.

Jazz had made an appearance at Visages the night cycle before, apparently not long after Prowl had gone to Pyrite. The entertainer hadn't played more than a few songs, and hadn't stuck around afterwards, but his presence had reportedly been a soothing balm to the heightened agitation of club-goers. Bots were speculating what the change had been, but none had any details to create a half-plausible claim. The leading theory was that Mirage had blackmailed him into performing, and Prowl couldn't help but give it the 61% likelihood despite assuming it was more likely a way for Jazz to make amends after The Berthroom Incident. 

"The owners of Pyrite Diner came to me to report potential burglary happening at their establishment," Prowl informed his superiors. "I would like to investigate this report personally, if I may." 

"Sure, why not." Hound shrugged.

"Absolutely not," Smokescreen huffed at the same time. Hound raised an optical ridge at the chief incredulously. "Those tramps are meddling in my affairs." 

Prowl bristled at that, doorwings rising from his back threateningly before he could suppress them. "Duty comes before one's personal biases," he warned. "We have an oath." 

"Then you should be fine with Trailbreaker taking the case instead." Smokescreen downed his cube like a shot. "You seem pretty biased to take their case on 'personally', anyway. I know you frequent that joint." 

"Be fair, Smokey." Hound took the chief's empty cube from his servos and deposited in the sink to be washed later. 

Prowl felt his irritation swirling around in his helm, but he forced clarity through. "No, it is alright, Hound," he sighed, rubbing small circles over the space between his optical ridges. Serves him right for not considering his argument could be flipped on him. "I consider Hot Rod and Arcee respectable... associates of mine. Giving Trailbreaker the case follows the typical flow of assignments. I will provide him with the necessary information and oversee his work as I would do so normally." It was the professional thing to do, but there was a hint of bitterness lingering on his glossa. 

"Good. Thank you. And I'm onto you, buster, I will find out-" 

"Drop it, Smokescreen." Hound put himself between the gambling addict chief and the twitching sergeant. "You've got a meeting with the mayor in fifteen breems, you better hit the road before you slag him off again." 

Smokescreen tried his best, most intimidating glower at his deputy, but the big green mech was a wall of calm, yet vaguely horrifying, determination. Prowl wondered how the mech had lost the election for chief. ...Then remembered just what the current chief meddled in, and his tanks soured. Smokescreen retreated with a huff, muttering something Prowl didn't catch, but was pretty sure was aimed at him. 

"Aye, that guy..." Hound muttered, shaking his helm as he went to finish his cube. "If he didn't outrank me I'd say you could take the Pyrite case anyway, but, you know. Teebs is probably the second best for it, after you. They'll be in good servos." 

Prowl let the deputy's calming presence smooth his fluffed plating down. He couldn't imagine lasting more than a few more orns in this precinct without the mech. "Thank you," he said broadly. For everything. He left the energon counter to go to his own scheduled meeting after exchanging a few more pleasantries with Hound, but also the other enforcers that came up for their own cubes to start them off on their shifts. Naturally, they all had to mention Jazz's sudden resurgence. 

He drove to Cool Hospital with a sense of purpose. So he couldn't dig into the mystery at Pyrite with his own two servos... at least he had other discoveries to make about Cool City and its drug-related issues. He was almost excited to sit down with the head medic and learn about medical certifications so that he could come up with a way to criminalize as many drugs as possible.

Cool Hospital was a looming tower of white and red, stark with electric neon lines along the edges and windows. He'd driven past it numerous times, but it was almost imposing when he walked up to the entrance. It was a ridiculous feeling to come from a hospital- places that were supposed to make patients feel comforted in their time of distress or pain. Inside, the walls were shockingly sterile; imitating every other hospital Prowl had ever had the misfortune of visiting. A handful of wounded-looking bots were sagged in chairs in the waiting room, while a singular nursebot sat idly behind a circular desk, examining the backs of his servos critically. 

"Hello," Prowl greeted the nursebot politely as he approached the desk. 

"You're gonna need a warrant, sorry," the nursebot said without looking up. Somehow, with a full mask and visor, Prowl could tell he was making a smug face. 

"I am not-" Was he referring to himself or the hospital in general? Prowl shook his helm. He would tackle that problem later. "I am here to see Doctor Ratchet," he explained. 

"Again," the nurse's helm angled just enough to tell Prowl he was at least looking at him now. "Warrant." 

Prowl frowned. Or maybe he would have to tackle that problem now. He opened his intake to elaborate his intentions for meeting with the lead doctor, only to get interrupted by who he was fairly confident was said lead doctor.

"Aid, quit bein' snarky. I told ya not to rile the only half-competent enforcer in the city, didn't I?" 

Aid, as in First Aid- Prowl put together because he had done enough looking into the hospital to remember the names of staff- leaned back in his chair with a groan. On a secondary note, 'half-competent'...? His pride was admittedly a little wounded. 

"You're literally no fun when you're on shift. It's like you have two processors that you manually switch out every night depending on what you're doing." First Aid crossed his arms over his chassis as he probably made some kind of face at the doctor that had just entered the lobby. 

"Go treat the rust infection in room 24B, why dontcha?" 

"Ugh!" First Aid got up, throwing his arms in the air dramatically as he followed the order. "I hate you!" 

The doctor smirked almost cruelly before sticking a servo out to Prowl. "I'm Ratchet, and you can call me Ratchet- before you start getting all formal on me like in your emails." 

"Thank you for meeting with me, Ratchet," Prowl's vocalizer barely clicked when it skipped over the 'Doctor' glyph. He shook the offered servo. 

"Yeah, yeah, it's a pleasure. This way. You're lucky slag slowed down in time for this. I've been pulling dents and welding minor lacerations thanks to your little scandal." Ratchet grumbled as he walked. Prowl payed close attention to their route; through a few hallways, up an elevator, through some more hallways and double doors, and finally to a fairly large office. Prowl was oddly jealous of the space and its cleanly organized appearance (it made his office at the precinct look like a hole in the wall). It was clean, but still decorated with the doctor's certifications, awards, plaques, pictures with his graduating class, and little knick-knacks. 

"Take a seat, this shouldn't take long," Ratchet fell back into the (very cushy) chair behind his desk with a grunt. Prowl obliged respectfully, datapad and lightpen at the ready for note-taking purposes. He had a side-tab ready for any questions he came up with as the doctor explained things to him and everything- he was going to be thorough and proper. He didn't question Ratchet taking out his own datapad, figuring it had bullet points to help guide his information along. "What's your designation and ident number?" 

Prowl blinked. "Why do you ask?" 

"It's for my form here," Ratchet huffed, waving his datapad for emphasis. "Enforcers..." he muttered under his breath. 

"Ah," Prowl said, understanding. He supposed it would be alright to get registered in Cool City's medical database should he need to be repaired for any reason. Might as well multitask, right? "Sergeant Prowl of Praxus, ident number 2-9-42-56-0-89-5." 

Ratchet mouthed the glyphs to himself as he tapped the keys on his datapad. "Current residency is going to be the Icy Steel complex, correct?" Prowl nodded. "Apartment number?"

"24."

"Ooh, Nightbeat's old place- ain't that fitting. Hope they filled all the tack punctures in the walls before they put you in there." Ratchet then asked a slew of other questions that sounded like they were from a typical medical file. Frametype, specs, antivirus history, modifications, prescriptions, etc., which Prowl all answered confidently because he knew his inner workings like the back of his servo. "And how frequently do you interface?" Until that one. 

"Nev- erm-" Prowl squirmed. 'Never' had been his routine response for how long? It had been easy to say never. "Well..." 

Ratchet raised an optical ridge. "This city's a rumor mill and gossip nest, but I do take doctor-patient confidentiality seriously, Sergeant." 

Prowl raised a servo, angling it from side to side in a 'so-so' gesture. 

"New to the game and already hoping for more, got it." Prowl flustered, faceplates flushing with warmth until Ratchet moved on professionally. "How frequently do you consume engex?" 

"Almost never." 

Ratchet hummed in a way that could have been disbelief or confusion, but didn't dig into it. "Alright. Prelim's over, thank you." 

Finally, they could get into what he came here for. His digits had been absently twitching over his still-empty datapad, just waiting to learn how the citizens of Cool City got away with doing so many drugs. 

"Which cert are you looking to get today?" 

Prowl's whole processor stalled. "Excuse me?" he sputtered, absolutely aghast. He rapidly pulled up the messages he'd sent to the doctor, scanning for any missed glyph that somehow implied that he wanted to get certified to buy and therefore do drugs. He was so sure he had been very clear that this visit would be for research purposes only, because he was simultaneously curious and disgusted by how such a rampant problem had become so commonplace that there were social codes to follow regarding the matter. 

Ratchet rolled his optics and tossed his form down on the desk with a soft clatter. "No need to pretend, now. All you enforcers like to come pleading for info on how to get certs for 'research' but they really want discrepancy so they can go out and legally buy whatever their poison of choice is. And that's the thing- it ain't a crime for an enforcer to get certed, but you all seem to think that's the case, dontcha?" The doctor leaned forward menacingly over his desk, exuding the impatience that was clear in his vocalizer. "So what's your poison of choice, Sergeant?" 

Prowl shrank back on reflex, then physically shook himself out, deciding he wouldn't take any of that from the lead doctor. Enforcers buying and doing drugs so long as they were officially certified was legal- whatever. Prowl was not that kind of enforcer and his tanks churned at the implication that he was. 

"With all due respect, Doctor, I was speaking the truth when I was requesting information for research purposes." Prowl made sure to hold himself confidently, doorwings fanned out behind him. "Everywhere else I have worked, the only legalized drug comes in the form of engex. I need to understand why and how Cool City became an outlier, and starting nearest to the source is the logical course of action." 

Ratchet frowned. Prowl frowned right back. "You're... you're serious about this." The doctor seemed to be trying to remove the filter he'd been seeing Prowl through, but it wasn't coming off easily. "Not even for recharge chips..." he scoffed in disbelief. 

Had Prowl known about such a thing as 'recharge chips' last orn, he would have considered caving in. But he didn't need help recharging now, so he remained completely sturdy on his ideals. "Quite," he stated. "Are you willing to explain the process to me?" 

Ratched huffed a laugh, shaking his helm. "Sure, sure," the doctor said, sitting up to rummage through some drawers. He produced a flimsie poster and slid it across the desk to Prowl. It had colorful subject lines and little graphics on it, but generally explained the certification process. "So the first step is what we just did; you find yourself a doc and you give 'em all your vitals and such." 

Prowl nodded his understanding, optics already skimming to the next bullet point. 

"Step two is requesting specific certs. You can't just roll up saying you want all of 'em- there's too slagging many and that process would take too long, not to mention how unsafe it is to have access to so many varieties at a time. In fact, you can only get certs for drugs that don't create catastrophic side effects when mixed. Certs can be swapped when its time for a change, but you can't keep conflicting certs or it's a violation. So you need to be specific."

Once you pick your poison, the doc has to pull up the right forms and provide the right info packets to explain how to use, how often to use, and how much to use. The forms go more in-depth than the initial vitals just to make sure your systems can handle it. This can also effect the permitted dosage and frequency of refills. Really, it's just like any normal prescription. A doc can refuse a cert if you've got issues or a history of misuse, which luckily, isn't too bad here because we take great care to keep bots in the know."

And then, after all the forms and data packets galore, the doc assigns a refill and dosage to the cert that can be adjusted when needed via routine checkup or requested appointment. The only difference between certs and prescriptions is that sharing prescriptions is illegal. Sharing legally purchased drugs is not. This is the issue I have with the current system; I often see bots dragged in here with their fuel pumps eating themselves from the inside-out because they wanted to try DS-GX5 from their buddy when they've just ingested Hollow Matter without knowing that crossing those two makes your fuel pump eat itself from the inside-out. That's only happened twice, but you get my meaning. I've started hosting classes to spread the good word about how badly crossing the wrong things can go, but everybot's too busy partying to show up." 

Prowl's tac-net was well-fed by the end of the lecture, but Prowl himself wanted more. He didn't think the doctor would know why this system had been created in the first place, so he held that question for later. "Do you have copies of all of the files that have to do with each substance?" 

Ratchet gestured to a very tall filing cabinet against the wall. "Sure do. It ain't light reading." 

Prowl stared in horror yet also hunger at the filing cabinet. So much data... "Is it possible for you to forward those to me via comm.? I would like to be well informed of anything I may come across on or off-duty." 

"Well, sure, if you've got a super computer in that prim and proper helm of- oh. That's right, you do," Ratchet tapped the file he had started on Prowl, who only nodded sagely. He did have that. "Give me a couple cycles to compress a few data packets so your processor doesn't explode the second you download them. I'll prioritize the most commonly used and misused ones for ya." 

"Thank you." Prowl relaxed slightly, already clearing a bit more room for said files. "I appreciate your time." 

"Good, because I'm late to the rave in medbay 6." Ratchet stood with another grunt, supposedly stiff joints. "If that'll be all, Sergeant?" 

Prowl was not finished. At all. He had so many questions, all of them burning, but he couldn't bring himself to keep the doctor after he'd been so helpful- even if the reason he had to go was for a... a rave in medbay 6, apparently. "No, thank you again, Ratchet. I look forward to receiving those files." 

"You got it. And if you change your mind-" 

"Absolutely not." 

"Eh, we'll see," Ratchet shrugged. "Follow the signs back down to the ground floor, enjoy the rest of your night, alright? You're a good ol' boy." 

Prowl didn't know what that meant, but the doctor was already rushing down the opposite end of the hall, he would guess to medbay 6. Where there was a rave.

Would he ever learn to not be so shocked? 

Chapter Text

As Prowl often did, he became utterly consumed by his work. In the cycles prior to receiving enough terabytes of data regarding everything there was to know about the common and less common drugs circulating through Cool City, he had busied himself with overseeing the Pyrite case, as well as cracking down on report etiquette. Of course, there was also avoiding his chief unless absolutely necessary, taking on the role of precinct janitor, and fixing the misfiled cases stored in the archives. His only breaks came in the form of Hound gently forcing him to take a patrol or two, in which he would still issue 'unnecessary' speeding tickets and other violations. When his shifts were finished, he would go home and recharge until it was time for the next shift. 

Once he had received all the data files from Ratchet, the real focus began. For a mech who could hardly tolerate seeing mechs taking anything crazier than a shot of engex, he now knew everything there was to know about drugs he wasn't sure the mechs taking them knew. It was perfect. His processor was overclocked for a few breems after finalizing all of the files, but it was well worth it. He made a note to give the doctor additional thanks- maybe a gift...? He'd never really given one of those before, but it seemed like something bots did for huge favors. 

His comm. pinging in the middle of his tac-net's intense simulation for how to best aid a mech who had crossed Delta-4119 and RX88 was the first thing to make him realize he hadn't so much as moved since he came into the precinct this current shift. 

::Sergeant Prowl speaking.:: The tac-net tapped its foot impatiently, hovering over the paused simulation.

::Prowl, it's me, Bluestreak!:: The tac-net locked itself down preemptively, practically diving for cover before the onslaught could begin. ::Me and Strongarm and also Cliffjumper are down at Make Tracks you have to come quick it's super-urgent super-important stuff happening here I promise! As fast as you can!:: 

::Bluestreak, do you require backup? What is the situation?:: Prowl was already speed-walking out of his office at the more urgent tone in the younger Praxian's voice.

::Uhm, ah, nope, but I- we- I need you to come over here A-S-A-P! Wh- krshhh krshkshk oh Primus the krssshhh comm. is cut-krsshh kskskrkk-:: 

The comm. ended abruptly, making dread and concern swell in Prowl's chassis. 

He wasn't stupid. Bluestreak had so obviously made those interference sound effects with his vocalizer, and in any case, comm.s didn't fritz out like that. If one wanted to properly fake a comm. getting cut, they would have to pull some elaborate stunts, that was for sure. It was Bluestreak's lame attempt to fool Prowl that made him so concerned. Any number of things could be happening, and none of them were particularly good. He hit the road with urgency, but with enough caution to not bump into any of the pedestrians or drivers out and about. Whatever the reason, it was his duty to ensure the safety of his fellow enforcers and of citizens.

When Prowl arrived at Make Tracks - Knock Them Out- supposedly a frame/paint service shop- said enforcers were frantically waving him to enter post-haste, which he did. Where was the danger? Was someone injured? Had somebot mixed Delta-4119 and RX88? Hollow Matter and DS-GX5? He had Ratchet on speed dial. No matter the emergency, his tac-net was in full gear, ready to supply the correct protocols and procedures. He did not notice Cliffjumper locking the door behind him until it was far too late. 

"So you're Prowl, huh?" sang the most gaudy speedster framed, dark blue mech Prowl had ever laid optics on. "The one who-" he was interrupted by Bluestreak coughing loudly into his fist.

"Don'tmentionanythingaboutthatplease!" the young Praxian squeaked. "Just convince him to get the super cool and awesome tramp stamp that we all got it'd be so awesome if he could match the rest of us I mean even Hound got it and he has no sense of style at all I think it would do everyone a lot of good!" 

Prowl wasn't sure what was happening, but he felt like he was cornered. Trapped. Caged. What in the Pit was a tramp stamp. Who was this blue mech. Who was this equally gaudy, cherry red mech with too much kibble that had just sauntered in? Why were they both looking at him like that? Where was the emergency?

...He was beginning to understand that he had been baited. That there was no emergency. He resisted the urge to reach for his service weapon. 

"Oh hoh hoh!" the red mech chuckled, vocalizer projecting wealth and class. "Finally roped the boss into getting the brand, did you?" 

Strongarm and Cliffjumper preened openly, while Bluestreak fidgetted. His doorwings were low, Prowl could see. Guilty little bot. He'd go easy on him when they got back to the precinct. The other two, however...

"State the meaning of this," Prowl spat at his boastful subordinates. 

"Wh- What do you mean?" Strongarm frowned. "Isn't it obvious? We want you to get a matching tramp stamp. Duh." 

Prowl leveled her with a disappointed glower, and she quickly retracted the impolite 'duh' at the end of her statement. 

"Quick and painless," the red mech emphasized with a purr as he leaned on the blue mech's shoulder. "Tracks here is the finest pinstriper in Cool City, despite what some may think."

"And my dear Knock Out is the finest cosmetic surgeon in Cool City- nay- all of Cybertron," Tracks made a disgustingly flirty look at Knock Out, which Prowl quickly ignored. The two crooned over one another, giving Prowl ample time to turn his attention to his coworkers. 

"What is a 'tramp stamp' and why do you insist I receive one?" Prowl demanded. When neither Strongarm nor Cliffjumper replied, their derma held in taut lines, he turned his attention to Bluestreak, who was trying to inconspicuously tip-toe to a side exit. Re: 'trying'. The Praxian froze in his tracks, wincing under the other's flaring doorwings. "Bluestreak," Prowl warned, "explain this." His processor had already decided on a logical conclusion based on the glyphs alone; tramp was a derogatory glyph usually implying someone who participated in illicit, promiscuous activities, and stamp likely referred to a branding of some kind, like Knock Out had mentioned. The rhyming scheme had potential to make it mean something else entirely, however, plus he doubted his well-behaved, well-mannered subordinates would entrap their sergeant to be branded like he were gutter trash and not a respectable enforcer. 

"Um... it's just a cool design, really..." Bluestreak was averting his gaze, optics fixated at a point on the floor. "It goes on the back of your pelvic plating. You know, like-" he turned his back to Prowl and pointed at the linework across the posterior panel of his pelvic armor, just superior to his aft. To be honest, Prowl had paid little attention to the minute details of his coworkers paint jobs. He had little knowledge of their significance or what was 'in' or 'out' of style, and simply put his trust in Sunstreaker to make him look presentable but also like he belonged. 

Cliffjumper was very quick to show Prowl his aft too, which he did not ask for nor want, but sure enough, the same pattern as Bluestreak's was painted on the red minibot's pelvic plating. Strongarm followed suit, again, not necessary, but he was forced to acknowledge that she was matching the two mechs. He would never be able to forget that even Hound had that mark above his matte, dark green aft. Every single one of his coworkers did, apparently. He was the odd circuit out in a collective of strange bots.

Prowl sighed heavily through his nasal passage. "Why is it referred to as a 'tramp stamp'?" 

"I... dunno, actually," Bluestreak looked thoughtful, and Prowl decided to believe that he didn't know the origin of the term. 

"In the early days, most bots that migrated to Cool City had been shunned by their peers and families for being too promiscuous, too brash," Tracks interjected, dramatic whimsy in his voice. "When the linework scene started cropping up around Cybertron, it was frowned upon to get anything that drew too much attention to one's best assets. The typically broad, flat strip of pelvic plating became a popular location for linework because of it's rather risque placement- not quite so garish as being framed around or on a codpiece like some revolutionaries, but just enough to garner attention. Because of the popularity of the trend, those that stuck up their noses deemed them 'tramp stamps' to try and demean those who were proud of their frames. But now, the term is something we promiscuous bots have reclaimed. In fact, they're quite popular in Cool City, as a fashion statement or as a general call to berths." 

"Or a show of camaraderie between enforcers," Knock Out added with a thoughtful gesture to the four enforcers. "It can be anything." 

Prowl's tac-net absorbed the little socio-history lesson, but he himself frowned. So he was correct in his original assessment. He couldn't understand why the idea of getting matching tramp stamps to show camaraderie had been conceived, but he supposed it did no harm. He then thought about his own 'line work' that Sunstreaker had done. There were a few points of interest; the anterior-medial portion of his hood, for one, but also along his doorwings. If he added the more hidden linework, done in glow-in-the-dark paint, he would have to add the lines that followed the contours of his limbs, torso, pelvic armor, and helm. Were any of those considered 'promiscuous'...? He started making a note to bring it up to Sunstreaker the next time he spoke to the mech, but just as quickly deleted it in favor of wanting to keep his paint the way it was. He... liked how it looked the way it was. In any case, if his paintjob was considered promiscuous, he'd like to know what to call the blue and red artists. 

"I will not be getting a tramp stamp." Prowl put his pede down. Every bot in the room deflated with disappointment, which he actually found comfort in, thank you very much. "Apologies for wasting your time, gentlemechs," he said to Tracks and Knock Out. "It seems I have some enforcers to debrief at the precinct." He shot a sharp look at the three troublesome bots, who ducked their helms in shame. At least he hoped it was shame- from what he knew about Cliffjumper, that mech didn't know the meaning of the word.

"Do come back if you change your mind, darling!" Knock Out called as Prowl swiftly unlocked the front door and stalked out into the night, three pouty enforcers in-tow. 

And then Prowl's comm. pinged again.

::Sergeant Prowl speaking,:: he answered, motioning his coworkers to follow him back to the precinct in alt. 

::Prowl, you're a fragging traitor.:: 

::Sunstreaker?:: Prowl would frown if he wasn't currently a car. ::What is-?::

::Don't play coy with me, Mr. Cop-bot! I've got optics and audials all over those Tracks and Knock Out prudes, and you wanna know who they just reported seeing walking out of their shop?:: Prowl was silent for a moment, rightfully taking the question rhetorically. ::You!:: Sunstreaker finished with an exasperated huff. ::What the frag, mech?::

Prowl bit back the scold to watch the profanities, as well as the amusement he found in how quickly Sunstreaker had caught wind of Prowl (unwittingly) visiting a competitor, but also in how offended the artist was. ::Sunstreaker, I will have you know that I did not request nor accept their services. My officers lead me to their establishment under false pretenses.::

There was a long exvent from Sunstreaker on the other end of the comm. ::That better be the truth or I swear to Primus I'll strip you bare.:: 

::You may examine me yourself if you do not believe my word to be true. Do you take me for a liar as well as a traitor?:: 

::No,:: Sunstreaker sighed. ::Sorry, I just can't stand it when good mechs go to the dark side.:: 

Prowl snorted a half-laugh, and Strongarm fishtailed a little behind him for no discernable reason. He flashed his blinkers once to remind her that driving safely was paramount. ::If I ever require a tramp stamp in the future, it will be you I will be seeing.:: And he meant that sincerely- he had established rapport with the artist, which he simply lacked with the two mechs he hadn't even properly been introduced with. Plus, being led there under the guise of an emergency of some sort had left a sour feeling in his tanks. 

::You better.:: 

Prowl ended the comm. with a 'good night' just as he transformed up onto the sidewalk in front of the precinct. He made the other three march in before him, telling them lowly to go on and wait in his office for 'debriefing'. Only Bluestreak seemed to understand that Prowl wasn't mad- but that he was very, very disappointed. The younger Praxian was all droopy as he dragged his pedes to the office behind the quietly bickering Strongarm and Cliffjumper. 

Before he could set his enforcers straight, he let Hound know the basics of the situation. The deputy laughed, not at Prowl, but at the attempt to persuade Prowl into matching the precinct. Of course, that also included the deputy showing Prowl his aft, very much not necessary, to display the matching tramp stamp. Prowl was quick to get to reprimanding after that. 

Prowl got about halfway through lecturing Bluestreak, Strongarm, and Cliffjumper on duty and responsibility and respect for superior officers with a few indulgent drags on Cliffjumper's report writing skills when his comm. pinged for a third time. He scowled at the interruption and did not bother leaving his broad, imposing stance to take the call away from the office, simply holding a servo up for silence as he answered.

::Sergeant Prowl speaking.:: 

::Hey Prowl, Ratchet here. You got the files?:: 

Prowl's demeanor lightened just slightly. ::Yes, Doctor Ratchet, thank you again for your assistance. If there is anything I may be able to do for you, feel free to let me know.:: He ignored Cliffjumper's curious helm tilt. 

::Just Ratchet. And well, good, because I was just about to ask you somethin',:: the doctor said gruffly. ::See, I've got my bi-ornly bash going on next cycle, and I need an enforcer to be there to keep an eye on things and won't just join the in on the fun.::

::I see,:: Prowl said, rolling the idea of security detail around in his helm. He was also very glad to hear that his reputation was getting back on track to accuracy since the doctor had assumed he was trying to get drug certifications. The doctor called the right enforcer. ::Why not employ some bouncers for the task?::

::I've already got bouncers, Sergeant. The issue isn't keeping mechs in or out of the party, it's making sure slag doesn't get stolen like the last few times.::

That got the tac-net to perk up. ::What has been stolen?:: he asked, finally breaking from his post of imposing reprimand to start a report and a case file. Again, he ignored Cliffjumper, who was mouthing something to the other two enforcers.

::Random slag, really. I keep everything locked up when there's a rave on because it's a health and safety hazard, but I've had locking forceps, splints, cable tape, you know, anything that fits in a subspace stolen. No sharps, no substances, just little things. It's fragging up my inventory more than anything, but I'd like it taken care of.:: 

Prowl noted everything, asked follow-up questions, and finally agreed to attending the rave as an investigator/additional security. That made Cliffjumper throw his arms around with wild servo gestures, which Prowl did acknowledge with a sharp frown. Bluestreak's wings were shaking with silent laughter while Strongarm's derma twitched with the effort of keeping herself contained.

::Thanks, Sergeant, you're a big help. I'll have First Aid lead you to medbay 13, just be there half a joor early, alright?::

::It is my pleasure, D- Ratchet. Good night.:: 

Prowl waited for the comm. to fully disconnect before he wheeled on his subordinates again, picking up where he left off as if there had been no interruption. He did shorten his spiel to make up for said interruption, but the effect was the same. The three enforcers hurried out of his office with their helms down for all of five breems before they were excitedly telling everyone else what had happened. It was an improvement, however minor. 

And then Prowl settled down in his chair, ready to resume the simulations with his tac-net, only for his comm. to ping again. He grumbled to himself about not being able to catch a klik to do his job, but answered nonetheless. 

::Sergeant Prowl speaking.:: 

The sound of cracking knuckles came over the line. ::Prowl.:: Uh oh. 

::Mirage,:: Prowl returned, posture stiffening as if the mech were right in front of him. Was he...? He decided right then and there that he hated the whole invisibility thing, because he just couldn't know. ::How may I help you?:: He already knew what the club owner wanted. Guilt washed over him in and instant as he checked his chronometer and realized just how many cycles it had been since he had made any attempt to see Jazz. Five. It had been five cycles.

It wasn't that he didn't want to see the entertainer. He thought of him whenever he had the space in his processor (which he fought with the tac-net to keep). It was hard not to think about the mech; he seemed to always be lingering along with his background processes, but his work had been front and center. There were very important things he had to do and very important things to learn, and... what he wanted so badly couldn't be prioritized. Not until Cool City was fixed. 

::You've got some serious diodes, mech. Serious. Diodes.:: 

::My apologies,:: Prowl said, vocalizer sounding much smaller than he intended. What he wanted couldn't be prioritized over his work, but self-preservation could. It was just lucky that self-preservation gave him what he wanted.

::Call him. Now. Don't make me come down to the precinct myself, got it?:: Mirage ended the comm. before Prowl could open his intake. 

The tac-net gave him his chances of survival if he didn't do what Mirage asked. The numbers were lower than he would have liked. With a forlorn sigh, he scrolled through his contacts and found Jazz's comm. code. That he had never called before. Or sent a message to. The guilt made his frame and spark feel heavy. 

The comm. rang. And rang. And rang.

::Yyyyello!:: 

Prowl's helm thunked on the edge of his desk. Curse this mech and his beautiful voice. ::Hello, Jazz,:: he greeted, hiding the shy smile that he had no control of in his desk. It was so stupid; the mech wasn't even in the room with him.

There was a half-beat of silence, followed by the sound of muffled movement. ::Prowl! Hey Prowl, hey, what's going on, how've you been?:: 

::Busy,:: Prowl replied. ::I apologize for neglecting to call you sooner. There has been much to do.:: 

::Makes sense,:: Jazz hummed. 

::How have you been?:: Prowl sat up, spinning in his chair slowly. He was trying to picture what Jazz could be doing wherever he was at the moment. Was he in the room full of music? Was he pacing around his berthroom? Was he grinning that blinding, wonderful smile? The tac-net restricted his use of pleasant adjectives. 

Jazz chuckled softly. ::I've been missing you,:: he admitted without shame or grief. The glyphs made Prowl's spark dance, and he stopped his chair so that his back would be to the door. He wasn't sure how he could explain the expression his faceplates were betraying at the moment should anyone barge in. 

::Likewise,:: Prowl murmured. He began reviewing his known schedule for the upcoming cycles, already anticipating Jazz's next question. 

::Are you free tomorrow night?::

Prowl was ready to say yes, despite knowing that he wasn't, in fact, free. ::No,:: he sighed, ::I have agreed to assist Doctor Ratchet by working security at his bi-ornly 'bash', I believe he called it.::

::Oh! That's perf!:: Prowl determined that Jazz was most likely pacing wherever he was, based on the continued sounds of movement in the background. ::'Raj more or less threatened my bolts if I didn't go out and play somewhere other than Visages, and I owed Ratch one, so I was totally gonna invite you to that, actually:: 

Prowl felt excited by the prospect of seeing Jazz. And then that excitement got compacted down by the realization that he couldn't do anything with the mech because he would be working. He would not disappoint Ratchet by being neglectful of his duty, nor would he willingly neglect his duty in general. He couldn't. Jazz was a known catalyst for distracting him from his job, and it was frustrating, but he could also never place any of that frustration on the mech. He didn't deserve that. 

::Are you available tonight, perchance?:: Prowl tried to reason with himself and the tac-net that if he could get his pent-up feelings (and charge) out of the way prior to the big event the next cycle, he would be at a lower risk of failing. It was certainly not also because just hearing Jazz's voice was making him antsy and dredging up flashes of memory files that were not meant to be viewed at work.

There was a pause. More shuffling sounds of movement. ::I can be,:: Jazz purred, and the sound went straight down Prowl's spinal struts. ::When do you get off? Or should I come into the precinct and turn myself in?~:: 

Prowl buried his face in his servos, despite no one being around to see how flustered those glyphs were making him. ::Three joors. I will meet you at your residency?:: 

::It's a date.:: Prowl couldn't see it, but he suspected that Jazz had winked just then. ::I'll be ready for ya...:: 

Three joors with countless mental images of what those glyphs could entail. What had Prowl gotten himself into...

Chapter Text

Prowl hadn't even raised a fist to knock before Jazz flung the front door open, yanked the enforcer inside by his collar fairing, and used Prowl's frame to slam the door shut again. The startled yelp of alarm that had escaped from Prowl's vocalizer was consumed by Jazz's derma on his as the visored mech pinned the enforcer by his shoulders against the door. Prowl surrendered the inside of his intake and his glossa without a second moment's hesitation, then surrendered to the molten heat that he'd been simmering in since the short comm. call three joors ago. 

Jazz's frame was hot- from his derma to the digits insistently groping Prowl's bumper to the codpiece that pressed into Prowl's own. It was all he could do to pull that burning frame closer, pinning himself harder into the door despite the ache in his doorwings. Their kissing became more dentae than derma, gnashing and full of slobber, and so forceful that Prowl was finding it hard to get a proper invent. 

And then they were sinking, sliding down to the floor, crawling over one another and wrestling with their frames in a constant battle to get the right friction or more friction or any contact at all. Servos squeezed and tugged, grabbed and teased, and they were a tangle of interlocking components; twisting and writhing as though they were going to combine and form a new, bigger mech. Instead, that battle gave way to valves being bared and ground together viciously. Prowl was on his knees, hugging one of Jazz's legs to his chassis as the visored mech dug his digits into the carpet for dear life, both of their hips bucking and swiveling in a race to find the right motion to send them to the moons. 

The rocket to the moons was much faster, much more explosive, than either of them could have imagined, yet still fueled by whimpered"please"s and "more"s, and their desperate cries were synonymous to cheers of joy when they finally crash-landed on the jagged metal surface.

The dust of the impact settled, and Prowl put Jazz's lower half down on the carpet slowly, reluctant to let go, and immediately followed him down to drink his glossa in all over again. His plating crackled and popped with the leftover charge from such an intense overload. The air reeked of ozone, but he didn't care. Jazz was below him, completely blissed out, and he was sweet and warm and perfect. This is what he wanted. He got what he wanted. 

"Frag, Prowler," Jazz panted against Prowl's cheek as the enforcer turned to gasp for air. "That was the hottest thing to happen ta me, I think." 

Prowl doubted that- yes, it was intense and wonderful, but it had also been fleeting and uncoordinated. Had he been the one with his weight on his upper back and shoulders, he wasn't so sure he'd have enjoyed it quite as much (then again, his doorwings would have been bent, and Jazz didn't have to worry about that problem). If the rumors about Jazz were even remotely accurate, there was very little possibility that he just topped the charts with that spontaneous stunt. He hummed in lieu of a response, shuttering his optics to soak up the heat that was dissipating from the visored mech's frame. He couldn't care if what he said was true, anyway- not with his servos still wandering along his transformation seams and ghosting along the hinges of his wings. 

"I really did miss ya," Jazz murmured, his touching turning more soothing than exploring. Prowl sank into it, likely crushing the other mech to some extent, but he couldn't sense any immediate discomfort, so he let himself stay. 

"I know," Prowl replied softly, burying his nose beneath Jazz's jaw. "I apologize." 

Jazz's vocalizer buzzed against Prowl's face from beneath his throat cables as he chuckled. "Aw, no 'my apologies' this time?" he teased. Prowl did not find that quite as amusing as the other things the mech has said in the past, but he didn't let it ruffle him. Speech patterns and mannerisms were easy to latch onto, as a general fact, and he was made well aware of several of his own by others. 

"No," Prowl huffed, however lightheartedly. He laid there a few more kliks before peeling himself away from Jazz with a low groan; his joints were stiff from the sudden burst of activity. 

"Holy. Primus." 

Ice shot through Prowl's circuits fast enough to make them short out and cold enough to freeze him in place- on his hands and knees above Jazz's frame, both of them decorated in paint transfers and lubricant. 

"My carpet? Seriously?!" Mirage was standing in the front entryway, arms held out from his sides in disbelief. "I told you to call him, not frag him over my nice shag carpet!"

And then the last ten or so breems replayed in Prowl's helm from start to finish under a new light: one where he was aware of the noise and the desperation and the lubricants that dribbled onto the carpet and wished he had the foresight to do literally anything with a little more tact. Like at least make it to a piece of furniture. Or a room. Or not let himself behave like a rabid mechanimal in heat. He practically flung himself away from Jazz, mortified, and covered himself despite his valve cover already being closed. If he hadn't wanted to offline himself the last time Mirage caught them being unsavory, he definitely did now. 

Jazz, meanwhile, did not move from his heap on the carpet. "Frag yer carpets," he muttered, trailing a servo across his own chassis with a huff. "They're out o' style, anyway." 

"Nope, nuh-uh, you're gonna clean that, you fragging glitch. And I don't care if you get your little enforcer boyfriend to help you, but I want that lubricant out by the time I'm done closing Visages, got it?" 

Prowl shrank on himself, hiding his helm in his servos, so he didn't see whatever reaction Jazz had nor did he see what Mirage grabbed from the coffee table before stomping out of the apartment as quickly as he showed up. Steam hissed from Prowl's vents as soon as the irate mech slammed the door behind him and his pedesteps fell away down the hall. Why couldn't anything just go well for him?

"Rude," Jazz scoffed, and Prowl could hear his joints creak as he moved, likely sitting up or making to stand to begin cleaning. Prowl had already decided that he would help with that, just... not yet. He had to wallow in self-pity and embarrassment first. Mirage knew too much. Saw too much. The tac-net handed him a packet of solutions with a neat little bow on top. The first one, he immediately deleted ('kill Mirage'). The second one, however, was actually helpful ('proceed with intimate behaviors at Icy Steel Apartment Complex'). The odds of the club owner barging in would be lower, and the odds of destroying his belongings/home would be slim to none. He stashed the solution away for next time- how the Pit was he still thinking about 'next time' after that?! 

"Did you finish that totally-not-redundant mystery novel yet?" Jazz asked, sounding farther away than he had before. Cabinets opened and shut, followed by rummaging noises. He was looking for cleaning supplies. 

Prowl took a moment to suss out what the mech was talking about. He had read many novels- oh. The one he had been reading the morning after their first time together. Heat crept along his faceplates again, totally ridiculous considering literally everything that kept happening to him. "I had finished it two cycles after you departed." 

"You- you finished it in two cycles?" Jazz's voice was closer again, getting closer, then passed him. He must not have found what he was looking for. 

"Six, in total," Prowl forced himself not to preen at the impressed sound in the other mech's tone. It wasn't out of the ordinary for him; he had a bit of an advantage when it came to taking in data, and reading was basically just that. 

Jazz whistled, somewhere far off, perhaps in another room. "Pits, Prowler. Was it good?" 

Prowl shrugged, then remembered that the mech was not in the room with him and couldn't see him any better than Prowl could see him. "I suppose. Though it may have been better had it subverted my expectations in the end. It did not." He had seen the ending coming from the beginning of the second half, not to mention having solved the mystery himself in the 600th pages. 

"I don't think anybot can subvert your expectations." Jazz was in the same room again, passing in front once more. Then there were more rummaging sounds from his initial search. 

Prowl lifted his helm, finally calmed down enough to be with himself. Just as he suspected, Jazz was rummaging around in what must be the kitchen, bending to look in drawers and standing on the tips of his pedes to get at the higher cabinets. "You did," Prowl admitted, barely registering the glyphs as they left his vocalizer. "To such an extent that I have crashed on you. Twice."

Jazz laughed into a cabinet of cubes, where there was certainly no cleaner. "...I guess that's true." 

Prowl got to his pedes with a languid stretch of his aching hips and legs. The tac-net supplied him with a cleaning to-do list in specific order: the carpet, the discarded dishes in the sink he was now checking under for cleaning supplies- how had Jazz not known to check beneath the sink?-, and then himself. He slipped Jazz onto the bottom of the list, and the tac-net swatted it away with a side-eye. Ok, so maybe he could let Jazz wash himself. Whatever. 

"Oh, nice!" Jazz exclaimed when Prowl found the supplies he had been struggling to find. That, he did preen a little at, which was stupid because everybot and their creators knew to keep cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink. It was common knowledge. 

It was surprisingly easy removing lubricants from shag carpeting. Perhaps it was the fact that it hadn't really dried yet, or it was the specific kind of cleanser, but once the spot was dried, it was as if nothing ever happened. It made Prowl think about all kinds of evidence that could be covered up like that. How many cases went unsolved due to crafty criminals? The tac-net ran to the task, running through every bit of backlogged casefiles he still had stored in his helm. He guessed the answer was 'a lot', just based off of what he'd seen during his functioning as an enforcer. 

"Good as new," Jazz said, scuffing his pede to ruffle up the carpeting. "How's about we hop in the washrack before we muss anything else up?"

Prowl forced the tac-net to abandon its calculations once the visor-wink Jazz gave him registered. It wasn't a relevant task, anyway. "Please," he said, spark thrumming with anticipation already. He should still feel ashamed- should still feel mortified by his actions. Instead... he reasoned that he had made amends by cleaning, and that in the future he would pay more attention. There was no changing the past, only aiming to better the future. 

Prowl was feeling pretty damn good about the future after learning what other uses the washrack mirror had. 

Jazz was loving Prowl. Jazz was loving so hard his spark felt too large for its casing. It was nearly agonizing to watch the enforcer's sleeping face, just nanometers from his own. He couldn't imagine feeling this way about any other bot on all of Cybertron. He was loving so hard that he couldn't recharge; instead he had been replaying the memory files of the last few joors on loop, pausing and rewinding and repeating his favorite parts (which was honestly every frame with Prowl in it). He liked watching the way the enforcer's doorwings wiggled a bit under praise, and the way he flustered under compliments, and the way his optics cycled when he was remembering something, and the way- the way his derma twitched as he experienced recharge fluxes. He added that to the stack with an accompanying image capture. 

Jazz was loving so hard he couldn't say it. It was the same problem as before, only worse now that things were getting so good. He just... didn't want to push his luck. He had figured the enforcer had forgotten about Jazz blurting that he loved him- that the crash had taken those glyphs away so he could say them for the first time again, hopefully in a more romantic scenario. But, apparently, that's not how crashes worked. Prowl remembered. He remembered and he still wasn't saying anything about it. But that was just fine. They were cuddling in his berth after fragging on Mirage's shag carpets, in the washrack, and properly on Jazz's berth (and nearly a second time in the washracks, but the sun had long been creeping up by then, so he made the hard call to take a break), and it was everything he could have wanted at the moment. Prowl didn't have to be in love with him, he just had to let Jazz love him, and he would be perfectly dandy. Yup! Just needed to keep his luck reigned in for now.

And that was the thing- Jazz had always been a lucky mech. He was talented, and worked for the things he earned, sure, but there was no way he could have simply worked hard to find a lost one-way ticket to Cool City in the middle of the street. It wasn't his talent for music that let him happen to catch the mayor of Cool City's pet parrot as it flew over his helm (which landed him his first gig at Visages). It wasn't his intention to cross paths with a dorky, uptight, insanely intelligent, stupid sexy enforcer and fall in love with him. It was all luck- it had to be. But it had to run out at some point, right? Isn't that what everybot said? 

Prowl's derma twitched again, and Jazz watched it as though it were a comet streaking across the night sky. He could watch forever, he decided. He could lay there forever, so long as Prowl were there. That was just fine. 

Jazz eventually recharged, but only lightly- his spark couldn't settle down with Prowl being right there and being so Prowl. Because of this, he was awake mere kliks before Prowl opened his optics, and he got a front-row private show to watching the enforcer's normal reboot sequence. Interfacing was fun, but this was something you couldn't get with just any cute mech you happened to find on the street. 

"Good mornin'," Jazz whispered, giving Prowl his best smile, hoping to imprint it into the enforcer's memory banks. 

Prowl's optics cycled minutely, the inner and outer rings twisting asynchronously as he took in visual data. The total relaxed face he wore gradually became something a little harder- not as hard as it could be when the mech was on-duty (a look that could get Jazz's engine to turn over)- but was still something quite soft and infinitely kissable. Which Jazz took advantage of, of course! Via simple peck on the tip of the nasal ridge, because that was well within the bounds of what was acceptable so far. And that made Prowl's optics cycle a whole different way, and his derma moved like he was trying not to smile, and it was too adorable for his spark to handle. 

"Good morning," the enforcer mumbled in return, ever so proper. "It is still so odd..." 

"What's odd?" Jazz asked, because he wanted to know everything Prowl was thinking no matter how reasonably mundane it could be. 

"Saying 'good morning' when the night cycle has just begun." And that made a lot of sense to Jazz, because of course Prowl would find that weird still- he hadn't even been in Cool City for a full groon! "I still imagine the sunrise when I hear those glyphs, but instead, it is now the sunset." 

That... was strangely poetic. He was going to melt into happy goo now. "Do you write?" Jazz blurted. 

Prowl frowned, but it was his 'confused' frown, not his 'mildly irritated' frown. He could tell. "Write?"

"Yeah, like... do you write poetry? Stories? Mystery novels?" Jazz winked when he mentioned that last one. Imagine- a cop writing cop novels. Ingenius. 

"Reports," Prowl mumbled, the 'confused' frown morphing into a 'I think I'm boring' frown. Jazz kissed the creases between his optical ridges. He'd never think the enforcer boring; it was too late for any of that slag. If Prowl was passionate about reports, he'd spend joors reading reports about this and that and whatever else.

"Do you like writing reports?" When the 'I think I'm boring' frown didn't dissipate, he kissed that spot again. 

"Yes," Prowl conceded with a sigh. The frown melted away entirely. "They can be quite satisfying to complete." Jazz hummed, prompting him to continue. "They often follow a structure that requires me to check or fill in prompts, and when they are completed, they can be filed away quite easily. They are methodical. Predictable." 

Predictability wasn't really Jazz's favorite thing, but he was already spinning it into the many ballads he'd been composing for Prowl. He could practically hear the changes in his works already, and they began clicking perfectly like the well-oiled machine the mech- already getting out of berth?- was. Jazz openly stared as he stretched his frame out, noticing that even that had an order to it. Pits, this guy was a freak. He had to cojunx him. 

Jazz was about to be suave and flirty and try to reel Prowl back in for a couple more minutes of getting serenaded about reports or literally anything else, but that last thought made him snap his intake shut. Woah now. Slow the roll there, Jazz. It was ok to be in love with the mech, but thinking about cojunxing? Gettin' off the rails there. He chewed his lip as Prowl stared down at him from beside the berth, helm cocked to the side. 

"Um... what? Is there somethin' on my faceplates?" Jazz chuckled nervously. Could Prowl read his mind? No, that would be stupid. There was no way that was true. He tried to stop thinking anyway.

"Are you going to get up?" Prowl pursed his derma, and that was enough to get Jazz to spring up with a mock-salute. The enforcer rolled his optics, but he could see the smile hiding just beneath the surface of those handsome faceplates. "I must prepare for my shift," he announced, stepping towards the berthroom door. "If you feel up to indulging me one more time?" 

Yeah, he could do this forever.

There was a lightness in Prowl's step as he followed First Aid through Cool City's maze of hallways and elevators to Medbay 13. He had handled Jazz: check. He had apologized to Mirage: check. He was now set to perform his duty with utmost concentration and care: check. It wasn't a bad solution; interfacing in anticipation of being in the vicinity of Jazz. Primus knows he enjoyed it, but now there was a solid payoff that directly fed into his ability to do a good job. The tac-net seemed to accept the idea, at last, though it still wasn't keen on the underlying feelings to the entertainer. That was just fine. Prowl would have Jazz in whatever way was deemed acceptable, so long as the other mech was privy to it. It could work.

First Aid gestured Prowl to enter Medbay 13, muttering something snarky behind his mask before hurrying off somewhere else- probably to treat rust again. The medbay was quite large- or maybe it looked larger with all of the cots parked against the walls as refreshment tables- and decked out with in-laid neon lights in the floor and ceiling. There was a circular rise in the center of the medbay, its circumference large enough to hold five or so mid-class sized bots. Other than the cots, there was no other medical equipment left out- they were either relocated or locked in the inconspicuous drawers and cabinets. 

"Sergeant, thank you for coming," greeted Ratchet, approaching with a white speedster frame on his arm. "This is my current sidepiece, Drift."

"Howdy." Drift nodded his helm curtly. The accent was bizarre at best, but Prowl forced himself to move on. If he lingered on every new and bizarre thing in Cool City, he'd never have time for anything else. 

"He's from what's left of Western Town, which used to be a popular subsection of Cool City," Ratchet explained, which didn't really mean anything to Prowl. "He's a righteous cowboy, ain'tcha, Drift?" He did a poor imitation of the speedster's accent, poking his side teasingly. 

"Ranger..." Drift muttered, tone sour despite the soft look in his optics. 

Prowl's audials honed in on that glyph. "Ranger?" he echoed, searching his memory banks for the last time he'd met a ranger- he often held them in high regard as a rare breed of enforcers that took to working very small areas on their lonesome. He had been unaware of a place called Western Town, but he supposed the mention that there wasn't much of it anymore meant he probably wouldn't have heard of it anyway. Still, he felt bad for missing such a detail if there was still a ranger out working in the remnants of Cool City's past. 

"Yessir," Drift drawled, peering at the decals on Prowl's doorwings. "Been purdy quiet lately, figgered I'd come uptown, see what all the fuss was up 'ere." He glanced at Ratchet, something unreadable on his faceplates for a moment. "Extended my vay-cay-tion jus' a tad bit, yew know how it is..." 

Prowl did not know. He wondered who was filling in for Drift during his 'extended vacation', but shook the worry away. Not his jurisdiction- especially not if he's never even heard of the place. But also, he'd never taken a real vacation, let alone extended one. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Drift," Prowl said, finally finding a space to slip that formality in. The ranger nodded his helm again in acknowledgement.

"RIght, anywho-" Ratchet cleared his vocalizer and directed Prowl's attention to the doors he had just entered from. Two nursebots were wheeling in a cot with a glass dome overtop of it- inside was a half-grayed motorcycle, upright and leaning on its kickstand. "This guy's on his way out, but I don't think he can wait another cycle for his pre-funeral party, so we're dedicating this bash to him." 

Prowl watched in sick fascination as the nursebots continued wheeling the cot in, parking it front and center before the circular rise in the floor. He had heard about pre-funeral parties, actually. They weren't common by any means, and he'd never attended one, but he knew that some bots liked them. Personally, he would never do such a thing; he would rather have a big old traditional enforcer funeral, thank you, where all the proper rights would be done and then he could be placed in the mausoleum in Iacon with all of the other enforcers of the past. He shook himself out of that grim (yet somehow comforting) thought, redirecting his thoughts to how much a pre-funeral party made sense for Cool City. He could easily assume that they were done for every dying mech. 

"Ah... alright," Prowl muttered, tearing his optics away from the motorcycle. "Is there any concern regarding... him?" 

Ratchet shook his helm. "That dome's sealed and locked. Nothing in there to steal, anyway. Unless someone wants a rusted out exhaust pipe." Drift snorted at that, and Ratchet's derma twitched into a smile. 

"Noted. The cabinets?" 

"All locked down, so are the drawers and closets. But keep an optic on em- I said before they'd still been gotten into. And keep an eye out for twitchy bots. Well. Twitchier bots." 

Prowl didn't have to guess what that meant. He grimaced internally, but said nothing. It was a good thing he was becoming well-versed in symptoms and warning signs, but he supposed that a hospital would be the best place for something to go wrong in that aspect. He opened his mouth to clarify another point of interest, only for the sensors on his doorwings to pick up a shift in the air. He knew what was happening before he heard him. 

"Ratch! Been too long, mech! New arm candy? Sweet." Jazz burst in, full confidence and swagger, instrument case slung over his shoulder. He came into Prowl's line of sight with his signature goofy grin. "Prowler, long time no see! Not givin' docbot any trouble, are ya?" 

Prowl locked his doorwings into a neutral position before they could start fluttering. His tac-net spoke his reasoning back at him, and he shushed it swiftly. Ok, so he was off to a bad start. It would be fine. "I am not," he replied calmly, trying to lock a neutral expression on his faceplates as well. 

"Jazz, this here's Drift." Ratchet introduced his 'side piece' to the musician, and Prowl let them mingle, himself wandering off to examine the room further. He let his tac-net analyze potential escape routes, hiding places, the kind of locks and what it might take to hack them, and any other useful data pertaining to suspected thievery. He booted up a profiling system for when bots began filing in for the party. He wasn't sure what to classify as 'twitchier', so he let a more general scope fit the criteria. So long as things didn't get too hectic, he trusted his processor not to crash while running that system. 

He found himself a few good places to stand along the walls that would give him a pretty good view of the whole room. It was in one of his corners that he watched Jazz start approaching the rise in the floor, stop before the motorcycle on the cot, bow reverently, and then finally step onto the rise and begin setting up his instrument and a handful of amps. A 'not suspect' tag flashed above Jazz, telling him that his profiling system was operating just fine. The same tags applied to Ratchet, Drift, and the few nursebots that were running around with decorations and making sure the floor was clean. 

And then Jazz started checking his work. And then he tuned his instrument, humming softly to the notes.

This was going to be very, very difficult. 

Bouncers arrived just before partygoers did, and they did a good job as any checking idents. Prowl watched the bots stream in, his profiling system honing on each frametype and color scheme and filing them away while the rest of his processing went to continuously scanning for disturbances by where all of the supplies were being kept. He also noted how many partygoers would pay some kind of respect to the motorcycle before letting loose and busting it down to Jazz's music. 

Jazz's music was making Prowl's job very hard. He had very little bandwidth left to really listen, but it still clawed at the edges of his focus, begging him to get lost in its embrace. He could not, no matter how tempting it was, let it take him. 

"Woah, Prowl!" chirped Bumblebee as the minibot bounded into the medbay. "You're as stiff as a board, why aren't you getting down to those sick beats with everyone else?" 

Prowl tagged Bumblebee just the same as every other bot, but did allow for brief pleasantries since he had been directly addressed. "I am on duty," he explained simply. He would not disclose for what reason he was, because it would be bad for that information to get out; the goal was to catch and apprehend a thief, not delay the inevitable or make them more discrete. 

"Aw mech, total bummer. What have you been up to, anyway? I mean I last saw you at Visages and you crashed and then went home I think- I hope that didn't scare you off from the clubs! They're so much fun. And even if you're not here for fun, it's cool you get to get paid to be at one of Ratchet's bi-ornly bashes! And it's a pre-funeral party too! So cool. Oh, my buddies are over there, bye Prowl see you 'round!" 

Prowl blinked at the back of the minibot's helm. He hadn't even gotten a chance to reply to his question... not that he really wanted to answer that anyway. He took a quick note to introduce him to Bluestreak, so that maybe they could tire each other out with their chattering. But only when he was far away from that happening. 

And that was how his night persisted; scanning mech after mech and femme after femme in the crowd, trying not to look at Jazz, and paying attention to the hidden supplies. He was determined to let nothing slip. He was keen and focused and-

"This next one's for the pretty lil enforcer in the back," Jazz said into his mic, voice rumbling lowly. Like some horrific holovid, a spotlight snapped on, full focus on Prowl in his corner of observation. Optics locked onto him, blues and greens and yellows and reds, all with different expressions, all with a spark of recognition. The nanoklik of silence between the announcement and the song stretched on for eons, extending even into the beginnings of something soft and melodic and- it was a simple pattern. The bassline never changed, and the vocals swam in simple sin waves, always cresting and falling at exactly the same points. Even the lyrics followed a linear path; he knew the end of the song by the second verse. 

And then the lights were on and nearly every partygoer was gone and the nursebots were cleaning up discarded cubes and other nefarious substances and Ratchet's digit was in his face. 

"-up! Wake up! The Pit's wrong with ya? Hello?" 

"What-" Prowl reset his optics and audials. Well wasn't this just perfect. He knew he should have just muted his audials to avoid such a disaster. He shook his tac-net, forcing it to go through his latest memory files that were nothing but a blur for him. 

"Did ya see who got into that or what?" Ratchet jabbed his digit over to a wide-open cabinet just a few meters away from Prowl. Slag. Prowl fumbled for an explanation, an answer, anything to sate the doctor. When all he could do was stare at the open cabinet with his intake open, Ratchet sighed. "You've got it bad, Sergeant. Whatever. Just more cable and wire tape, nothing to beat yourself up about, I suppose. But you're gonna be in here in two orns again and you're gonna catch the turborat, ya hear?" 

Prowl's doorwings fell low with shame. He would hang his helm, too, but he didn't want to seem too pathetic in front of the doctor. "Of course, Doctor Ratchet. I do not know what came over me," he half-lied. He knew what came over him; he didn't know how it did. His tac-net beeped, alerting him of its findings through his memory files. Because he had been so close to the scene of the robbery, he had sensory data of movement to his left. It was hard to discern fully through all of the movement in the air, but it seemed that whoever had gotten into the cabinet had a hard time reaching it. This was also evident by the light scuff marks in the floor. The profiling system hadn't tagged anyone as suspicious, either. He relayed that little bit of information to the doctor at the same time he updated his files. He would have offered to interrogate witnesses... had they not already all gone home for the cycle. Someone must have seen something, surely...?

The sound of Jazz snapping his bass's case shut alerted him to the mech's presence. It's not like he ever forgot he was there, that would be impossible, but it did give him an idea. 

"Did you see anyone get into that cabinet?" Prowl asked the musician, shaking off the remainder of his daze. 

Jazz slung the case over his shoulder just as it had been when he first arrived. "Huh?" his helm angled towards the cabinet that Ratchet was now reorganizing and closing. Drift was helping, but apparently not well enough, and the doctor kept swatting his servos away. "Nah, I was too busy lookin' at you," he hummed, sly grin crossing his faceplates. 

Prowl sighed, posture slumping as far as slumping could go for him. Which was not far. Of course. Of course the only witness left was too busy ogling him instead of noticing a robbery occurring mere meters away from him. He couldn't even be mad; it was Jazz who kept him from noticing that same robbery and he was the one actually mere meters away from it. Jazz was bad for him. He could not, any under circumstances, mix with his work again. He turned with a simple 'good night' aimed generally at everyone left in the room. 

Much to his chagrin, Jazz took up following him a few steps behind, his pedesteps skipping and shuffling as he danced. It was bad enough that he was going to be the center of gossip again, which meant Smokescreen was going to pester him again, which meant he was going to get no respect from anyone. Again. He wanted... something. He didn't know. Something different from being a piece of gossip. He wanted to do a good job and be seen for being good at his job. That was all, really. And he... wanted Jazz around. In general. He wasn't sure why, but that's what he felt. But no one cared about what he felt, so he took to burying that all over again. He wanted to be good at his job. Full stop. 

"It wasn't your fault," said Jazz, still walking along behind and to his right. "There were a lot of bots in there, movin' all over the place." 

Prowl's expression soured, but he didn't turn to let Jazz see it. It was absolutely his fault! He stopped paying attention- no matter the reason- and the perpetrator got away with rolls of cable and wire tape right under his nose. It didn't matter how many bots were there or how much they were moving- it happened right beside him. 

"No one's mad, either." 

Somehow, that made Prowl feel worse. He was pretty darn upset about it! He searched through the little sensory data he had and reviewed each face he saw, scanning for any hint of nervousness that could point to being guilty of something. 

"Talk to me, Prowler." Jazz sounded worried. Why was he worried? He wasn't the one who completely biffed a simple task. He grimaced harder, dentae grinding slightly. 

The sun was just beginning to cast light across the night sky; the barest hints of navy blue replacing the black. The air was colder than what was normal for Cool City. The city was quieting down for another day of snoozing bots recharging for the next great big party. Recharging for the next petty heist... Prowl invented deeply, trying to slow down the repetitive cycle of guilt and shame and frustration. He could only aim to be better in the future. Right? That was all he could do now. 

"My comm. is available should you require anything of me." Prowl finally turned to face the visor that was strained with worry. His optics lingered on the slight downward tilt of his derma, but only for a klik before he was turning away again, folding into his alt, bumper aimed in the direction of Icy Steel. "Good night, Jazz." 

Chapter Text

The robbery in Medbay 13 was, officially, a dead end. Prowl would like to thank doctor-patient confidentiality for the complete absence of security cameras in the entire building. He pushed the file to background processing until he would have to try again in two orns, hopefully without a certain guest performer being present. Onto the next case: Pyrite. 

Trailbreaker had actually made some ground with the Pyrite case; not quite enough to bring any suspects in, but it was better than what Prowl was doing, so gold stars to the mech. Reviewing the case file thus far, it seemed that whoever the perpetrator was, they were mainly making their moves during the day cycle when no one was at the diner. Arcee and Hot Rod both claim to have installed new locks on their doors, and always make sure the back doors are locked even during business hours, but things still go missing. On a few occasions, Arcee mentioned the doors remaining locked (potentially re-locked somehow...?) but things still getting stolen. Whoever this thief was, was inconsistent yet crafty. No paint transfers to be seen, no fluids left behind, nothing. And the items being stolen were always small; silverware, dishrags, mugs, curly straws- the occasional handful of spare credits from the register, but Hot Rod seemed to be the only one who thought that change was missing (Prowl determined that the mech cannot count). 

Prowl immediately tacked the Cool Hospital case onto the Pyrite case. There was no way the two weren't connected; petty theft of small and seemingly random items with no trace of the mech stealing them? Come on. He took advantage of the crossover to initiate somewhat of a team-operation with Trailbreaker, who very enthusiastically agreed to working with the sergeant. Smokescreen didn't have anything to say, for once, and Prowl didn't push it. 

"I'm about to start sleeping on the ovens," Hot Rod complained to Prowl, and by extension, Trailbreaker. 

Pyrite was busy this night cycle; each booth packed and nearly every stool occupied at the counter. Even while Prowl was taking notes on the latest details, Hot Rod was pouring cubes and sliding plates of steaming food down the countertop. The mech had it down to a science, it seemed.

"I mean legit, Wee-Woo. This time they nabbed my lucky radical spatula! I'm totally honked up about it, like, that was my lucky spatula, dig?" 

Prowl wrote Hot Rod's glyphs word-for-word on his trusty datapad. Trailbreaker was looking over his shoulder, nodding and muttering to himself like he was taking notes on how to write a good report. Actually... he definitely was doing just that, and Prowl couldn't be prouder. He added 'Hot Rod's 'lucky' spatula' to the list of items stolen. 

"Around what time would you say they must have stolen your spatula?" Prowl inquired, moving along his form with practiced efficiency. 

"Lucky spatula, lucky. And I dunno, between closing last night and opening six joors ago?" Hot Rod chucked a bundle of silverware over a femme's head and into an open servo of a mech in a booth. Smooth. 

There was a 16 joor gap where the theft could have taken place. Too wide, just like all the other times reported by Trailbreaker. 

"Switch!" Hot Rod shouted, and the orange and pink mech bolted into the kitchen, quickly replaced by Arcee.

"'Sup Wee-Woo, Forcefield, he tell you about his stupid spatula?" Arcee was balancing platters on her arms, raising her voice over the volume of the diner so Prowl could hear her as she served plates of food that were beginning to smell really good to his olfactory receptors.

"She's never even-"

"Yes, he did," Prowl cut in over Trailbreaker. He spared his fellow enforcer a side-glance. There was really no point in refuting the nicknames. "Did anything else get stolen?" 

Arcee caught a cube from falling on the ground with the tip of her pede, then swiftly kicked it into the air, caught it in servo, and slammed it back down on the intended table. Only a few drops spilled. "Not that I know of, no. But I'm tempted to let him sleep on the damn ovens if he's going to complain all night about it." 

Prowl did not write down her every glyph, but did note that it was only the spatula that was reported stolen. Then, he paused. 

"What is it?" Trailbreaker asked, optics wide as he stared over Prowl's shoulder. "Did you figure it out? I have friends from Protihex, they all said you're crazy good at this slag- stuff, sorry-"

"No," Prowl muttered, offlining his datapad. "Arcee, have him look for the spatula." 

Arcee made a face, but didn't stop what she was doing- writing another ticket for an order. Then, she shook her helm and reapplied her customer-service smile. "Whatever you say, Wee-Woo. Hot Rod!" 

At that moment, Hot Rod was already coming back out of the kitchen with another plate. "What, what?" 

"Wee-Woo says to look for your dumbaft spatula." 

Hot Rod groaned, but apparently did as he was told. There were clattering noises from behind the wall separating the kitchen from the rest of the diner, followed by a muffled "oh". Prowl closed this particular case. Trailbreaker looked completely lost, up until the point Hot Rod stuck an arm out, waving a completely ordinary spatula in the air. Prowl barely smirked, but kept it mostly to himself as he crossed out ‘Hot Rod’s 'lucky' spatula’ from the list of stolen items. 

Arcee, however, doubled over with laughter, nearly tripping on some poor mech's pede as she tried to run into the kitchen- probably to harass Hot Rod. Then, because both of them were bickering in the kitchen, a light green mech nervously came out to the main floor, cooking apron still secured to his chassis. Prowl clocked him as Springer immediately, remembering what Arcee had mentioned about hiring a new mech. 

"Hey, Springer! They treatin' you alright back there?" Trailbreaker waved at the mech, and Prowl double confirmed his assumption. 

Springer juggled a pitcher of energon and bundles of flimsie menus under his arm, completely lacking the finesse and confidence that the two owners had. "Ah- yeah, they're cool!" He almost missed the counter to set the pitcher on, gave it a meaningful stare, then hurried to hand menus out to a group of new mechs that were standing in the lobby. There weren't any seats available still, which could have easily been a first for the little diner. 

"Do you have anything to report stolen or missing?" Prowl asked, per procedure. Springer shook his helm quickly as he walked by again, around to behind the counter. He looked around the bustling diner with an intimidated look on his faceplates. "Is this your first restaurant job?" Prowl asked next, banking on that being true solely by his frazzled demeanor. 

"Huh- whuh. Yeah! First job ever, actually. How did you-"

"Prowl's a super cop, duder. He's just crazy good at this sl- stuff," Trailbreaker clapped a servo on Prowl's shoulder, which he said nothing about but did not exactly appreciate. "He finished up like half of our old cases in his first orn, it was crazy!" 

Gross exaggeration, but Prowl would take it. He did clean up a lot of messes both in the precinct and in its cases. Most of them had been more stupid than tedious, to be fair. Misspellings, forgetting to follow-up, misfilings, etc. His chief didn't seem to notice, but it was nice that someone had. 

Springer looked at Prowl with bright optics. "Really? That's so cool! So you're like an actual cop?" 

Trailbreaker made a hurt-looking face, which the green mech steamrolled over with his fascination on Prowl, who was only nodding that, yes, he was an 'actual cop'. 

"So cool... Ack! Sorry, I think that lady over there needs something. Nice to meet you!" And Springer was off, stumbling through figuring out what the overcharged femme wanted, consistently checking over his shoulder at the kitchen door for a savior. Rookie. 

Prowl stood up from the stool he'd been occupying at the counter, gave his legs a quick stretch, then motioned Trailbreaker to follow him out of the establishment. They hadn't learned anything new. Not anything substantial, at least. The tac-net had been spinning plots to stake out the diner, but it would be much harder to be undercover in the middle of the day when there were no other cars to blend in with. 

Trailbreaker darted ahead of Prowl's perfectly planned, perfectly calculated gait with an excited cheer. Up ahead was an enerdog stand. Prowl didn't recognize the mech behind it, but recalled that Bumblebee said there were multiple stands like this that moved around the city. He hadn't seen them very often; they were illusive somehow. 

"Want one, Prowl? These things are delicious!" Trailbreaker was already forking his shanix over to the mech behind the stand with a wide grin. Normally, he wouldn't take such pitstops on-duty. But... he supposed Trailbreaker had been doing a good job keeping the case up-to-date and establishing a good relationship with the employees. There was no harm in getting a little fuel as a treat. 

"I would not mind," Prowl replied, giving in to stand beside his coworker. Then, they stood right there on the curb, watching the traffic as they ate their respective enerdogs. Bots merged and flashed brake lights and high beams as they navigated the narrow street, engines rumbling with the anticipation of finding the next place to party. A familiar little yellow car skidded to a stop just in front of them, rear tires lifting off the ground with the force of the braking, but instead of bouncing back down, Bumblebee did an interesting hand-stand/backflip maneuver, landing on his pedes solidly. 

"Woah," Trailbreaker said around a mouthful of enerdog, nearly choking on it. 

"Prowl! Prowl Prowl Prowl!" Bumblebee waved his arms excitedly at the enforcer, plating glowing brighter than the neon signs around, as per usual. "Hello hello! You've got the right slagged idea, mister, ooh! I'm gonna frag up one of these suckers! Watch!" 

Prowl, because he couldn't process half of that before it was already happening, watched a credit chip arc in the air and Bumblebee shove an entire sloppy style enerdog into his intake in one movement. It was, to say the least, disturbing. Bits of condiment and topping stuck to the minibot's faceplates, which he didn't even bother wiping off before making a flurry of arm and servo gestures, humming words that could not properly form around the enerdog, and then promptly sprinted down the sidewalk to Primus knows where. 

"Woah..." Trailbreaker muttered, his own enerdog forgotten in his servo as he watched where the minibot disappeared. "You know that guy?" 

Prowl grimaced, but nodded. He wondered what poisons the minibot had chosen to make him behave that way. Or, maybe, just maybe, that was how he was normally. Who's to say. Not Prowl (not without a proper drug test, anyway). He finished his enerdog, waited for Trailbreaker to finish his, then set off for the next objective: inquiring other business owners to see if they, too, have been getting things stolen. He would have preferred that bots call the enforcer hotline to report such things, but from the way the Pyrite owners and Ratchet had been, he wasn't too surprised.

No one had time to care about little things going missing, it seemed. 

"He hates meeeeeee," Jazz whined into a pillow on the couch he had just dramatically floundered onto like a sad teen girl- whatever those were. "Miraaaageeeeee!" 

Mirage, who seemed Pit-bent on making Jazz miserable, didn't even pat him on the shoulder. No 'there-there', no 'it's ok', no nothing. "Sssshh! This is my favorite part." The holoscreen's volume ticked up, forcing Jazz to listen to the gory sound effects of a shrieking femme getting ripped in half. Mirage chuckled, mumbling 'sooo awful' to himself as he crunched on spicy silica chips. 

Jazz groaned into the pillow some more, really trying to get at least a shred of pity from his roommate. His new song for Prowl didn't work. He was pretty sure Prowl hated it, actually. Or he hated Jazz. Was the enforcer mad at him? He totally was. He didn't know what he did, and it was killing him. Another five breems of pathetic whimpering and fake-crying (he kept the real slag to himself), and Mirage finally payed attention to him.

"Why don't you just call him or something?" Mirage huffed, clearly more interested in his low-budget slasher vid than Jazz's problems. Whatever. 

"I can't!" Jazz didn't have any real excuse. He kept telling himself that the enforcer was probably busy, and he shouldn't bother him when he's busy. "What if he's mad at me?" 

Jazz could practically hear Mirage's optics roll, even over the chainsaw sounds. "He's not mad at you."

Jazz picked up his helm hopefully. "You really think so?" 

"No," Mirage huffed. "But you're not helping anybot by lying here complaining about it." Jazz pouted, optics round and sad beneath his visor. Times like this he wished he didn't need the damn thing... "Look, the only way for you to know for sure is if you suck it up-" 

Jazz rolled off the couch with another pained groan. "I don't want toooooooo!" He draped an arm over his visor, blocking his view of the vid just in time to miss a spray of energon from somebot's primary line. C'mon, Mirage, give in. Don't make him pull out all the stops...

"Suck it up." Mirage lightly kicked Jazz's pede with his own. Aw, turborats. 

"You're the worst," Jazz muttered, picking himself off of the floor and dusting himself off. "I hope you lose your vape up your cold, sparkless aft." 

Mirage rolled his optics again, turning up his slasher holovid a couple more notches. "You'll be fine." 

Jazz didn't think so. Yeah, he was being a little extra with it to con his roommate into pulling some strings, but he was still worried sick about the whole thing. Prowl had been so closed off at the end of the bi-ornly bash/whatever that guy's name was's pre-funeral. He knew he did something wrong, he just knew it! He stalked off to go skulk in his room, since Mirage was clearly too stubborn to raise a digit to help his ailing spark. 

That just meant he would have to get a little crafty on his own. Fine. He could do that. Surely. The comm. codes in his contacts list had never looked so scary. The ringing dragged on forever (three whole rings! Basically forever) until it picked up. 

::What's good, you've reached your favorite mayor!:: came the easy-going, zen voice of the Mayor of Cool City. It was almost soothing enough to make Jazz sigh in relief, but he held it just in case. 

::Hey, mech! I need a favor.:: 

Chapter Text

Prowl hadn't even gotten his aft into his office chair before he was awarded the presence of Chief Smokescreen. So this was how his morning was going to go, was it? It was bad enough he had set himself backwards with the whole Cool Hospital fiasco, and that rumors had begun circulating about his involvement with Jazz (actually, more like Jazz's involvement with him- it was not as reassuring as he would have hoped to know that most bots really only cared about the Jazz half of things) since there were opticwitness reports of the two of them leaving Cool Hospital's bi-ornly bash together. The only saving grace Prowl had was that no one had pieced together why he had failed to notice the suspect actively stealing right beside him. He did not need his chief digging into him about that, because he would simply have to tell the truth- the truth he was still trying to figure out for himself.

The cycle before had been a small relief; linking Cool Hospital and Pyrite together, and despite the lack of hard evidence towards anything, it had been nice to start warming up his investigatory muscles. Trailbreaker was decent company as perhaps the third most respectable enforcer in the city (Hound was placed above Prowl, if only to keep his ego in check). Of course, being in public had exposed him to the usual whispers and mutterings, but they were nowhere near as prevalent as The Visages Incident had been, and had nothing to do with his failings as an enforcer. 

Now, however, he was bracing for Smokescreen's accusation. He was sure that even Cliffjumper would have noticed the robbery, and it was surely very obvious that something was wrong with Prowl and the chief was going to disassemble him and find the error and then- 

"What are you working on today, sarge?" The question was even-toned and casual. Whenever Smokescreen had ulterior motives behind his questioning (like when he was trying to subtly ask Prowl what his romantic history was (short answer: bleak)) he had a certain spark in his optics and a slightly lower pitch in his vocalizer. This was... normal. Genuine. 

Prowl reset his optics, but ran through the cliff-notes of his itinerary for the shift anyway. It was mostly reviewing reports and keeping a close optic on his subordinates, but there was also "-a meeting with Doctor Pharma, lead doctor of Cooler Hospital. I had reached out last cycle to see if there have been any similar counts of theft, and thus-far he has been very vague, but agreed to open an investigation on the matter." 

"Ew," Smokescreen muttered, whether at the total sum of Prowl's work or at the mention of the Cooler Hospital doctor, he wasn't sure. "Alright, well, I'll handle all of that today. You've got the cycle off, mech." 

Prowl reset his optics again. And then his audials. And then his doorwing sensors for good measure. "Excuse me?" 

"You've got the cycle off. I'll handle all of that? Or at least make Hound help me, because Pit..." Smokescreen typed everything down on a datapad, then waved the screen at Prowl. A checkered, mostly coherent list. "Bet I can check it all off before e-o-d." He grinned, and Prowl frowned. 

"I believe Hound told you new bets are forbidden," Prowl warned, eyeing his chief with irritation. 

"Aw c'mon, Prowl! Not even if it'll motivate me to actually do all this boring slag? Just five shanix, that's all I'm-" 

"No." 

Smokescreen huffed, subspacing the datapad so he could cross his arms indignantly. "You're so lame. Whatever. I'll just..." he looked around the room, searching for an answer that would never be in Prowl's office of all places. "Pretend there's real shanix in it?" 

That... was decently amendable. Prowl let his plating relax with a short sigh. "Fine. I will hold you to finishing my workload, and I require Deputy Hound to sign off as proof of completion." Smokescreen fist-pumped over the small victory, and Prowl ignored him. "Why do I have the cycle off?" 

"Oh, I dunno. It's above me, really. But you better hurry up and enjoy the cycle, eh?" Smokescreen ushered Prowl out of his office and through the main precinct floor, stopping just short of the front doors. Ensuring Prowl actually left. Fair, he supposed, but still not necessary. And also suspicious. He would have to talk to Hound later, just to be sure this wasn't an elaborate plot of some sort. In any case, the chief did seem like he was actually going to do the work, so he shouldn't worry. Not too much, anyway. "Bye now!" 

Prowl paused on the sidewalk just outside of the precinct, stuck on 'what now...?'. He was notoriously bad at having cycles off, especially when they were thrown on him without warning. There had been no time to prepare, no time to rebuild his carefully planned itinerary... just him and the vibrant life of Cool City, thrumming away in all her clubs and bars. 

A car pulled up to the curb- he knew that car- and released a small, playful rev. What impeccable timing. 

"Jazz, good morning," Prowl greeted, trying to hide the nervous shiver of his doorwings. Two cycles ago came back to him, and guilt gnawed on his circuits like hungry scraplets once more. And then he crushed the scraplets, because it was so stupid to feel so awful about that night. He had been perfectly justified to not want to tell the problem he had been the problem, because the problem didn't even know he was the problem and hadn't meant to be a problem and the only real problem was Prowl himself. He had been polite, maybe a little more curt than normal, but it wasn't as if he'd kicked the mech in the abdominal plates and made awful accusations like his tac-net had- and still- wanted him to. 

"Heya, Prowler!" Jazz revved again, flashing his blinkers once in accompaniment. "Was just drivin' by, saw you walk out- mind if I drive with you while you patrol or do whatever you do?" 

Prowl's derma pressed into a straight line. Very convenient. But no matter how much his tac-net was screaming that the speedster had something to do with his sudden cycle off, he couldn't fathom as to how or why. So he pushed it to the background noise of his processor. "I am actually off-shift," Prowl replied slowly.

"F'real?! Aw, well that's just perfect!" Jazz's blinkers flashed again, back and forth back and forth, then cut off. "My offer still stands: wanna drive around?" 

Perfect was right... Prowl couldn't help but be mildly impressed. If this was as staged as he suspected it was, it was decently crafted. Jazz was a good actor; though the glyphs themselves were surface-level, his tone bled with sincerity. He was believing in his own story. 

In lieu of an answer, Prowl stepped off of the curb behind Jazz and settled into his alt mode. Every component clicked into place just perfectly, then he started his engine up as a signal to begin the drive. He told himself (and the tac-net that had been very diligently sweeping Jazz under the rug before Prowl yanked the rug away again) that it was just convenience; he had nothing better to do and no real reason to say no. It wasn't because he wanted to (even though, deep down, it was). He told himself that if any other bot- even Bumblebee- had happened to roll up, he would have gone with them, too (unlikely- especially if it were Bumblebee). 

He really needed to get his impulsivity in check. 

Jazz kept speeding up and slowing down, merging around other drivers like he were drifting through a dance floor, but Prowl stubbornly remained in one lane going the exact speed limit. Off-duty or not, he was going to follow traffic laws. While the other two to three rules in his helm had been long shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, he held on tightly to the last one: no chasing pretty mechs. He determined that if he were to do that again, he would have officially gone too far, and likely try to become a ranger, like Drift; somewhere far away from the core of Cool City. Eventually, Jazz got the hint and settled into traffic in front of Prowl, spoiler angled down in a droop. 

How the mech could manage to look so sad as a racecar was beyond Prowl. He almost felt bad- almost. Traffic laws were imperative for the safety of all bots- on and off the road. He could never be sorry for driving safely. 

"What's on your beautiful mind today?" Jazz asked after a very long silence through their casual driving. He sounded anxious. Why did he sound anxious. Was he being led into a trap (again)? 

"Nothing," Prowl replied, obviously lying. He always had at least a hundred things going on in his helm at a time; it was nothing new. The truth was, he didn't know what to talk about. Or rather... everything he could think of wasn't something he wanted to talk about at all. Like Cool Hospital. 

"Nothing?" Jazz repeated, appalled. "That sounds unhealthy." 

Prowl had nothing to respond to that with. He activated his washer fluid spray and cleaned his windshield. The tiny squeaks of the wipers against his glass were jarringly loud. And then the silence dragged on again for what felt like even longer than the first. 

"Where are we going?" Prowl asked eventually- around the time he realized the density of other drivers was thinning and the buildings were becoming farther apart from one another. He didn't fully recognize this part of the city- as far as he knew, nothing really happened in this section. 

"Nowhere," Jazz said quickly, definitely not sounding suspicious at all. "We're just drivin'." 

And Prowl supposed that was true. Up until the part where Jazz slowed down to a stop in front of a very abandoned looking building. "This, technically, is not 'nowhere'," Prowl muttered, stepping into his root form on the cracked and weathered sidewalk. Jazz spun through his own transformation sequence, a sheepish grin replacing his usual broad one. 

"Ok, so I fibbed a lil. Sue me," Jazz bit his lower derma. "Actually, don't do that. Please." 

It was a wise thing to take back, because Prowl could have been petty enough to do just that. Too bad there was no real basis for a lawsuit. Yet. 

"Where have you taken me?" Prowl asked, getting increasingly suspicious. He should have questioned this excursion more and far sooner- now he was weary, and subconsciously tagging escape routes was becoming prioritized over trusting the visored mech. 

Jazz raised his servos, palms out. "Again, you say that like I've kidnapped ya!" his chuckle was just as nervous as Prowl was feeling. "Just, um... come in and see?" 

Prowl's optics narrowed, and the tac-net took in every minute detail that was in Jazz's posture and mannerisms. He knew the mech was nervous, suspicious, and mildly guilty about something. He was hiding something. Something big, if he could read the mech right after knowing him for such a short time. This, generally, was not how Jazz behaved, in private or in public. This had to be a trap (76%). But... through the nervousness, suspicion, and guilt... there was uneasy hope. He wasn't sure how he could pick up on that, but now after identifying it for the first time, he realized that he'd been seeing hope in the mech since very early on. 

Hope was not something Prowl really believed in, either. It was lumped in with luck, fate, Primus, and rumors somewhere; just another intangible thing that could not be proven. In the same vein, it looked right on Jazz, so he couldn't find the bearings to refute it. He followed him into the derelict, abandoned building. 

Inside was clean. Well, cleaner than it should have been for how it looked on the outside. Short, smooth, dark carpet with multi-colored zig-zags and shapes and lines extended from the entryway and swallowed around a sizable track. It wasn't nearly as large as racetracks were, but it was still easily large enough to fit an entire club-full of bots on it. The surface was also not quite asphalt; more like a tacky polyurethane that was completely smooth and a little glossy under the dimmed neon lights that streaked across the ceiling. The track was bordered by countertop-height walls with the occasional break acting as an opening to enter or exit the track. The rest of the carpeted areas held benches, cubbies, booths, and windows that must have once held staff, judging only by the dusty registers still tucked inside of them. It was dusty and worn-out, but there were no hunks of debris or piles of trash that usually came with abandoned buildings. Totally abandoned buildings also didn't usually have their lights on and subdued music playing. 

"What..." Prowl had never seen a place like this before. He was trying to figure out just what it even was- the track was too small for any meaningful driving- but all of the signs had long faded and there were no other bots around to give him a clue. "What is this?" 

Jazz turned back to look at Prowl, helm cocked to the side. "You've never been to a roller rink?" Before Prowl could say that he'd never heard those words in that order or context before, Jazz performed a micro-transformation that replaced his sturdy pedes with his rear wheels. He balanced on them perfectly, not a hint of a wobble showing in his frame. 

"What." Prowl frowned at Jazz's wheel-pedes. What was the purpose in that? He'd seen other bots do something similar in an attempt to flee scenes due to the lack of a fast enough alt mode for the streets, but it hardly ever ended well. Only natural two-wheelers seemed to have any skill in that matter, but they were more than fast enough to flee on the road, especially with their ability to split lanes. 

"It's a roller rink!" Jazz said excitedly, explaining absolutely nothing. "They were pretty hip a decavorn ago... disco-era type stuff." Prowl did not know what a disco was, either. "Bots would come here with their friends and skate around, do tricks, eat some junk, enjoy the vibes, that sorta thing. But they kinda went out of style not long after they got popular, and this is the only one that didn't get ripped down 'cause it's far enough out of the way from the main scene." 

Prowl looked around the building again with that new context. He... supposed he could understand why it had once been a popular place to mingle. He still didn't understand why it had to be on pede-wheels, though. He wasn't even sure how to do that himself, and he told Jazz that much. 

"Oh. It's not too hard, um..." Jazz looked down at his own wheels, giving an experimental roll a few feet forwards, then back. "Can you feel for it, maybe?" he asked, seemingly coming to the conclusion that he couldn't fathomably explain the sequence in glyphs. 

Prowl frowned through his intense concentration. It really shouldn't be hard; his rear wheels were stored near his heels. He should be able to just- small plates shifted away, and he could feel his wheels migrate through the opening passage, but it was awkward and- 

"Oof!" Prowl had to stop falling on the damn mech. The 'damn mech' in question didn't seem to hold the same sentiment. "Hey there, Prowler," Jazz purred, holding Prowl up from under his arms. His hold was secure around his sides, keeping Prowl from jerking away too fast to get his face out of that sleek bumper. In any case, he'd grabbed Jazz's arms as he fell, and his servos clung tightly to the metal- he was anything but stable on wheels like this. 

"Jazz," Prowl said, because greeting mechs back when they say hello is the polite thing to do. His faceplates were so warm. "This is..." he searched for the right glyph to describe how foolish he felt. None came, so he just shut his intake. 

"Here, let's get on the actual rink, alright?" Jazz slowly began rolling backwards, dragging Prowl with him. How embarrassing. 

The polyurethane floor felt cool beneath the rubber of his tires. He wondered how it had been so well-kept if it'd been used frequently. Then, he suspected that Jazz had something to do with its upkeep since it had apparently 'gone out of style'. He focused on the texture rather than the arms that were still holding him upright. His legs wobbled slightly, but he was quickly figuring out how to properly rebalance his gyros to cope. 

Jazz pulled Prowl through a slow, easy loop around the rink, giving Prowl little pointers on how to better balance, how to only apply a little energy to spinning the wheels and to otherwise let the momentum carry him forward. Then, slowly, Jazz's hold loosened, and Prowl stopped clinging so tightly, until they let go of each other entirely and Prowl completed a full circuit without eating the polyurethane.

"Hey, there ya go! Nice job!" Jazz cheered, skating literal circles around Prowl. 

Prowl's spark... did something. Something likely very inadvisable. The tac-net set out to figuring out what it was, leaving Prowl alone with the feeling left behind. It was certainly new, though vaguely familiar, and not entirely unpleasant. His faceplates did something inadvisable as well, which he couldn't hide because his arms were busy helping him stay upright. "Thank you," he muttered, taking the safe route instead of trying to decipher anything going on in his helm and chassis. 

Jazz picked up the pace, skating forwards now instead of backwards, side-by-side to Prowl, who was making a good effort to keep up. Learning the skill was enjoyable. Beyond that, however, he could hardly see how one could enjoy it for very long. They were only rolling in circles, after all. Perhaps this was the same reason that bots liked to avoid designated tracks for racing. He shook that thought away quickly- street racing was dangerous, and far outweighed the pros of, what? Excitement? Fun? 

"Anything interestin' happenin' at your job?" Jazz asked, banking in a lazy zig-zag motion. 

Prowl was still staring at the floor, concentrating on his balance. "I suppose the recent robberies have been 'interesting'. I am having a difficult time making any leads." 

"Oh yeah?" Jazz skated backwards again just to face Prowl. He didn't understand how the mech could trust moving backwards so quickly without so much as sparing a glance over his shoulder. "That sucks." 

It did. It really did. Prowl bit his glossa before he could release a snarky comment that Jazz was the one who had distracted him from getting a pretty good jump on the case. He kept it to himself, thankfully. He merely nodded in agreement. 

"What about Smokescreen? He been leavin' you alone for the most part?" 

"'For the most part' is... an inaccurate way to describe the level at which Chief Smokescreen does not leave me alone. But. He has been better, recently." 

"Good," Jazz huffed. "Arcee told me a little more about that bet he's got over your helm. Said he's-" 

The quiet music that had been nothing but background ambiance cut out, abruptly replaced by a smooth, relaxed voice. "Sorry to cut the vibe, cool mechs, but I've gotta real 'mergency goin' down if you would be so kind to wrap things up lickity-split." 

Prowl managed to catch a wall before he made a real fool of himself by how startled he had been. Jazz stopped just short of him, pouting up at the ceiling- were there cameras?

"Bummer," Jazz muttered, followed by "no prob! Thanks again, mech!" aimed at the empty space of the rest of the rink. Prowl was suddenly feeling twice as self-conscious as he was prior to knowing there was someone else there. 

The lights shut down before Prowl could even finish transforming his wheels back into his legs. 

"Er..." Prowl said at length, really unsure of everything ever. He followed Jazz through the darkness, watching the mech's glowing linework as a guide. He discovered that the mech did not have a tramp stamp, but he would have to admit that the manner in which his lines were painted were certainly more suggestive. Or maybe that was just Prowl stepping on rule number 1's grave. 

"Had to call in a favor to get this place runnin' enough," Jazz explained over his shoulder, visor glowing brightly in the black. "No biggie." 

Prowl felt that it had to be somewhat of a biggie to get somemech to- what- sit in a booth and operate the lights and sound system of the abandoned establishment? Whoever it was must have been important if there was an emergency of some sort that he had to leave for. Or maybe it was code for something else. Pah, he was grasping loose data threads and it wasn't doing his poor tac-net any good. He inclined to just ignore the details this time. The roller rink had been interesting and enjoyable. He was feeling less tense and a little lighter. He would take what he could.

"Thank you," Prowl began once they were outside again, "for showing me this... roller rink." The glyphs rolled off his glossa awkwardly. "But you could be a little more forward with your intentions next time." He winced at the last two words just slightly. Next time. There shouldn't be a next time. He should leave (he didn't want to). 

Jazz ducked his helm shyly. "Well... ok, yeah, that one's my bad." He rubbed the back of his neck. "But you had fun, right?" That hopeful look Prowl had clocked earlier was back, full-force and blinding. 

"...Yes," Prowl admitted, despite how little he would like to apply that glyph. He didn't have fun. He enjoyed things. That was the end of that (even though it was, at least a little, 'fun'). 

Jazz did a little dance just then that eased his worries away by just a fraction. "Yes! I was hopin' you would! Safe, easy, legal-"

"Well," Prowl interjected with a pointed side-glance. 

"What?" 

"Unless you have received express permission from the owner of this building, we have just trespassed." Prowl deadpanned. "You received express permission, did you not?" 

Jazz's intake fell open for a few kliks before it snapped shut again and he was nodding furiously. "Of course! Yeah, totally!" 

Prowl frowned, agitation replacing what little self-consciousness had been lingering in his frame.

Jazz seemed to sense that Prowl didn't believe him before he could outright make that accusation, and said "the mayor counts, right?" 

"You-" Prowl reset his optics for the thousandth time. "You contacted the mayor of Cool City to temporarily open this abandoned roller rink?" For something as frivolous as teaching Prowl how to skate, no less. The nerve this mech had-

"You make it sound like it's a big deal," Jazz shrugged casually. "He's a cool mech. I owe him some, he owes me some, it works out." 

Prowl, as much as he wanted to dig into that, let it go with a sigh. He should be grateful- he was grateful! But it was ridiculous at best. And then he finally caught on to the most obvious part of this entire adventure. 

"This was a date," Prowl blurted, mere steps away from the curb and nanokliks from transforming into his alt. Jazz had contacted the mayor, somehow arranged for Prowl to have the cycle off (there was no way he hadn't, in hindsight), and set up an elaborate script to get him to follow him into an abandoned roller rink all for a date. And Prowl didn't even know it!

Jazz froze where he was half-crouched as if he were about to do the same. "Uh," he said eloquently. "Yeah... I think I forgot to mention that..." More like he hoped Prowl wouldn't. This mech had connections with the actual mayor of Cool City, had infinite swagger and charisma, confidence that leaked into the bots around him, but he couldn't just ask Prowl out...? He was oddly flattered, but didn't let it show. 

Prowl settled into his alt at last, something of a bemused smirk getting obscured by the lack of a faceplate as a car. "You are welcome to accompany me to my apartment," he offered, taking a moment to savor the feeling of all four tires touching the ground at once. So sturdy... 

"Booyah!" was the answer Jazz gave as he, too, transformed. "Take the lead, officer."

Chapter Text

"Wait, watch the-!"

The following explosion was tremendous. Prowl wasn't sure when the ringing in his audials stopped or when the fire alarms started, but they easily made his vision swim through the hot, smokey haze. He could hear his own labored venting and the roar of his cooling fans trying to counteract the heat from the fire that was currently lapping at his plating from all around him. He hadn't been close to the epicenter, but the force of the blast had still been enough to knock him off-balance and into a wall; his doorwings radiated constant agony as he tried to find himself.

There were three other bots in the building. Two of which had been right in the middle of the explosion. The tac-net spun protocols on high alert, giving him the strength to push forward and navigate the rubble and flames. Sensors numbed, whether of his own doing or because they were already burnt away, he wasn't sure; he had civilians to save. A ping was sent on instinct to both the fire department and the precinct.

There was no room for miscalculations. 

Prowl, again, hadn't thought anything through when he invited Jazz to his apartment. He was still trying to wrap his processor around the whole 'date' thing. He hadn't been propositioned in... a good long while. Though, he wasn't sure if he could count the roller rink as getting propositioned because he didn't even know until after the fact- and he was having a hard time understanding why Jazz had done all of that for him. Contacting the mayor of Cool City was a big deal, even if he was apparently in favors with the mech. There had been elaborate, deliberate effort in the visored mech's part, and Prowl had been given great consideration for his enjoyment. 

But he hadn't even known! 

He got to thinking too much about it as they both stood awkwardly in his kitchen, sipping the plain energon cubes he stocked his fridge with. Jazz had rifled through his cabinets in search of additives or supplements to find none; they were never on Prowl's shopping lists because it was more cost effective that way, but also because he never really had guests over. Discounting Mirage's break-in (which he would report if he hadn't made a mess in his home- twice), Jazz had been his only visitor. They hadn't exactly made time for energon the first time. 

That gave him the revelation he'd been searching for: the first time, and all its sequential times. In his short experience, dates were a means to a goal: interfacing. He had only been on simple coffee dates; the kinds where he pretended to care about a mech's hobbies while said mech pretended not to stare at his bumper until he would be taken to a closet or a stairwell somewhere and- the roller rink had been nothing like that. There was no data to accurately compare it to. It had been deliberate and sincere and some semblance of enjoyable beneath the awkward learning curve that was skating. It hadn't begun with a thin veil of politeness and an offer of friendship- though it did still begin with being lied to in a different sense. Because of that, he had no choice but to compare the two contrasting ideas and conclude that the end goal of the roller rink was still to interface. 

Normally, that would make his tanks churn; he had stopped joining the conclusion of coffee dates very early on into learning that mechs only wanted to get their hands on his frame. Not long after that, he stopped accepting coffee dates.

But this was Jazz. Jazz had to be an outlier in everything he did, and Prowl didn't feel nauseous as he listened to the musician ramble about this and that and other things. He had briefly asked about Cool Hospital, and Prowl had to clarify that he was not upset at him, though it did threaten to shunt his processor into another spiral about the whole ordeal. Jazz had talked about his writing processes for the song he had dedicated to Prowl, and he found himself impressed by the underlying mathematical patterns in the structure of the music, and also touched by the care he took into making the patterns so neat. He fed all information on the song to the tac-net for analysis, both out of curiosity and just in case there were some hidden code that somehow locked his processor to keep it from functioning properly. 

Jazz was skilled at conversation; much more than Prowl could ever be. He didn't seem at all perturbed by Prowl's short questions or one-word answers, and simply kept filling the silence with his big, goofy smile and servo gestures. ...And then he couldn't much stand the heat he was working himself up with just by standing in the kitchen with the mech, and he reached out with trembling servos to touch the smooth, cool planes of a visored faceplate.

Five joors before the explosion, Smokescreen had held out a datapad to Prowl with a proud smile and flared doorwings. Hound was flanking him, arms crossed, but a satisfied smile of his own showing on his faceplates. 

"Tada!" Smokescreen waved his hands in the air once Prowl accepted the datapad. His list of tasks for the previous shift had been fully completed; only 'clean communal washracks' had a note attached that read 'assigned to Cliffjumper - confirmed completed'. He skimmed the Cooler Hospital report briefly just to confirm his suspicions about the potential thief, then tucked it into his subspace with a nod. 

"Very good, Chief Smokescreen. Thank you." Prowl wouldn't normally lay praise on so thick to his superior of all bots, but he was hoping it would be enough to trigger the right gambling-addicted circuits in the chief's helm. Primus knows he knew how well positive reinforcement could work on those kinds of bots, and there was much improvement to be had in the precinct. 

Smokescreen fist-pumped, and Hound patted him on the back before moving on to do his job elsewhere. "Told you I could do it! But I'm never doing that slag again." He pointed at Prowl in warning when he said that last sentence. He shrugged it off; the work had been completed in the time he had requested it be completed in, and no one lost any shanix- Smokescreen had been sure to tell him all about that as well. Progress wasn't linear, but it was evident. 

To Prowl's pleasant surprise, there was a tall stack of datapads on his desk. He quickly worked out that Trailbreaker had made contact with four more establishments that reported things missing or stolen. The mech had already taken the liberty to connect those four cases with the three others; Pyrite, Cool Hospital, and Cooler Hospital. He was disheartened to find that Sunstreaker's shop, Solar Power, had been on the list, but the mention of one Sideswipe assigning himself guard duty did make him feel better. He made a note to comm. the artist just to check in more than to investigate. He had done the same for the Pyrite owners, and since then he'd been high on pride- he was doing the best job he could do and bots were recognizing that. Swerve's, Brainstorm and Co.'s One-Stop Mod Shop, and Powders and Patches were the other three establishments on the list. 

Naturally, Prowl took it upon himself to follow up with the business owners himself. With great efficiency (as always), he had secured Sideswipe's comm. code, checked locks and recommended higher quality ones to some business owners, reviewed one security cam's footage (the first and only camera he'd seen so far in Cool City), learned that Pharma thinks an appropriate meeting place is over a femme's open chassis surgery (Prowl promptly rescheduled for another cycle), dealt out a whopping five speeding tickets, and managed to pick up a light lunch from Pyrite Diner on the way to his final stop: Brainstorm and Co.'s. Things were going quite well, for once. 

"Heya, mister!" chirped the ever lively voice of Bumblebee. The minibot dove for the door handle just before Prowl could secure it himself and flung it open wide. "That's so crazy, we're both getting mods at the same time?! Woah! What're you gonna get? I'm totally getting more lights- I saw this one mech who had underglow in his alt and I thought that's so cool I think it'll be the new trend, honestly, it's only a matter of time so I thought I'd get on it before it really got popular so I can say I helped start it, y'know? I just hope it'll look cool when I'm in root, too, because that'd be awesome." 

Prowl's face did a polite non-smile. There was never enough warning when it came to being graced with the minibot's personality... or whatever drugs he was on. He followed Bumblebee inside the shop- which was really more like a kooky, cluttered science lab- and looked for whoever might be Brainstorm or the aforementioned 'Co.'. 

There was a bot dressed in an oversized foil-looking suit from helm to pedes; thick gloves covered his servos and something akin to a welding mask obscured his face. There was no indication that he was even aware of the two that had just walked in, as he carefully poured one vibrant, bubbling liquid into another. A second bot was literally hanging upside-down from the beams of the ceiling, which shouldn't have shocked Prowl, but it did. He was teal and orange and Prowl couldn't tell what his altmode was supposed to be due to the sheer amount of random kibble and gadgets strapped to his frame. 

"Bee, Bee, Bee," the absurd looking ceiling mech tutted slowly. "I know I'm a genius, but any more lights and you'll need to be hooked up to an energon machine!" 

"Brainstorm!!!" Bumblebee exclaimed, ignoring the mech's words entirely. "Look who's also here! It's Prowl! That enforcer I was telling you about like forever ago because he fell on me and then fell on Jazz and I was all like I bet Brainstorm could fix that because you're the most genius-y genius ever and I want more lights and I think he wants mods too but I don't know what and-" 

Prowl tuned the minibot out before he could have the opportunity to fall on him again. Primus above, he had been so close to a smooth, seamless completion of his itinerary...

"Prowler?"

Prowl had shut his optics and hesitated nanometers from Jazz's derma. Their nasal ridges were brushing, just slightly, and he could feel Jazz's exvents where he was holding his own. He wasn't sure what he was hesitating for. Maybe for Jazz to either take the hint and finish the bridge or for him to let it fall away into a chasm. Maybe for the world to end and leave him stranded in nothingness. 

He felt the crest of Jazz's helm press into his own instead. That gesture was somehow much worse than anything else the mech could have done, and the following grief in his chassis tore open a gaping void he couldn't fathom the source of or how to fix. He grit his dentae, bracing through the torrential rush of feelings he couldn't put tangible concepts to, much less glyphs. And even worse, was how his frame was still burning with anticipation. He felt as though he were locked in place, with no choice but to endure the gentleness of their forehelms touching. 

"We don't have to... do anything. You know that, right?" Jazz's voice was a soft, heavy blanket around him. 

"I know," Prowl bit out, static lacing the glyphs. And he did know. But he wanted to for reasons beyond what was standard procedure for what he understood of things like this. It was more than obligation, and that was becoming too clear. 

Steady servos petted the outsides of Prowl's arms; up and down and back up again in smooth, tandem glides. It was the wrong kind of contact and it was the right kind of contact. An error message sprang up somewhere and he deleted it.

"Are you feelin' ok?" 

Prowl huffed, trying and failing to squash whatever was bubbling up within him like rust beneath paint. He onlined his optics as he pulled himself away from the radiating concerned comfort Jazz was emitting. He hadn't felt sick at the idea that Jazz's end goal was to get Prowl into berth again, and now he was getting sick with the idea that it hadn't been the end goal, because that meant there was something deeper, something too big to really grasp and pull at. The work it would take to crack this case- the tac-net began riling itself up at the promise of a mystery, and it was a whole different animal trying to get it to stop prying through every scrap of data. 

The war raged on in his helm as he smoothed his thumbs over Jazz's cheeks, trying to queue the right glyphs to say what he felt he needed. What croaked from his vocalizer was more crass than he would ever intend, but the responding pick-up of an engine pointed him to success.

"I need you to frag my systems offline." 

After much coaxing, Brainstorm had managed to get Bumblebee's flood of conversation into a more coherent stream. Now that the scientist was upright and on the ground... Prowl still couldn't tell what he was supposed to turn into. He forced himself not to think about it- it really didn't matter, in any case. He merely observed from a comfortable distance and waited his turn to do his job. 

Eventually, the mech in the foil suit was pulled from whatever experiments he was conducting to handle the rambunctious minibot, and Brainstorm turned his sharp optics onto Prowl with unrestrained glee. It was honestly a little terrifying. 

"I bet you're here about that boring theft stuff, huh?"

Prowl paused, but inclined his helm in agreement anyway. He wouldn't call it boring- "Correct. I am hoping to go over the details you had provided Officer Trailbreaker." 

"Urgh- alright, I guess. Sure you don't want a super ingenious, awesometastic mod or something first?" Brainstorm's digits twitched as if he were holding himself back from performing dubious and probably unethical modifications to Prowl's frame. 

"No," was the swift and concise answer, of course. He gave the scientist a look to indicate that he was strictly there for business- which he always was. 

Brainstorm drooped marginally, but didn't argue. "Alright. Ugh. Urgh. Lay it on me." 

The entire time Prowl was reiterating details, making follow-up questions, and trying to convince the shop owner to install security cameras, Brainstorm was fidgeting and twitching and grunting softly as if it was physically painful for him to be standing there instead of dangling from the ceiling doing... whatever he was doing. Prowl payed him no mind; he had to complete his files and check this establishment off of his list. 

"I bet I could invent a camera that could catch the thief!" Brainstorm interjected halfway through Prowl's speech about security cameras. "Ooh hoo hoo! Yes, I'm gonna do that actually, yesss. I'm a genius! I'll get right on that right now!" 

Prowl didn't argue. It was a better response from the resounding 'no' from the other establishment owners. They hadn't really explained why, only that they didn't like the idea and wouldn't spend the shanix on such a thing. Prowl kept his intake shut, but did rather think it was foolish to complain about their things getting stolen but not being willing to take basic steps to protect said things. It was clear locks weren't enough to stop the perpetrator, and he still had no real leads- even a nanoklik of footage could help him get somewhere. 

"Yes, that is a good idea," Prowl even said, encouraging security measures. He wasn't quite sure why Brainstorm had said 'invent a camera' as though they didn't already exist, but he payed that no mind as well. It was... easier to just accept the many trivial things in Cool City rather than try to get to the bottom of them. "Please reach out to me when you do, so I may review any footage pertaining to the thief." 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure," Brainstorm blabbered at the same time Bumblebee decided to escape the other scientist to pester Prowl.

"Look!" the minibot crowed, hastily transforming to show off what must be his new underglow. It began yellow at first, but then quickly changed colors as he played with the settings of the mod. "Wheeljack really installed these fast! This is the most awesome thing ever-" he did a tight donut, which both Prowl and Brainstorm cringed at so close to so many sensitive looking materials. Before Prowl could sternly remind the minibot that driving indoors was against most shopkeeper's rules, he was already popping back up in root. "And my energy reserves are fine, just a little more usage is no biggie, no biggie at all!"

"I added a conduit," murmured the other scientist- Wheeljack?- who was half out of whatever his metallic suit was supposed to be. Prowl eyed the various beakers and vials with a little more caution when he caught sight of the scars poking from beneath the mech's blast mask. "But I swear this'll be the last one." 

"Are you serious?" Jazz asked with a nervous chuckle. His visor dimmed at Prowl's firm nod and he leaned back into his space. "Well," he purred, finally sending the right signals down Prowl's spinal strut, "I think I can do that." 

The glyphs were much more than a simple flirt- they held genuine promise, and the thrill of that promise alone began stuttering the painful, confusing threads of thought. 

Jazz still didn't cross the gap first, but this time Prowl was better prepared and the earlier hesitation was wiped clean by the mech's clear willingness. As always, once their glossas met, there was no stopping the cascade. Had Prowl been any less patient, he would have let them sink to the floor again, or bent over the kitchen counter, or Pit, even braced himself against a wall or something. Those ideas did seem tempting, at first, but ultimately he decided that his berth would be the way to go. That way, he could just go right into recharge at the end, and hopefully his processor would stay quiet throughout his next shift.

Jazz crawled after and over Prowl once they had finally reached the berth, derma glued to one another. The warm, heavy frame of the musician was a familiar and almost soothing pressure against his own frame- different from the kind of soothing that had been gentle and caring- and it was gladly rewarded with a firm stroke over an audial horn. 

"Are you sure-"

Prowl glared at Jazz sharply at the same time he snapped his valve cover back. He was going to be right slagged if he had to wait any longer than he already had (Primus forbid there be a little foreplay). When Jazz only gaped at Prowl, he pointedly thrusted two digits inside himself- which admittedly he wasn't totally ready for, but somemech had to do something or he was going to start throwing a fit. He didn't think it was possible to be so frustrated with a pretty mech groping his headlights. 

"Oh Primus," Jazz moaned, but his spike still wasn't out and Prowl wasn't touching him so it really made no sense at all. "What did I do ta deserve this..." And he kept watching instead of doing more than scraping his digits across his bumper, and it really wasn't cool. He'd been forward enough, hadn't he? His valve was plenty hot and wet and he was realizing he'd never really fingered himself like this before but it wasn't what he needed.

"Jazz," Prowl warned with a growl, knocking the mech's side with his knee. "I am plenty sure." 

Jazz squeaked, which would have been cute had Prowl not been so irritated. The mech was supposed to be suave and sexy and instead he was fumbling with his own spike like it was the first time it'd ever been pressurized and looking at Prowl with nervous eagerness like he were some magnificent deity and not some uptight cop with no friends. He didn't have to dwell on that thought for long, thank Primus, as finally, finally, Jazz slid home. 

Prowl hooked his pedes over Jazz's hips, urging the mech to stay true to his word and truly frag him blind. He held his helm hostage against his neck, audial horns making decent enough handholds. He gasped and moaned obscenely with every harsh push and pull of their frames, every nip of dentae against his neck cables, every quick squeeze of his waist or hip or aft, every sensation that drowned out the festering turmoil in his helm. He overloaded fast and hard, too soon, and the relief was distant. Most importantly, he could still think.

"Do not fragging stop," hissed Prowl when Jazz tried to be a considerate lover. The mech made some small noise again, accompanied by a 'y-yes sir!' and got right back to work. He could appreciate the effort, even though he was getting sore in his back struts and his valve was on the cusp of overstimulation. 

Jazz huffed and whined into Prowl's collar fairing, steam hissing from his vents as he kept an intense pace that was so good and wonderful but also still not shutting him down enough to fully enjoy what was being given to him. It was nothing like their other senseless, desperate flings while also being structurally very much the same. Something had to break, and it had to be him first or else he'd still be stuck with himself.  

"Prowl," Jazz whimpered, pushing himself up on his servos as his thrusts grew sloppy. "Prowl, please-" 

Prowl snarled something fierce, cursing in the limbo. His frame moved before he understood what he was doing- pushed Jazz away just enough to turn himself over and stick his aft in the air. How unbecoming it all was, how ludicrous- to be so desperate to arch his spinal strut like that, straining his hips and fanning his doorwings and burying his face in his pillow as Jazz (thankfully) wasted no time filling him up again. 

Servos dug into his doorwings as leverage, and it hurt but it was perfect and he was practically sobbing into his pillow as he was ruthlessly fragged by an equally undone mech. He didn't even realize he was overloading until his calipers seized and he was just short of screaming Jazz's name- when had he started calling it out?- and his vision whited out with the blazing explosion of charge that hit his systems. Jazz spilled his transfluid deep in his valve with his own chant of Prowl's name, but that hadn't exactly registered either, so he wasn't inclined to care. 

He won. 

Prowl kept one optic on Bumblebee as he talked to Wheeljack about the same things he talked to Brainstorm about. The latter was currently trying to show off his newest inventions to the minibot, who would look really excited before quickly asking to move to the next thing. All around, Wheeljack was easier to converse with- the pained grunting and fidgeting had been annoyingly distracting. This scientist, however, was able to sit mostly still. 

"I don't think whoever this thief is, is necessarily dangerous, you understand?" Wheeljack had said at one point, perhaps trying to be reassuring. "There are thousands of highly unstable substances in this shop, and hundreds of experimental doodads that could honestly explode if you looked at 'em wrong. But they haven't touched any of it! Just empty vials and scrap metal."

Prowl considered this. Yes, it was odd that none of the more useful/interesting/dangerous materials had been stolen. But the fact that nothing that had been stolen was dangerous was perhaps even more worrisome. He tried to connect what one could do with all of the seemingly random, small and insignificant items. There was no doubt in his mind that it was something nefarious, no matter how potentially dangerous it could be. The tac-net hopefully supplied a likelihood that the thief probably did it for the thrill, and Prowl accepted it as his primary reasoning. 

"Intriguing..." Prowl hummed, adding that to his notes. "Thank you, Wheeljack." 

"No prob," Wheeljack shrugged. He followed Prowl's gaze to where Bumblebee was reaching for Brainstorm's next invention; it looked like some sort of gun, which was illegal, but something much more alarming caught his optic. As the minibot reached to take the weapon, his shoulder knocked into a stool that had several beakers precariously stacked on top of it.

They fell in slow motion, as all dangerous beakers full of mysterious liquids do.

"Wait, watch the-!" Wheeljack's shout of alarm was drowned out easily by the explosion.

Wheeljack had been blasted back just the same as Prowl, but somehow, had disappeared between the initial shock and his recalibrations. He prioritized Brainstorm and Bumblebee anyway, who had been at the origin and would likely be gravely injured. Smoke made navigating by sight difficult, and his doorwings were useless, so he mostly stumbled blindly through the wreckage, audials tuned to pick up anything that wasn't crackling fire or smoke alarms. 

Retardant foam began raining from the ceiling, a true blessing, but he was still scorched and bleeding somewhere. His pede caught on a frame- small and flickering- and he wasted no time in hoisting him up and over his shoulder. He seemed- for the most part- in one piece, though it was hard to tell with everything else going on. He sent a silent prayer of thanks for the minibot being so light as he hurried towards where he knew the door would be. Smoke and foam were beginning to clog up his vents, making everything harder than it needed to be.

Wheeljack was just outside the door, chest heaving and optics wide with distress. Prowl tossed Bumblebee onto the pavement beside the scientist as gently as he could before turning to head right back into the fray. 

"What are you doing?!" Wheeljack called after him, but he was firmly set on retrieving Brainstorm as well. Sirens sounded too distant for him to even consider waiting for firefighters to take his place, and Primus knows how badly Brainstorm had been gotten.

Another, much smaller explosion sounded off from somewhere deeper in the building, and Prowl took that as his queue to move faster, even if he was risking tripping on something. He choked and coughed as he tried calling out for Brainstorm in the off-chance the mech was still conscious, unlike Bumblebee. He squinted through the haze and the smoke that was still filling the space, because the foam couldn't deal with all of the flames. Whatever had been in those beakers surely had to be illegal. 

The sirens outside became loud enough to hear over the smoke alarms, but Prowl didn't slow down. He had to find the other scientist if it killed him. Thankfully, he didn't have time to die when he finally spotted a glimmer of teal kibble poking out from under a table. He wasn't sure if Brainstorm was conscious or not, but he dragged the mech out regardless. He was surprisingly heavy, and Prowl likely wouldn't have made it to the door had another mech not come rushing in to help carry the scientist out. 

A brief series of mini-explosions rang out from within the building, which was now making ominous creaking noises even as firetrucks got to absolutely drowning it in foam. The mech- Hot Rod, apparently- helped Prowl wrestle Brainstorm into the back of a waiting ambulance alongside Bumblebee and another medic. 

"Woah, Wee-Woo, you oughta tag along!" Hot Rod exclaimed, seemingly completely unbothered by the scorch marks on his own plating. It... made sense, for a mech with flames decorating his plating. "You look slagged!"

Prowl shook his helm quickly. "No others in the building that I am aware of. Numerous substances and devices that could be prone to detonation," he reported, trying to wipe the soot off of himself. Something stung. "I must make a statement. Focus on the building." 

Hot Rod didn't try to make Prowl see a medic again.

'Winning' didn't feel as good as Prowl hoped it would. In fact, it felt an awful lot like losing, when Jazz didn't just roll off of him and leave. 

"Pits..." Jazz panted, carefully removing himself from Prowl's throbbing, aching valve. He peppered gentle kisses from between his doorwings up to his collar fairing. "Sorry, didn't hurt you, did I?" His tone was laced with concern again, and Prowl wanted to hide in his pillow forever. He shook his helm, struggling to cool off properly with his intake full of pillow. It wasn't exactly the truth, but he couldn't bear to tell the mech that- he had asked for it, anyway.

More kisses feathered ticklishly against the panels of his doorwings, which fluttered against his will. He could feel servos glide up and down his sides in the same comforting manner they had done to his arms just prior. 

"Are you ok?" 

Prowl huffed a shaky, bitter laugh into the pillow at the question. He supposed he probably should move, prove he was still alive after the session he demanded to be put through. He was never good at lying, so he inclined not to answer directly. He winced as he slowly leveraged himself to lay on his side, closing his valve panel as he went. The sticky fluid feeling was disgusting, but he also couldn't bring himself to delay recharging any longer. This could only work if he had the least amount of time possible for his systems to fully recalibrate and start torturing him again. 

"Thank you," Prowl murmured, holding his arm open as Jazz scrambled to get comfy right beside him. The mech nuzzled in without hesitation, engine still purring with satisfaction. 

"You're ok?" Jazz asked again, sounding exhausted and small in his arms. "That was intense. I mean I wouldn't mind doing it again if that's what you're into but, maybe a little more warning next time...?" 

Prowl shut his optics tight. Always with next times and agains. He held on tight to the quiet that was shrinking away from him too fast, but it trickled through his fingers like coolant. Everything came back- not as bad as before- but it was back. He could never win! "You did very well," he whispered, silently begging that recharge would just hit him already. Guilt was always a stronger animal. 

Jazz preened quietly and finally settled fully into the embrace that Prowl shouldn't be allowing- shouldn't have invited.

He was so lost.

Nothing made sense. 

What was his spark trying to get at?

"Here, have some more coolant," urged a firetruck Prowl swiftly learned was named Inferno. It was ironic, and that was the only thing that stuck with him in his state of recovery. He accepted the coolant gratefully, savoring the chill that followed down into his tanks. 

"Prowl!" Chief Smokescreen forced his way through the crowd of onlookers, even giving one femme a nasty elbow to the side. "Prowl, are you alright?" 

Prowl looked up at his chief from where he sat hunched on the curb. His doorwings were still numbed, and something else in his back was grinding, but he wasn't unconscious or half-exploded, so "yes," was his immediate answer. 

"Good Primus, Sarge. What were you thinkin', running into that slag?" Smokescreen's intonation was more disbelief and worry than an actual beratement, so Prowl forced himself to stay at ease. Well, as at ease as he could be for being in pain and stressing about the lives that were enroute to Cool Hospital. An EMT had tried to coax Prowl into hopping in an ambulance as well, to which he declined. He had been needed on-scene as a witness to the accident. The only reason he was sitting down now was because Hound took over and made that an order. "Protihex didn't tell me they were sendin' me a whole hero!" 

Prowl didn't feel like a hero. He didn't understand why- he had literally just dragged two frames out of a burning explosion site before the structure could start becoming too unstable. Bumblebee and Brainstorm were very likely to survive the ordeal thanks to him and the quick actions of other first responders. It wasn't the first, and certainly wouldn't be the last time he'd put civilian lives above his own. Somehow, he wished he could have done more. But there had been nothing more for him to do. 

So Prowl sat on the curb, helm in his servos until he was forced off to Cool Hospital. 

Chapter Text

Jazz woke up alone. This wasn't immediately alarming for a few reasons: one being that he had really tuckered himself out trying to frag Prowl that hard, so of course his recharge had been too deep to be disturbed by the enforcer leaving. The second was that he didn't think Prowl was the kind of mech to completely leave his own apartment with Jazz still there. The first time they'd been together, Jazz had woken alone and found the enforcer pacing in his living room as he read that mystery novel. So when he bounded into the common area, he was fully expecting to see something similar. 

Silence. Not even the sounds of another living frame. Jazz poked his head into the kitchen, the washracks, even a closet, before concluding that either Prowl was very good at hide-and-seek, or he really did leave his apartment. Which... he tried not to take personally. It was a couple joors into the night cycle now, which meant he probably just had to go to work. Yeah, that was it. Nothing concerning at all! Just normal enforcer stuff. 

Deprived of his mess of instruments and music back at his own apartment, he busied himself with first cleaning the berth covers (holy moly they slept in that?!) and then himself. Prowl's washrack was nice. He used the enforcer's cleansers and rags out of necessity, but deep down he probably would have used them even if he'd packed accordingly. He took in the familiar scent with a giddy grin, even considered stealing them before he scolded himself. Now that was just creepy. If he wanted to smell like Prowl so badly he could just. Buy his own cleansers. Whatever.

Those tasks didn't take long at all, and that left him with an empty apartment. He wanted to leave, maybe get himself pulled over for the Pit of it, but there was one issue:

How was he supposed to lock the door...?

::'Cee, I need you to whip up Wee-Woo's favorite.:: Hot Rod watched Smokescreen drag a slagged-up Prowl into an ambulance. The enforcer looked awful, which made sense since he'd been in an exploding mod shop building. The fire department had managed to contain the fires before the building could completely collapse, and no other buildings were damaged. It was lucky! And now, all the cute femmes and mechs in the crowd were flirting at him- he knew volunteering for firefighter slag would be worth it!

::You got it. How is our favorite enforcer?:: The griddle hissed in the background of the comm. call, making Hot Rod salivate. He was just about to get lunch before he got the call to be super cool and heroic. 

::Erm, bad?:: Hot Rod winked at a femme in passing, and she swooned. Booyah. ::He was inside when the first explosion happened, apparently. Going to Cool Hospital now, looks like. Slag's crazy but it's all good now!:: 

::Good, because Springer's falling behind on tables,:: Arcee huffed.

Hot Rod drooped from his macho hero stance. Aw, Pits. He had to go back to work after all that?! ::Ugh, fine. But can I-::

::I'm taking it to him.::

::No fair!:: Hot Rod whined, effectively scaring off a mech who looked like he was going to make a move. Whoops. Not like he had time for that now, anyway. Ugh. He never had time anymore. Imagine having responsibilities like running a whole bangin' diner with your best friend. Ugh.

::It is too. See you when you get back, yeah?:: The griddle hissed again, a little louder. Hot Rod was so gonna steal a bite or two...

Hound was a big worrier. It wasn't something that could be helped, really. What self-respecting deputy wouldn't be worried about his new sergeant coming out of an exploded science lab, having dragged two whole frames out of the wreckage, and just... acted all distressed about it. He watched Hot Rod prance around like he'd been the one to save the day- granted, he did help Prowl with the second mech- and even the other firefighters were patting themselves on the back for containing the disaster so well. All in all, it was a very fortunate turnout. 

He decided that he would have to commemorate Prowl once he was out of the hospital; surely he'd appreciate that sort of thing, since he was so formal with everything else. He was a smart, dedicated enforcer, and it pained Hound's great big spark to see him beat himself up over the smallest things. Yes, he'd noticed. That's why he'd been doing everything in his power to get the poor guy on the roads and had been discreetly covering up all of the misconduct the other enforcers were getting up to. 

The misconduct... wasn't as bad as it could have been. It was mostly bots shirking duties to go drink somewhere, or pretending to be on patrol while they shot something into their systems. The only reason paperwork was getting done at all was because Hound was doing it- and now Prowl was too, and apparently scaring his subordinates into doing the same. He'd noticed the influence the sergeant had, too. It was truly wonderful. Cliffjumper's reports weren't misspelled anymore! Bluestreak stopped sending in prefaces where he was just talking about how happy he was to be writing the report! Strongarm was actually remembering to take down ident numbers! Trailbreaker... actually, Trailbreaker had been mostly fine- it was just the whole forcefield fiasco... Regardless of what kind of progress it was, enforcers were beginning to behave like enforcers again. It was refreshing. He was sure that Prowl had no idea how much he had been helping the precinct out just by being there for a groon or less.

"You still have medals?" Hound asked Smokescreen on the drive back to the precinct. 

"We're made of 'em..." the chief replied, lazily signaling his blinker as he got around a senile convertible. Poor thing shouldn't even be on the road. 

"Medals. Med-als. Awards," Hound huffed, following behind him. "Prowl deserves one, don't you think?" He sure did. Frankly, he'd earned a dozen or so in Hound's book already. 

"Oh. Yeah, I think so? And yes, he does." 

Hound mentally cheered. He'd been trying to whittle the chief down from his stupid bets to see Prowl for who he is, not for the gossip he'd been garnering. On the same front, he'd been trying to make Prowl see that Smokescreen was a good bot... he just had some issues, was all. It wasn't always perfect, but it was still progress. 

"I'll get onto planning an official thing, sound good? I'd say put Bluestreak up to party-planning but I don't think he'd appreciate a-"

"What?! No commemoration party?" Smokescreen complained as he transformed up to the precinct. "We haven't had one of those in vorns-"

"Yes, because nobot does their jobs," Hound muttered. "Prowl isn't a party mech. Just a short, nice, little formal thing like Protihex does, alright? Any more 'n that and he's gonna get all..."

Smokescreen looked at Hound critically. "Off-putting?" he finished. It wasn't what Hound was looking for, and he shrugged. "I really thought he'd be broken in by now."

"You say that like you want it to happen." Hound nodded to the enforcers that greeted them as they entered the precinct. Cliffjumper was asleep at his desk again. Bluestreak was gluing tiny washers and screws to a flimsie covered in glitter. Strongarm had Trailbreaker in a headlock, relentlessly rubbing her knuckles into the top of his helm. Others were also not working. They must have heard the news that their sergeant was down for the count already. "Look at this place, Smokey."

Smokescreen made a show of looking around before shrugging dismissively. "Just saying."

"Right... definitely not losing half your retirement funds..."

"I'm here to see Prowl of... frag, I don't know where he's originally from..." First Aid looked at Sunstreaker apathetically- a talent a mech with a full mask and visor shouldn't be able to achieve. "He's that cop that just got here? Wings, chevron, very well-done paint job?" First Aid studied the back of his servo, bored. Sunstreaker sighed. "You know... Jazz's-"

"Oh that Prowl!" First Aid interjected with feigned interest. What were they feeding this nursebot? "Sorry, you can't see him yet he's literally being operated on? Yeah. So, I dunno, come back later or something." 

Sunstreaker was already drafting a complaint to Ratchet, then realized it was futile. If the head doctor actually heeded any of the complaints about First Aid, the nurse would already be booted over to Cooler Hospital. Unless First Aid came from Cooler Hospital... that would make sense too. He frowned at the nursebot, who wouldn't seem to care even if Sunstreaker tore out his own primary lines and started bleeding all over the front desk. 

"Can I stay in the waiting room, or...?" 

First Aid scoffed, then gestured to the very crowded seats in the lobby. "Join the rest of his stupid fanclub, be my guest." 

Sunstreaker turned to actually take in all of the bots sitting and standing around in the hospital. Quite a few he recognized- Arcee among them. It was surprising to him just how many bots were waiting there, whether they were all for the enforcer or if they were there for the other three mechs that had been caught in the explosion. Of course, Sunstreaker had heard via word of mouth, and hit the street as fast as he could with his emergency touch-up kit in his subspace. He doubted he'd actually be able to fix any ruined paint, since doctors got all twitchy about their patients, but you never know. He was no expert on mod shop explosions, but he was pretty sure they tended to ruin his work.

"Sunny, hey!" Arcee greeted as Sunstreaker made his way over. "Heard about Wee-Woo, I'm guessing?" 

"Girl, who hasn't?" Sunstreaker scoffed playfully. Leave it to Prowl... still unable to escape the limelight of Cool City even while on an operating table. And then his faceplates dropped their easy-going smile. "Think he's gonna be alright?" 

"I think so. Hot Rod got called in for it, and he said he was still walking and ordering bots around after he dragged the two mechs out," Arcee responded thoughtfully. That information was a relief to Sunstreaker, who hadn't even realized just how concerned he was until then. That relief quickly spread through reiterated whispers through the crowded lobby. The low volume made for an errorless game of telephone. Cool City had gotten very good at spreading information via word of intake this way. It was honestly beautiful, at times.

::Yyyello." Jazz answered his comm. from an upside-down position on Prowl's couch. He'd decided early on that he would just hang out until the end of Prowl's shift. Definitely only because he wanted to make sure the mech's apartment was secure mhm mhm yep. 

::Jazz,:: came Mirage's voice in his helm, ::where are you?::

Jazz kicked his pedes in the air and a light giggle escaped his vocalizer. ::Prowl's apartment,:: he sang. ::Why, wassup?::

::Ooooh... you haven't heard, then?::

Jazz stopped kicking his pedes. ::Heard what?:: He'd stopped caring about whatever gossip Mirage liked to tell him orns ago. It was all so trivial and uninteresting. But the gravity in Mirage's tone made him start fearing for the worst. Somehow, the worst thing he could think of didn't hold a candle to the news.

::Your boyfriend exploded.::

::He what?!:: Jazz was on his pedes so fast he nearly blacked out from the energon rush. 

::He exploded? Brainstorm's blew up and he was in there when it happened. I think they took him to the ER since he, y'know, exploded.::

Jazz scrubbed his servos over his faceplates. ::As in he exploded or like, he was in an explosion?:: Two very different things.

::Same thing?:: Mirage said, wrongly. Jazz wanted to believe that it was the shop and not Prowl, but with Wheeljack and Brainstorm's rep... it was a wonder Jazz hadn't exploded with all the slag he'd commissioned. He didn't even use half of it anymore- tools for the old glory days no longer... 

::Is he ok?:: Jazz asked, eyeing a window that looked like it was big enough to squeeze through. Thank Primus the mech lived on the first floor, is all he'd say, because as much as he missed using that grappling hook, he was pretty sure the lines were out of code at this point. The non-committed hum on the other line made up his mind and he unlatched the window. He'd feel really bad if someone got a little too adventurous and decided to check for unlocked windows at the enforcer complex, but he was more worried about Prowl than his empty hab (he was gonna have to start bringing stuff over- no, bad Jazz!). ::Do you know what hospital he went to...?::

Another non-committed hum from Mirage. Useless roommate, absolutely useless. ::There's only two, so... good luck?::

Jazz sighed as he slipped through the window and carefully shut it behind himself. Right, luck... he had that. ::Thanks, Raji. See you.:: 

::Pick up some more copper while you're out okaybyeeeee!:: 

The comm. ended before Jazz could grumble about that last part. His... lover...? Not his boyfriend- just exploded and Mirage wanted him to go shopping? Unbelievable (completely believable- it was Mirage). Cool Hospital was slightly closer to Brainstorm and Co.'s One-Stop Mod Shop, so he hoped that would be a good enough guess. He hit the streets with no regard for traffic laws, which for once he actually felt a little guilty about- but his enforcer was possibly on the brink of death, a.k.a. not there to pull him over and give him another sexy speeding ticket. He would rather have to pay a hundred speeding tickets than never get one ever again! And that was insanity. He had it so bad and knew it. 

Jazz almost missed Cool Hospital due to the line that had been formed outside of the doors. It looked like all the other clubs because of that line, so he hoped he'd be able to use his usual charm to skip the- 

"No cutting, Jazz," warned the mech- Sideswipe- standing guard at the front doors. 

Jazz stumbled, sputtering. He'd never been told that in his life! "What?!" he exclaimed, really loudly and embarrassingly. He sounded like when Mirage got told his kibble wasn't that sexy. "I'm here to-"

"See the hero of the night? You n' everybot else, mech." Sideswipe leaned in the doorway, which was an act Jazz had practically trademarked in Cool City, thank you very much! "I'd let you in if I could, but Ratch's pretty slagged about all the visitors."

Jazz gaped at the line. Hero...? "What happened?" he demanded, praying to the Primes above that he wouldn't have to wait in line all night just to see a busted up pursuit vehicle under a glass dome. The mental image was enough to make him tear up a little under the visor, but he was rational and reasonable and did not start crying about it. 

"Brainstorm and Co.'s blew up, got Wheeljack, Brainstorm, and Bumblebee pretty bad. Prowl dragged two of em out by himself. Real selfless slag, y'know?" Sideswipe informed Jazz as if he'd been repeating the same story for the last joor- he probably had been. That still didn't answer the deeper question; the important one about his lover being alive or not? Yeah, that seemed pretty damn important. 

"Is he...?" 

"Ratch says he's fine. So are the other three, in case you were wondering." Sideswipe side-eyed Jazz briefly, just to make a point. Whatever that was. "Better get in line before Ratch shuts this all down." 

Jazz opened his intake to protest, but backed down once Sideswipe squared his shoulders. That bouncer didn't play- it was why Mirage kept hiring him for Visages whenever Lugnut or Breakdown couldn't do it. He retreated clear down the other end of the building to the end of the line, feeling really put-off by the rejection. He knew he should've stayed at least a little humble. 

While he shuffled along in the line, alone, like every other normal citizen of Cool City, he realized that having to wait wasn't so bad; if it was part of normal life, he'd take it gladly. Skipping lines was for the old Jazz. New Jazz got to hear the talk about his lover's heroism. He preened to himself, finding so much pride in the enforcer's dedication to his job. It was inspiring! The waiting in line gave him plenty of time to start drafting another song.

"If I let every bot that ran up here in his room he'd fry something from getting overwhelmed," Ratchet grumbled, broad frame huge and imposing compared to Arcee's small two-wheeler frame. 

Arcee wasn't scared, however. She had waited so long in the lobby and the food she'd brought was long cold in her subspace and she really had to get back to Pyrite. Hot Rod would not stop blowing up her comm. asking when she'd be back. "You let Sunstreaker in!" she protested, hands on her hips because she meant business. 

Ratchet rolled his optics. "I owed him a favor. And I made him hand over his paint kit before he could start obsessively painting the poor mech." 

"I just want to see him." Arcee met Ratchet's stoney face with her own. "Plus he's probably hungry and I made him his favorite." 

Arcee wasn't actually sure if what she had brought was technically the enforcer's favorite dish. He didn't come in too often, and he'd ordered a few different things, so she just picked the one she remembered being a repeat order and hoped for the best. She had considered laying it on a little thicker to get him to dine with them more often, but every fellow restaurant owner she talked to said he'd never eaten at their establishments, so it was a huge win. Even if he didn't visit as much as she wanted him to. 

Ratchet stared at her for a very long moment, then looked down both sides of the hall to make sure no one was watching. "Three breems," the doctor huffed, discretely knocking and opening the door just wide enough for Arcee to slip in.

"Thanks doc!" Arcee whispered. It was met with a grumble, but the door closed behind her before she could catch it. 

Prowl was only hooked up to like, two or three monitors/machines, which was better than how Hot Rod had been the one time he managed to... actually she still didn't really understand what had happened, because she wasn't there, but it sounded like a lot of accidental impaling and falling down flights of stairs while also being on fire...? Yeah. Prowl looked better than that. He was still marginally scuffed up and wrapped in bandages, and his doorwings were strung up with supports to keep them straight, and his face looked so, so sad. 

"Hey, Wee-Woo," Arcee greeted, keeping her voice low because that was the vibe she got from the atmosphere in the room. She pulled the to-go box out from her subspace and held it out in offering. Then half retracted her arms, because Prowl's hands were heavily bandaged up. Right... dragging exploded mechs out of an exploding building... he was genuinely so cool. Hot Rod wished he could be half as impressive. "Hungry?"

Prowl made a face. "No," he muttered. Then visibly reset his optics, blinking hard. "...Yes." Arcee guessed he must still be on those sweet, sweet pain meds. Jealous. 

"I'll leave this here, then, alright?" Arcee set the box down on a little side-table. There was a chair there, too, but it looked too comfortable and she only had two more breems to chat. Prowl nodded slowly, absolutely looped out of his processor. "How ya feelin'?" 

"Not pleasant," Prowl drawled, shaking his helm in the same slow manner. His vents made a soft clattering noise for a klik, and Arcee made a mental note to tell Ratchet about it. One time, Hot Rod had smoked so much tourmaline that his vents rattled for orns and had to get them all replaced. It was an expensive ordeal, and now neither of them bothered with tourmaline. 

There was a knock on the door, and Arcee groaned. She still had another breem! Whatever... "Well, feel better soon, ya hear?" She tentatively reached a servo out to awkwardly pat his knee. Prowl didn't seem to even register the action, but nodded his helm all slow again. 

By the time she made it to the door, he looked like he was falling asleep. 

Orion Pax took a stance on the left side of a perfectly framed Cool Hospital, ruffling and resettling his plating before Rewind's recording light could blink on. He been so bored publishing minor stories about who appeared at what bar and what diner was getting popular and obituaries for mechs who simply partied too hard. He'd seen it all, at Cool Publishers Inc.. Not as much as the hospitals had, he was sure, but he knew everything about everyone at this point, and it was becoming more of a curse. He once prided himself on being full of archival knowledge, but now it was just sort of... blegh. 

The red light appeared, snapping Orion into his prepared script. 

"This is Orion Pax, live at Cool Hospital, where local enforcer Sergeant Prowl is being treated for various injuries following the accident that took place at Brainstorm and Co.'s One-Stop Mod Shop just three joors ago. Witnesses report that the brave enforcer risked his own life in order to save the lives of Brainstorm, resident inventor and genius, and Bumblebee..." his script faltered bizarrely when he tried to say what the minibot's role in society was. He ended up skipping it in order to preserve his flow. "Also injured in the accident was Wheeljack, scientific partner to the Mod Shop. Doctor Ratchet has confirmed that all four lives are headed for a full recovery. Many bots have flocked to Cool Hospital to pay these victims a visit, but also to thank Sergeant Prowl for his service. Let's see what some of these bots have to say." 

Orion turned towards the line, and Rewind zoomed in on the femme he was addressing first. He was holding a thumbs-up in front of her face, which would have been odd had it not been for the microphone in his thumb. 

"Brainstorm installed subwoofers in my alt that can shatter glass. I don't know how I'd rock out without him! Thank Primus somemech was there to drag him out before he exploded," the green femme said, unprompted. She saw the camera and mic and knew what it was about before Orion could say a glyph. 

Orion moved a few bots down the line to a scrawny mech. "Wheeljack and Brainstorm came up with this super freaky sparkplay thing that-" Orion quickly jerked his hand away and moved to the next bot. Cool City was notoriously raunchy, but he still wanted to attempt a decent viewership rating. 

"I think just about everybot gets their mods from Brainstorm's shop. We're super lucky those brainiacs survived!" crowed a blue flightframe. "At first I was slagged about that enforcer guy because he clocked my speed in-flight and gave me a ticket! I said 'what, there's a speed limit in the sky?!' and he actually pinged me this whole huge law about flight traffic laws and what do you know- there's a speed limit in the sky. Maybe he's not as bad as I thought." 

"Bumblebee's a real throw-down if you ever get to party with him. I heard he got blown up pretty good, so I'm going to see him and then see if I can shake the enforcer's servo for a job well done."

"You mean the bash isn't until next week...?" 

"Wheeljack owes me some kibble pieces since I watched his pet turborat for an ornend. I'm making sure he's still alive enough to do that for me."

"Prowl did a good thing. Who else can say that for themselves?" 

Orion collected statement after statement, trailing down the line until he met the end. He was honestly surprised to see Jazz in a line- the only mech with more free access was the literal Mayor. It was something Orion was very envious of, because getting interviews was difficult when you didn't have the right ins. 

"Do you have anything to add to this story?" Orion asked, pointing his thumb at Jazz.

Jazz chewed his derma for a moment, thoughtful, though still tapping his pede to a silent beat. "Yeah, I do," he chuckled softly. "I couldn't have fallen for a better mech." 

Chapter Text

Prowl didn't remember very much from the duration he was on pain medications. He didn't remember going into stasis for his repairs, nor did he remember any of the glyphs spoken to him by doctors or visitors.

He remembered little pieces; Sunstreaker wincing at the state of his paint, Arcee leaving food (which, thank Primus he'd been unable to feel embarrassed at the time, because he was pretty sure Ratchet fed it to him by servo), and recharging. A lot. Sometimes he'd wake up between naps and there would be a couple new things on the little table beside his hospital berth, sometimes there was faint music, sometimes a nurse was there to check his vitals. All of it felt distant under the goopy haze of pain meds. 

He had not been ready to come out of it.

His frame still ached (especially his damn doorwings), and his plating itched where bandages were covering up burns. His processor was in shambles; the tac-net was still shaking off the stasis, it seemed. Clarity made the overhead lights too bright and the buzzing and beeping of equipment too loud, but someone had been kind enough to bring his blanket from his apartment, and that was dark and heavy as he pulled it over his helm with a grumble. He remembered why he hated hospitals. 

"Prowler?" 

Suddenly, the music and the blanket made a lot more sense. 

"Are you ok? Need Ratchet?" Jazz asked, voice sounding so drowsy yet so concerned. The monitor for his fuel pump rate was his biggest betrayer; beeping in quicker succession. If he looked, he was sure he'd see his spark energy surging on another monitor. There was nowhere he could hide from direct and accurate medical data. How embarrassing. 

"No," Prowl responded quickly, already sensing the mech getting up to fetch the doctor due to the spike in vitals. "I am... fine." His glossa felt dry and heavy in his intake. He sure hoped one of those monitors couldn't pick up on the immense guilt that was catching up to him. With his misfortune, there was probably one with a huge screen with impact font flashing 'GUILTY!!!' on it. The tac-net's first interjection since booting back up was to spear that irrationality and roast it on a spit. For a half-klik, he was glad the blasted hardware was back online. 

He could hear Jazz sit back down with a heavy sigh. How long had he been there? Prowl's HUD displayed a time of over one cycle since Brainstorm and Co.'s, which would be quite a long time for a bot to sit vigil. Part of him hoped he hadn't been long, but the other part of him surged with warm feelings at the possibility that he had been there since the start. How confusing it was to want both at the same time. And then something else occurred to him. 

"Why are you here?"

Jazz was quiet for a moment, and Prowl was briefly tempted to peek outside his light shield to see what kind of face the mech was making. "I care about ya," Jazz said at last, softly. "Mirage called and said you exploded and I was worried." 

Prowl soaked in the admission, running it through his processor a couple times before believing it to be true. Some bubble of emotion rose in his chassis before settling somewhere just out of reach. 

"I did not explode," Prowl muttered, deciding he would focus on that part alone. "I was merely caught in an explosion."

Jazz laughed, and while it should have made his audials hurt from their sensitivity, it felt the same as the quiet music the mech must have been humming for him. "I know. Raji's an idiot. Can you believe he thinks those are the same thing?" 

"That is..." Prowl scoffed lightly, "that is preposterous." 

"I know!" Even in his outrage, Jazz kept his voice down. "I'll tell him you said that." 

Prowl groaned, already imagining what Mirage would have to say about that. "Please do not," he muttered, not wanting to dig himself in a deeper trench rather than getting in good graces with the club owner. "He does not need another reason to dislike me."

"Yeah, you're prolly right," Jazz sighed. "But he doesn't hate ya. He's just... uppity. Sometimes."

Prowl snorted at that. There was no way Mirage didn't hold some kind of discontent towards him. He'd been caught making a mess of the mech's apartment twice. He would be pretty slagged if his roommate's lover did the same. It was very fortunate that he didn't have a roommate to get slagged at.

A brief knock on the door half-startled Prowl. He heard it open, then heard heavy pedesteps enter. He had a good guess as to who it was, but Jazz confirmed with "Hey, Ratch."

"Thought I told you visiting hours are over," the doctor grumbled, but didn't make any attempt to remove Jazz from the room. Instead, he walked up to the side of the medberth. "Alright, enough sulking. Get out from under there," Ratchet tapped at Prowl's forehelm through the blanket. He felt like being stubborn, but not enough to be a hinderance to the doctor's work, so he begrudgingly pulled the blanket down from his face. He frowned hard up at Ratchet through the lights, optics squinting as they tried to block it out but still take in visual data. 

Ratchet remotely dimmed the lights just enough to make Prowl's optics stop hurting, then began disconnecting the various medical equipment. "You're not allowed to go back to work for another two cycles. After those two cycles, it's an orn of light duty only. That means no running into exploding buildings." He didn't have to tell Prowl twice- though if he had to, he wouldn't hesitate to do it again. "And Jazz?" The Doctor turned to face the entertainer once Prowl was freed from his medical shackles. 

"Wassup, docbot?" Jazz lounged cooly in the guest chair, which looked too uncomfortable to properly lounge in. 

"Stay off him for at least three cycles." Ratchet made sure that Prowl also got to see his all-knowing glower. 

Jazz's faceplates didn't flush, but Prowl's sure did. The incorrigible mech only grinned up at the doctor mischievously. "Don't know what yer talkin' about," he mumbled, sparing a wink at Prowl. Not helping.

He didn't have anything to say to that, and strangely, felt a little disappointed at the order- not as disappointed as he was about being taken off-duty, though. That was just cruel. He could heal at his desk just the same as he could at home! 

"I mean it. I especially don't need his wings gettin' fragged up again. Those things are Pit to fix." 

Jazz pouted, but made a motion with his servo- cross his spark and hope to die. That seemed to satisfy Ratchet enough to leave him be. The doctor helped Prowl out of the berth- wow, his legs felt like gelatin- made sure he could stand and walk on his own, then got to sanitizing the room. 

"I can stay with you, if you'd want," Jazz offered, trying and failing to be casual about it. Prowl saw it for what it really was: asking to stay because he wanted to. That didn't sound so bad either, and the tac-net begrudgingly gave up some solid pros to having a helping servo while he finished his recovery. It would be efficient and keep him from going stir crazy while he was unable to work. He ignored the following cons (Jazz tended to be a double-edged vibroblade to his psyche) entirely. 

Ratchet side-eyed Prowl, but said nothing, so he nodded his acceptance. "That would be helpful. Thank you, Jazz." 

Jazz looked like he was two kliks from doing a crazy backflip out of pure delight, and Ratchet finally stepped back in to settle things. 

"Pick up your prescription from the desk down the hall; you don't have to take any or all of it, but it'll help with the pain. There's supplements in there too- some of your levels are a little low for what I'd like," the doctor grumbled all of this, but there was no real agitation in his vocalizer. The tac-net spat at the implication that his frame was in anything but peak performance, but the data wasn't lying. 

"What are my payment options?" Prowl queried. He kept one optic on Jazz, who was now putting himself to use by diligently packing all of his little gifts into a tote. There were some... questionable items amongst the thank-you cards and sweets. He pushed that observation aside for later.

"That's the good news," Ratchet... grinned? It looked painful- "The city's taken care of the bill for you. Mayor said it was his treat for your act of bravery." Prowl blinked owlishly. "You did good, kid." 

Jazz whistled, not looking up from his task. He was trying to play tetris with the last few items, derma pursed in concentration. Whistle was right. That was... a huge gift. He didn't feel he deserved to be absolved of his entire medical bill, but what was he going to do? Beg the mayor to let him pay what was probably a few thousand shanix? He grimaced. 

"How... how are the others?" 

Ratchet snorted. "Just fine. Can't tell you the details, but that minibot could get stepped on by a combiner and come out asking for another stimpack. I've put Wheeljack together more times than I can count. And Brainstorm... Brainstorm," he sighed. "I don't get what Percy sees in that maniac... He was gone one cycle and they managed to blow up their whole shop. He's right slagged about it, of course." 

Prowl cataloged that information, updating the small files he'd started on the three bots and starting a new one for the supposed third scientist that had been fortunate enough to not get caught in the accident. The tac-net savored the small task, already preparing to starve over the next two cycles. Hearing that they were all recovering made him feel a little better about the excessive amount of praise that was nearly smothering. He was confused about that, too; all he'd wanted was to be recognized for his duty, and now he was, and yet...

"Figures," Jazz chuckled. "He went off to Iacon, didn't he? Or is he comin' back now?" 

"Oh he's stayin' out there. Hotels and everything had been booked out and paid for since last vorn. Some science-y convention thing he'd been flooding his panels about for forever. He did say he'd make sure Brainstorm ended up back in here once he was back, though." 

Jazz barked a laugh, and Prowl stood there awkwardly after folding his blanket to carry in his arms. He waited for Jazz to finish packing everything before saying his thanks and farewells to the doctor. Jazz followed behind Prowl to the desk for his prescriptions, which he put in his subspace, then took the lead through the maze that was Cool Hospital. He was grateful for it since he had no idea where he was. 

"Um..." Jazz stopped just before the doors leading out to the street. 

Prowl flicked a doorwing to inquire, then regretted it as a dull throb shot through the hinge and to the back of his helm. "What is it?" he asked, readjusting his blanket in his arms. He could not wait to lay down in his own berth. Shame the blanket smelled like hospital now... 

"Soooo, I may or may not have said something on live TV." Jazz tried to grin, but it ended up more nervous than collected and he dropped it, replacing it with a wince. "So we might get mobbed out there."

"What," Prowl took an invent, "are you talking about." He didn't like the sound of that. What could the mech have possibly said that would warrant getting mobbed? Surely nothing-

"Okay so I totally said, on air, that I was in love with you, or something, and I totally didn't really mean to say it but it just slipped out and-"

Prowl wished he had a cube to drop and have shatter on the ground. The tac-net started ringing a dozen alarm bells and sirens in his helm, which effectively drowned out the rest of whatever Jazz was saying. And what he said wasn't a total shock- he... knew Jazz had feelings for him. The mech had said so himself and it had caused him to crash because he A) didn't expect it and B) couldn't understand it. So, he'd just sort of... pushed it to the side. Ignored it. Continued to seek the mech out but denied the existence of anything deeper despite the infinite chasm that had opened its maw in his chassis. It was easier to push it aside and cover it up with a tarp made of lust. And now the tarp was gone in the wind, and he was staring it right in the face again. 

Jazz was in love with him. 

Sweet Primus, fiery Pits, glory be to the whole of Cybertron- Jazz loved him. Why? Furthermore, why did he feel nice about that? 

"-sorry, I really am, but you make me crazy, mech!" Prowl tuned back in right at the end, slamming overrides through the tac-net to make it shut up for two kliks. He didn't need to crash after just getting out of the hospital, thank you very much. 

"Why would we get mobbed?" Prowl asked, measuring his glyphs carefully. He needed more time to process. He should have been processing it the first time, but it was too late for that. Clarity shimmered in parts of his processor for the first time in a while, and it was jarring. 

Jazz shifted nervously on his pedes, glancing through the glass of the doors and out into the night. Moderate traffic took up the roads, but very few bots were walking at this time. "I'm off the menu. Well, publicly now. Bots are gonna be slagged." 

Right. Jazz had a reputation- a big one, at that. Prowl knew that the mech was well-known to 'face around, but only in one-night stand capacities. Very rarely would one get a repeat performance; he'd heard (of course via rumors, which he didn't trust but couldn't deny) that only close friends were privy to that sort of thing. Prowl had been ignoring the fact that he'd been an outlier to that reputation the same as he'd been ignoring that four-letter glyph. He could only imagine that with Jazz's popularity, there had to be droves of mechs and femmes alike that wanted to even have an inkling of a shot at courting him. How Prowl had managed to tear through that crowd when he hadn't even wanted to move to Cool City in the first place was beyond him. Admittedly, he'd be pretty bitter about it too, if he were the average Cool City resident. 

Prowl took a deep invent. Of all the things... he shook the tac-net out of its spiteful non-action, demanding it come up with solutions. "Will they be aggressive?" he asked, trying to frame an accurate picture of what they could be facing. 

Jazz chewed his derma, looking outside again. "Prolly not...? But I mean you're already big talk and I jus' went and made it worse yesterday 'nd they're all gonna have questions." He looked back to Prowl, his audial horns angled backwards on his helm. "I'm so sorry, I know ya don't like the publicity, this is-"

"It will be alright," Prowl interjected, keeping his tone level. The situation wasn't ideal, but really, he shouldn't have expected to have a quiet walk home. Cool City was relentless.

The tac-net beeped, finished cooking up its solutions. They were a little underbaked, but they'd have to do. He pitched the 'walk home separately' thread, because that was doomed to fail. He also tossed 'stay at the hospital until sunrise', 'transform and drive' (against medical orders), and 'traverse via sewers'. "Is there anyone you can comm. to escort us?" 

"At this time of night?" Jazz's visor dimmed as he looked through his contacts. "Don't think so. They'd all be at their stations. What about your enforcer buddies?" 

Prowl's face contorted at the idea of calling just about any one of his coworkers to walk him and Jazz home. There was Hound, but... he shook his displeasure away. Hound was a good mech, and didn't seem to get as caught up gossiping as everybot else. He didn't like it, but he'd rather not be ambushed by dozens of jealous bots. He sighed as he selected the comm. code. 

::Deputy Hound here, is this an emergency?:: Oh wonderful, he was running the hotline tonight. Prowl didn't feel bad about interrupting Hound's shift at all. 

::Hello Hound, Prowl speaking. This is not an emergency.:: Jazz's visor blinked on and off a couple times as he stood idly. 

::Prowl!:: relief flooded through the deputy's voice. ::It's good to hear from you, Sarge. How are you feeling?::

::Er, just fine, thank you. I am calling to ask a favor of you.:: Prowl shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the blanket in his grasp again. It kept wanting to slip out of his arms due to being so soft. ::If you are not already occupied, that is.:: 

Hound arrived swiftly at Cool Hospital. As soon as Prowl spotted the green terrain vehicle, he stepped outside, Jazz right behind him. 

"Thank you again for doing this," Prowl told the deputy once the mech finished transforming. The uncomfortable feeling had not gone away during the ten breem wait. 

"Sarge, it's no trouble at all. Least I can do for ya right now," Hound chuckled. "Besides, anything to get me away from Smokescreen right now..." 

Prowl made a face. Yes, he was sure the chief would be having some sort of field day thanks to what Jazz said on live TV. He was beginning to feel pretty grateful for having the next two shifts off, if only so Smokescreen could cool down over the whole thing. 

Hound fell into step behind Jazz and Prowl, looming like a big green specter should anyone approach. Of course, many optics stared and whispered to one another, but few actually had the diodes to say anything. They saw Prowl still wrapped in bandages and Jazz holding Prowl's things, and generally had the right idea to leave them alone. Of course, some did have the diodes. Those that did, Hound would quickly get between them and redirect their attention to something else; like an enerdog stand or a free photobooth. Prowl chose to ignore whatever bots were saying. None of it mattered enough, and he'd rather not fall down the turborabbit hole of caring. A handful of times, a mech would pop out of a bush and snap a picture, flash on and everything, then slink off down an alleyway. All in all, the walk was... humiliating to say the least. Not because of Jazz or himself or Hound, just in general. He felt like he was a museum's greatest and most controversial artifact.

At least Hound was acting normal. 

"Feel free to give me a comm. if you need anything, Prowl," Hound said once they had successfully made it to Prowl's apartment door without major incident. "Or if you need me during the day, I'm up two floors in 57." 

"Thank you, sir." Prowl dipped his helm and doorwings respectfully, and Hound gave him an amused look. 

"Thanks, mech, owe ya one," Jazz echoed, flashing a normal grin at the deputy. "Send Smokey my regards."

Hound laughed at that, shaking his helm before bidding them a good night. 

Prowl's apartment was as dark and empty as he'd left it. He simply stood there for a moment after shutting the door, taking in the quiet. Nothing more to worry about in these walls... mostly.

Once Prowl could no longer hear Hound's pedesteps as they retreated down the hall, he turned to look at Jazz. A brick was lodged in his vocalizer, and he was thankful to be holding onto his blanket lest his servos start shaking. Again. But the musician was none the wiser, because he was carefully unpacking the tote full of gifts and setting the items out on the coffee table. The tac-net couldn't really parse out a solid organization pattern, which irritated it, but Prowl had bigger things to focus on. Like everything he'd been setting aside for 'later'. 

"You love me." Prowl bit his glossa as soon as the glyphs left it. He had meant to phrase it like a question. He had also meant to time it better, because now Jazz was frozen holding what was 100% an interface toy (quite a bizarre and frankly awkward sort of gift to give someone- and there were a handful- but he would have to address that afterwards) and it was a cringeworthy sight. 

Jazz's plating rattled as he tried to recover himself. Thankfully, he also had the foresight to put the toy down before turning to look at Prowl. 

"Yeah," Jazz said, derma quirked in a bashful half-smile. He fiddled with his servos, twisting and rubbing his digits together absently. "Is that..." he paused, shook his helm and huffed a laugh. "Is that alright?" 

Prowl studied Jazz closely. He cycled through optical settings and filters, tracked every minute shift and movement, drank in the visual data like his beloved plain energon. His own derma twitched, threatening to pull into a smirk. What an absurd question- as if Prowl really had any control over another mech's thoughts, wants, and feelings. Congruently, he was glad the question was asked, because it implied that were Prowl not alright with that fact, Jazz would leave him alone. 

Did he want Jazz to leave him alone? 

The tac-net slapped its resume of cons on its desk, pointing at it frantically. Jazz was a distraction to his sworn duty and to his personal life- what little he had, anyway. Jazz had directly caused two processor crashes. Jazz made him feel complex, mysterious things that threatened to take him off-balance and plunge somewhere he couldn't see, which must meant danger. Jazz made him think irrationally. Jazz made him act irrationally. Jazz was a cacophony of unknowns and yet managed to feel so terrifyingly secure- a trap under another name.

...Jazz was the most intriguing, captivating, wonderful thing to happen to Prowl in a city full of legal issues and drama. 

"I can be amenable to that," Prowl said finally, tension leaving his frame as he made up his mind. The tac-net threw a minor fit, but had no traction because what Prowl said was true down to his very spark. 

Jazz vibrated with oozing, profound joy, barely contained within his frame. Every strip of biolights glowed a little brighter, and his visor shimmered. "Do- do you...?" the mech left the unspoken question fluttering in the air, and Prowl took it gently in his servos, rolling it around as he searched for an answer. 

The truth was... he wasn't sure. He had no idea what love felt like- not when it came from within. He could study the concept of love for an infinity and still not know for sure if that was the same thing as the chasm in his chassis. If Jazz was in love with him, he could take his behaviors and actions and contextualize them to the feeling, and if he matched those behaviors, surely that would mean the chasm was love- no matter how much it felt akin to grief. But Prowl didn't behave like Jazz- not in the same ways. Jazz was fluid and tactile and unabashedly flirtatious. He wrote songs and sang music that was crafted just for Prowl. He danced when he walked, and couldn't stop smiling that particular smile when he looked at Prowl. He was so caring and carefree and overall pretty thoughtful in regards to Prowl's boundaries and needs. How much of that could he say for himself? (Could he be like that?) 

"I..." Prowl worked his jaw. He couldn't lie, but he didn't want Jazz to stop looking so happy. "I do not know," he admitted slowly, finding himself clutching his blanket tightly. "But I do know, that I want you to stay. Because I enjoy your company." 

Jazz, contrary to Prowl's prediction of devastation, grinned so wide he was afraid his faceplates would break. He tried to hide it as he started to giggle, and Prowl was trying to see what could have been so humorous in that moment, but Jazz was inconsolable. The mech nabbed a pillow from the couch and stuffed his face into it as he continued to act like a giddy sparkling getting pushed higher and higher on a swing set. 

Prowl let out a sigh of relief, thankful to have not upset Jazz. He cast a glance at all of his 'gifts' on the table and winced. What was he supposed to do with... what even is that?... bots use those?... huh??? Maybe he should just. Deal with it tomorrow. Yeah, that sounded like a plan. 

"C'mere?" Jazz asked, finally over the worst of whatever that was. His faceplates were flushed, visor over-bright. He held his arms out, and Prowl easily set his blanket aside to walk into them. He didn't have to warn the musician to be mindful of his doorwings and the other more sensitive areas where he'd been burned. He relished the gentle points of contact, relaxing further into the subtle warmth of Jazz's frame. If he tuned his audials just right, he could almost hear his spark whirring away in his chassis. Louder than that, was the soft purr of his engine. 

Prowl stood in the hug for much longer than he'd normally allow anyone to hug hum. The turmoil in his helm was mostly quiet now, giving him the space to enjoy such a soothing, simple act. Or maybe it was just the exhaustion of the cycle bearing down on him. That was when he finally pulled away- he had to lay down before his frame started to hurt again. 

"Would you like to recharge with me?" Prowl collected his blanket in his arms again and pointedly did not look at the table of gifts. He didn't care if it wasn't all unpacked still, he had no more room for puzzling out Cool City. 

Jazz giggled again, then tried to pull a flirtatious expression that really just turned out more goofy than anything. "Sorry Prowler, doc said not to lay ya for three cycles."

Prowl rolled his optics, albeit fondly. "That is a shame... I suppose you will have to sleep on the couch if you cannot behave." What was that? Teasing? Unheard of. Now he really was thinking it a shame. Maybe it was a bad idea to invite the mech to stay after all... Nonetheless, he made a show of turning away and walking towards his berthroom. 

"Wait-! I was-" he heard Jazz fumble for a moment, clearly taking Prowl's glyphs as serious at first (an easy mistake to make). Then, he scoffed. "Oh, you dirty- wait for me!"

Chapter Text

Prowl wasn't sure how long he'd been silently observing Jazz. The mech looked strange when he was in recharge; too still and quiet, perhaps. His visor was dark and his intake hung open slightly, drool making a thin trail from the corner of his mouth to the back of the hand he had pillowed under his helm. He was hugging himself, knees tucked to his chassis, in attempt to avoid pressing into Prowl's injured frame. 

The tac-net was quiet too, he realized; as if it were doing the same as he was- observing. 

Jazz stirred, muttering something unintelligible to himself as his visor slowly booted online. Prowl panicked and shuttered his optics- which was stupid because what was there to hide from? This was (strangely) far from the first time they'd recharged together; Jazz had even openly watched him reboot before at least twice in this kind of setting. It was hardly so intimate to do, yet his spark still swirled at the thought of getting caught.

A soft kiss between his optical ridges launched him out of his unreasonable unease. As if on instinct, the tense frown he hadn't even realized he had melted away. 

"G'mornin'," Jazz mumbled, vocalizer still working out the gravel. 

Prowl sighed, mildly defeated, and opened his optics. "Good morning," he returned, surprised at how small the glyphs sounded coming from his intake. 

And then Jazz smiled so wide and wholly it forced Prowl's derma to twitch into its own modest reflection. And then Jazz was giggling softly, scooting into his space to tuck his helm under Prowl's chin. Arms naturally found the best way to hold frames, pedes hooked over one another, and a cloud of half-recharge fell on them, creating a comfortable quiet- as quiet as quiet could be with two advanced engines purring contently. The vibrations were almost foreign to Prowl, but an accepted comfort as he allowed the leisure time. 

After a while, the tac-net got fed up with Prowl mooning over how perfectly Jazz fit against his frame and began throwing itinerary after itinerary at Prowl's helm, preaching the necessity of productivity even while he was limited by his doctor's orders. It told him he was hungry, which wasn't entirely false (42% fuel level), and he sighed in heavy defeat this time.

"I should fuel," Prowl said, his vocalizer feeling strange in his throat due to the light pressure of Jazz's helm against it. He didn't feel ready to get up, however, with how comfortable and warm the berth and their position was, so he made no move to get himself something to eat.

Unfortunately, Jazz was so eager to help that he foiled Prowl's plan of staying just as he was until his tanks started cramping. "Stay here," the musician urged, pressing a servo against Prowl's bumper when he tried to follow him up. "I'll bring it to ya, 'kay?" 

Prowl couldn't say no to that chipper grin and bright visor, so he laid back and waited obediently. It was all so endearing and strange. The tac-net grumbled, but retreated to its corner. 

Jazz returned with a cube and a little dance. He presented the cube to Prowl with a proud flourish; treating it like a rare, expensive treasure rather than the plain energon cube it was. Prowl felt a flutter of amusement, and gingerly took the offering after sitting up. 

"Thank you. Are you going to eat?" Prowl queried, motioning to the distinct lack of a second cube. He raised the cube to his derma, beginning to take a leisurely sip and- he nearly choked on it, holding it in his intake for a moment because spitting it out would be rude, but the taste was the last thing he'd been expecting. The tac-net screamed that he was being poisoned, and he almost believed it as he carefully spat the mouthful back into the cube. Gross. "What is-"

"Are you serious?" Jazz laughed, getting situated on the berth so he was sitting facing Prowl. "I just put in those supplements Ratch gave you. It's supposed to taste good!" 

Prowl's face twisted in disgust. He'd forgotten about those... was it such a crime to want plain, untampered energon for breakfast? And lunch? And also dinner? He stared at his cube with unhidden betrayal. It was too... much. He couldn't decide on what spectrum. 

"That explains the lack of additives in here," Jazz mused after a long pause of Prowl looking very disappointedly at the cube, like it was personally wronging him. "It's good for ya, I promise."

Prowl drooped, defeated once more as he forced himself to drain the cube. It was awful, but he did feel better. Kind of. Jazz rewarded him with an exaggerated kiss on the cheek at the same time he took the now empty cube. 

"Wasn't that bad, was it?" Jazz teased, leaning over Prowl to put the cube on the berthside table. 

Prowl made a non-committed sound. He would not be putting supplements in his energon again unless he... something. If there was a huge improvement in his functions. How about that. But he doubted that could happen. If he wasn't meant to sustain on plain energon, then what was energon even for?

Some time later, the lazy cycle drifted out into Prowl's living room. Prowl didn't own much. Datapads, old novels, and a strategy board game were all he had aside from the bare necessities. Those, and... the gifts. 

"We should deal with this slag," Jazz decided when they'd first moved out of the berthroom. "These bots don't know you at all," he scoffed, already rifling through the objects. Prowl wanted to interject that Jazz didn't know him that well either, but he wasn't wrong. He'd never owned an interface toy in his life, and had never considered starting. Before Jazz, his libido was but a whisper in his frame, and whenever the urge did arise, he'd either ignore it or just use his servos like every other normal bot. Even the non-interface related gifts were clearly the kind of things one would buy because they didn't know what else to get- sweets, crystal trinkets, a bag of silica chips, and a couple 'get groovy soon!' cards. The thought was nice, and he was grateful, but above all he felt guilty because he didn't know what to do with it all. 

Prowl stopped Jazz from trying whatever non-organizational method he'd been attempting the night before and put things together coherently. The interface toys got their own pile, a good extra inch away from everything else. The more he had to look at them, the more curious he was becoming, and cutting those threads away was getting exhausting. 

"Pfft- cuffs!" Jazz picked up a pair of bright pink, fuzzy handcuffs that were in no terms up to enforcer standards. That was... probably the point, Prowl realized a half-klik later. "Keepsies?"

Prowl watched the mech spin the thing around a digit, no doubt pondering what he could do with them. He recalled the night he'd chased Jazz halfway across Cool City, and the glyphs uttered to him- He deleted that thread from the source before the involuntary shiver up his spinal struts could radiate through his doorwings. He wasn't allowed. Doctor's orders. 

"Sure," Prowl mumbled anyway, glad to just get one thing taken care of.

He must have looked really out of his depth, because after the second time of being unable to correctly identify an item, Jazz sniggered behind a servo. "You're too cute." 

Prowl ruffled his plating indignantly and rolled his optics. "I do not..." he wasn't sure what to even say about the situation. It was one thing to be conscious of or admit to being sexually/romantically destitute to a doctor, but he was struggling to find the right glyphs to explain it to Jazz. Jazz, who was, apparently, the king of interfacing. "Hm," he said instead, which explained nothing. 

Somehow, Jazz still got the memo. "Tell you what," he said, sliding over to Prowl's side. "I can take these, n' if you ever feel like it, I can teach you all about whatever catches your optics. But you don't have to ever feel like it, dig?" 

Prowl side-eyed a very intimidating silicone something-or-other. "That would be acceptable," he muttered, thankful to be rid of it all more than anything. Though, part of him was getting dangerously curious, so he quickly tossed it all back into the tote so it wouldn't taunt him further. The tac-net seemed pleased, and checked that task off of the list Prowl never officially approved. Oh well. 

At the end, he let Jazz take most of everything else, too. He did keep one of the crystals since it was in a tiny pot and clearly still had the capacity for growth. It actually looked quite nice in the windowsill. 

Jazz returned from a very brief trip to his and Mirage's apartment with a holoprojector and a small dent in his helm. 

"Got it!" Jazz cheered. "Had to fight 'Raji for it, but I was actually the one who bought it vorns ago n he stole it to watch pornos in his room." 

Prowl did not need to know that, but he didn't make a remark. It did explain the dent in his helm, though. "Was there any trouble in the streets?" 

"Eh," Jazz replied, which meant there absolutely had been. "Cheesy romcom number one or cheesy romcom number two? Or would you rather watch the cheap slasher fic that's been permanently burned into this thing's files."

It didn't feel like much of a choice, and Prowl never really watched holovids, so he faltered as he tried to decide. "You pick," he suggested, taking the tac-net's highlighted easy way out. Jazz shrugged, then set the projector up just right. The walls were barren, so it was no challenge finding the right plane to watch the vid on. They ended up rotating the couch so that it faced said wall, then huddled under the blanket- Jazz with that bag of silica chips that he crunched on a little too loudly. 

The holovid ended up being 'cheesy romcom number two', which was actually titled My Boss From Vos and it was... an atrocity, to say the least. The main protagonist was a tank that worked in a nondescript office firm and had big dreams. The love interest, per the title, was a seeker-type mech and was the new boss of the nondescript firm. The seeker had an awful personality, and Prowl was lost by the first interaction between the two characters. And then he got even more lost because the plot was so loosely strung, it was disappointing. He did like the antagonist of the vid, however, because she was the only sensible bot in the nondescript firm. Fragging in the offices was grossly unprofessional and seeing as the antagonist was the HR manager... she had every right to fire the tank and report the issue to the head of corporate in order to get the seeker fired as well. Besides, it wound up being quite the only significant plot point that turned the story around. Prowl knew that they would wind up back together despite everything because it was a 'cheesy romcom' and that's how they all went (so he was told). 

The credits rolled a long 1.5 joors later, and Prowl was confused and unimpressed. He was about to say just that, but Jazz was sniffling into his shoulder, so his kept his intake shut. Alright, so maybe the ending had been a little sweet, with the tank and the seeker running off to a smaller town and starting their own, equally nondescript business and having a whole trine of sparklings. Maybe. 

The plot was still horribly written. 

The second morning waking up with Jazz felt stranger than the first. Actually, the first morning hadn't felt strange at all- more like a peaceful reflux. Now, watching Jazz's still recharging face felt shockingly more real. He did not pretend like he hadn't been watching this time. 

"Good morning," Prowl greeted first, voice low. The responding sleepy grunt warmed his circuits. 

Just like the first morning, Jazz wormed his way into Prowl's arms, and they laid there until the tac-net got all fussy. This time, they actually got up for breakfast. Prowl had to cover the top of his cube to keep Jazz from dumping those awful supplements into it, which evolved into a game of Jazz trying to (very gently) wrestle the cube out of Prowl's servos without hurting him or spilling the cube. After a hard-fought, laughter-filled battle, the supplements still wound up in the cube, and Prowl discovered that he had a ticklish spot in his elbow joint. He made a note to better guard that spot should he ever need to defend a plain cube of energon again. 

Prowl drank the cube with disgust, but could admit to himself (and only himself) that he was noticing some minor improvements in his recovery process already. Further testing would be required, however, because healing from burns and recent doorwing realignment was not his typical condition. 

"You're so funny," Jazz told him once the grossly not plain cube was drained. He had an endearing look about him, so Prowl let it be endearing. "Can't handle a lil bit o' flavor?" 

Prowl shot him a frown, but he couldn't muster any fire to put behind it. "I enjoy certain flavors just fine," he scoffed. He was picky, was all, and Jazz lightly teased him for such. He'd been teased before about his preferences, and each time it was only mildly irritating. In its place was simple acceptance, which felt odd. 

After fuel, they were back on the couch, arguing about My Boss From Vos and the femme that fired the tank. At one point, Prowl had explained with some passion that HR violations should be taken seriously, even in fiction, and Jazz got that dopey look on his faceplates that made him trail off. Turns out, self-restraint was tricky. He'd managed to allow one or two or five deep, heated, glossa filled kisses before wrenching himself away from Jazz. Doctor's orders. One more cycle. 

Prowl had been able to cool himself down with little issue, but Jazz wound up excusing himself to the washrack. Thankfully, he had been quiet enough for Prowl to ignore as he puzzled out the settings on the holoprojector. As badly as the tac-net wanted him to leave the apartment and do anything with actual productional value, he was intentionally avoiding anything to do with being out in public due to the state of the general populous. It was easier to accept and enjoy Jazz's company in the safety and comfort of his own home. 

When Jazz came back, Prowl had learned the ins and outs of the holoprojector, and had queued up 'cheesy romcom number one', which was actually titled Burnouts and Donuts. He didn't have a personal interest in watching the holovid, but was interested in repeating the comfort of the night prior... even if the plot was underwhelming and stupid. Jazz looked relieved from his time in the washrack, and absolutely delighted at the prospect of cuddling up on the couch again. 

Burnouts and Donuts was much, much worse than My Boss From Vos. It was an enforcer romcom and it was the most inaccurate thing he'd ever seen. He'd been able to disguise most of his displeasure and confusion during the first romcom, but was absolutely seething during the second- the blanket would not stay around him because his doorwings kept flaring out at every blatant display of misconduct. 

The protagonist was a criminal! A femme that prided herself on stealing high-value artifacts from city museums. Prowl had no sympathies for her, whatsoever. And who was the love interest? A lieutenant enforcer! Prowl was absolutely outraged by the enforcer's conduct and her inability to properly apprehend the criminal because she- what?- thought she was brilliant? His plating got to be flared constantly, and a scoff escaped his vocalizer when the criminal and the enforcer decided to team up- team up for what?! Again, the plotline was sorely lacking coherency, and he was just so- so upset by the inaccuracies! At one point, the criminal did wind up behind bars, and Prowl pleaded in his processor that she stay there and that the vid would just end already, but there was a following twenty breems left where... there was a very raunchy scene in an alleyway outside the jail because the enforcer decided to pardon the criminal. How that was possible as she was a lieutenant and not a judge or a mayor or anyone with pardoning abilities whatsoever was beyond Prowl. It wasn't even that hot. 

"I did not enjoy that one," Prowl grumbled when the credits finally rolled. What a grueling 2 joors of his life... wasted. Until he looked at Jazz and saw that the mech had fallen into recharge, his helm pillowed in Prowl's lap. He hadn't even noticed him laying there- too caught up in being irritated at a fictional holovid. The ire vanished like he'd never seen the stupid romcom in the first place. 

The third morning, Prowl woke up excessively earlier than he normally would thanks to the anticipation of going to work. Jazz had lived up to his role of being an entertainer, keeping him from going down yet another self-depreciating spiral, but the mech could never be his office and mountains of datawork. He had dreamt about fixing all of the reports he was doomed to be fixing once he clocked in for the night, and it was everything he could do to not just show up an additional joor earlier. 

He carefully unwound himself from Jazz's clingy, full-body hold and tucked the blanket around him as he stirred just slightly. He spared a whopping six kliks to watch his sleeping form before going about his regular routine, which included plain, untampered energon with zero supplements added to it. Now it was strange that Jazz wasn't there with him, and that was conflicting and confusing to he put it away for later- and he really would process it later this time. 

One of the cycles prior, Prowl had explained that his front door locked automatically after five breems, so Jazz really didn't need to clamber out of his window if he had to leave. He still hesitated before leaving for his shift, feeling like he should at least tell the mech he was leaving... but he was a cyberchicken and didn't disturb him. 

The drive to the precinct went without incident. Walking into the precinct, however, was not. 

"Prowl!" shouted Bluestreak, lunging at him before he'd fully crossed the threshold into the lobby. The tac-net shut itself down, which was just as disorienting as being talked at one-hundred glyphs per klik while being aggressively hugged. 

"Ack- plating- tender- careful-" Prowl choked out, optics fritzing. Bluestreak quickly let go, but did not stop yammering, though that was to be expected.

From what he could parse out, Bluestreak had been worried, missed Prowl, and most notably, was very happy that Prowl 'found love'. At least he wasn't upset about Jazz 'taking himself off the menu'. Still, he quickly became uncomfortable, and tried to divert the one-sided conversation to something work-related. 

"Why are you here so early?" Prowl asked, remembering that he'd arrived much earlier because he'd wanted to avoid getting ambushed. 

"Because I knew you'd finally be back and I have so so so so so many questions and I wanted to make sure you were ok and the others are gonna have questions too and we were all so worried about you but I think I was the only one that really missed you being here because it got so boring again and-" 

Prowl's helm was going to explode. Not ideal, but he could survive, probably. "Bluestreak," he pleaded. 

"Sorry sorry sorry so sorry aaghhh!!! Just tell me absolutely everything and I'll shut up I swear!" 

"There is nothing to tell," Prowl sighed. It was clear the entire city already knew the fine details of the incident at Brainstorm and Co.'s and Jazz's live confession, and he'd rather not rehash known events. 

Bluestreak's face and doorwings dropped into despair. "What?!" the younger Praxian cried. "But Jazz said he could never have fallen for a better mech than you and it was so sweet and wholesome and please don't tell me you broke his spark because everyone's worried you did because no one's seen you out and Jazz was only out once and bots are saying you beat him up and-"

"Bluestreak." Bluestreak slapped a servo over his intake and Prowl sighed. "I did not harm Jazz. In any capacity," he tacked that second part on with hesitation. The younger Praxian was still vibrating, so he continued- "We... merely discussed where we stand with each other, and we both found the situation acceptable. He kept me company while I recovered from my injuries. That is all I will permit to you." He finished with a serious look.

Bluestreak's frame relaxed marginally, hissing the tension away. "Oh thank Primus! I was so worried and- anyway, that's so cool! That's so awesome for you! And for Jazz! Aaagh! Shutting up now." He resettled his plating and eased out of Prowl's personal space at last. The tac-net peaked out of its hiding place cautiously. 

"Thank you, Bluestreak," Prowl relaxed his own plating, smoothing it down from where it'd puffed up defensively. "Your concern is duly noted, though not necessary." And he meant it; he didn't need his enforcers to worry about his personal life, especially when the whole city took a liking to prying into it. 

Bluestreak nodded furiously, but kept to his word and kept his intake shut. The Praxian retreated to his desk and began tidying it up, humming a tune to himself. That left Prowl to see what lay in wait for him in his office. 

Chief Smokescreen, apparently. 

"Sergeant," intoned the chief once the lights clicked on. He spun in Prowl's chair slowly until he was facing him, digits steepled. "Welcome back." 

Prowl didn't feel very welcome. "Chief Smokescreen," he greeted, as per usual. He braced himself for whatever all the dramatic flair was about- who was he kidding, it was 100% about Jazz. Great. 

"For how long have you been fragging Jazz?"

Prowl hadn't been expecting him to get right into the meat of it, but alright. He flared his doorwings out wide, offended by the chief's raging audacity. "That is none of your concern."

Smokescreen groaned into his servos, rubbing them over and around his optics several times before trying again. "Two orns?" he guessed, a shot in the dark no doubt, because it was quite inaccurate. "One orn?" he tried when Prowl only looked at him with an unimpressed expression. He groaned again when the sergeant still didn't answer. "Mech, please!"

"Kindly remove yourself from my office, Chief Smokescreen," Prowl said cooly. He had no patience for the mech's gambling habits this cycle, nor ever. 

Shockingly, Smokescreen did as Prowl told him. Sourly, but he left nonetheless, a warning that he would 'get to the bottom of this' following him out. 

The rest of the shift hadn't been easy to deal with, either. Prowl's make-up datawork got constantly interrupted by subordinates (and Smokescreen) wanting to know every secret about him and Jazz. The usual menacing scowl and glares worked to a degree, but no one could keep off the topic of Cool City's number one bachelor no longer being a bachelor thanks to one frazzled enforcer. 

Cliffjumper had complained to him, in tears, that he 'never even got a chance...' before Prowl booted him to patrol all the way out in the boonies. A handful of enforcers were cursed to patrolling this way, but it wasn't as satisfying as he'd hoped. Neither was assigning cleaning tasks. Or file organization tasks. His own work wasn't satisfying, either, and a knot of frustration lodged itself in his tanks. 

Thankfully, the shift was over before Prowl could really snap at anyone. Hound kept quiet company on the drive back to Icy Steel, and that had been the one saving grace of the night. He made a note to check when elections would be due for a new chief, because his vote would absolutely be for the deputy. The precinct needed a strong, reliable, stable chief. He bid Hound a good recharge cycle, then surrendered to his apartment.

He wondered if Jazz had left. Probably, he figured. There was nothing for the mech to do in his apartment, and probably wanted to stretch his legs after being cooped up for two days. Perhaps he got to play his music somewhere- he'd been humming or quietly singing quite a lot, and probably missed the stage or something. Whatever the reason, he prepared himself for the familiar emptiness that was his apartment. 

Prowl was met with quite the sight as he entered the living room. The lights had been dimmed just enough for glow-in-the-dark paint to be visible, and oh how those lines accentuated each and every beautiful inch of Jazz's frame, including the equipment no longer hidden behind modesty panels. 

"Hey, Prowler~"

Chapter Text

"Hey, Prowler~"

Prowl's engine cranked and sputtered as if it were cold starting after vorns of not running before evening out into a raspy growl. He should have seen this coming, really. He was a fool to think that Jazz could possibly forget that Ratchet's three cycles were up, and was a fool himself for trying to tell himself that he hadn't been thinking about it on and off throughout his shift. 

Jazz's digits teased the outer folds of his valve, and Prowl suddenly understood why the mech had stalled when he had put on a similar show those eons ago (five cycles). It was obscene, and so tantalizing and by itself was enough to get his fuel pump racing. Then the servo that had been circling a headlight slid slowly down the curves of his chassis and waist until it lazily grasped his spike, tilting it in the dim light to further the seductive display. 

"You waited for me?" Prowl managed to croak out, approaching Jazz cautiously, trying not to stare so intensely at that shimmering array. He felt like he was dreaming.

"Sure did, babe," Jazz purred, winking. "Are you gonna keep me waitin'?" He used two digits to spread the folds of his valve apart, and oh Primus his spark was going to seize, especially with how the tac-net latched onto the single bead of lubricant that rolled down the soft protoform. Why the thing liked to track bodily fluids was beyond him. As long as it wasn't making him feel guilty he would allow it. For now. 

Prowl meant to say something, he really did. But nothing came out of his open intake and he couldn't get over how unfairly attractive the mech was. He was always attractive, of course, but when he made a deliberate show of it...? "Yes- I mean no- no I will not, that is to say, 'keep you waiting'. Yes, I want to- er-" 

Jazz almost lost his act right there, his derma tweaking into an amused smirk for a klik before he smoothed it out. "Let me warm you up, darlin'." He slid off the couch and onto the floor on his knees in one fluid motion, depriving Prowl of the view but immediately making up for it by mouthing up his inner thigh to his codpiece. His spike panel retracted embarrassingly fast- too fast for him to make a comment about the pet name(s). He hadn't even registered the damn appendage pressurizing until he felt a glossa slide along its underside, and he choked on a moan. 

This had to be a dream, despite the concrete evidence that told him he was awake- that this was real. He just got home from a long, frustrating day of work and Jazz was sucking his spike like it was all he could think about all cycle. The odds that he really had been thinking about it all cycle were high, the more he thought about it- which he wasn't able to do for long, because Jazz was ridiculously good at doing what he was doing. 

"Jazz," Prowl groaned, then slapped a servo over his mouth. It wasn't fair. He wanted to participate more than he was by just standing there. His wish was granted when the mech took his free hand and placed it over an audial horn, and imagine that, he could participate more than he was! There was a fog making him feel stupid, but at least he knew to rub and pinch those sensitive horns. 

There was something excessively pornographic about Jazz moaning around his spike the way he was, but the vibrations felt too good to make it stop. He bit down on his knuckles when he felt Jazz's nasal ridge press up against his spike housing, trying to suppress a full-frame shudder as every tiny node on his spike was pressed against at once. And then cold, open air shocked his system just slightly, pulling a pitiful whine from his vocalizer without his permission. 

"Uh?" Prowl said, perhaps the most eloquent thing he'd ever spoken ever.

Jazz chuckled as he rose to his pedes, pulling Prowl's arms around his waist and dragging them both to sprawl on the couch- the enforcer atop the musician. And then Prowl's face was getting peppered with kisses and his doorwings were getting fondled and he was all too aware of how his spike was pressed against Jazz's as the visored mech got comfortable. 

"I have not... spiked in a while," Prowl panted, incredibly worked up because Jazz simply had that effect on him. He just prayed his nervousness wasn't coming off as hesitation or displeasure because his spike was front in center in his processor, wrestling for the controls. It was not something he was used to, and the need to do things the best for Jazz was putting up a good fight. Jazz (naturally) had been very good to him, and he needed to return the favor or else... he wasn't sure. Or Else. 

"You're doin' just fine, sweetspark." Jazz petted the expanse of a doorwing, eliciting a full-body shudder from Prowl. "I'm all ready for ya, whenever you want..." 

Prowl audibly swallowed, definitely feeling no pressure at all to make Jazz's night. His spike didn't seem to care, though, as its biolights pulsed in steady rhythm and practically begged him to make a little friction. He obliged, sighing at the smooth glide of their spikes together, made possible by oral lubricant. Jazz rewarded him with a deep kiss that made him forget about worrying so much, and he finally melted into that growing familiarity of desire and pleasure. 

Everything was going to be okay. 

And Prowl took care to line himself up right, gauging Jazz's face as he pressed into an inviting valve, optics going wide at how wonderfully amazing it all was before their pelvic plating even met. 

"Primus," Prowl sputtered, an uncharacteristic exclamation for him to be making, but he figured that if anyone could prove the existence of God, it would be Jazz. 

"Yer tellin' me!" Jazz gasped, hooking his pedes behind Prowl's knees. "You feel so good, mm, start movin', policemech!" 

A pinch to the inferior edge of his doorwing further encouraged him to start off a slow roll, testing the waters as he tried to figure out the best way to cant his hips just right. If he had anything to go off of, Jazz's humming and gasping was a sign of success. He gradually picked up speed, ravishing Jazz's hood and bumper with kisses as he traced transformation seams. He let his spike do the thinking at last, and chased the building overload. Eventually, that feeling of 'not-quite-enough' came over him, and Prowl threw a leg over his shoulder, holding on tight to that white thigh as he aimed to push deeper into that perfect valve. 

"Oh! Oh Primus, frag me frag me frag me!" Jazz chanted, digits scrabbling over the arm of the couch as he tried to hold on. Prowl made a note that the change in position was a very effective one. Not much longer after that, he lost the processor space to make notes like that and just lost himself in Jazz's desperate sounds of pleasure, letting his frame react accordingly.

This wound up being with Jazz practically folded in half with his leg pinned between their frames as Prowl pounded the loving slag out of him.

Jazz bit down into Prowl's shoulder plating hard as he overloaded, and Prowl yelped- it was all he could do to keep his hips moving through the other mech's overload, his calipers catching on and squeezing his spike in all the right ways until he couldn't take it anymore. The tac-net (thankfully) did not keep track of how and where his transfluid splattered over Jazz's abdominal plates, but that didn't stop Prowl from thinking it was beautiful in the most disgusting way. 

He tried to dive down for a kiss, but was panting too hard to do it properly, so he wound up simply mashing their nasal ridges together as they came down from the high. 

"Awesome...?" Prowl queried hopefully, leaning back slightly when he realized he was still crushing Jazz's leg against his chassis. He felt a pang of guilt, but the mech didn't seem at all discomforted and simply stretched that leg out beside Prowl's hip. 

Jazz laughed breathlessly, one servo reaching to stroke Prowl's cheek. "Pit yeah, that was awesome. Frag. Yer sure you haven't spiked in a while?" 

Prowl flustered. "Yes," he scoffed, trying to find the right place to hide his faceplates for a klik. This lead to him scooting down so that his bumper was beneath the Jazz's, which became a pillow for his cheek. "You are the only one since I was very new," he confessed in a rare display of sincerity. He hadn't really meant to say that sort of thing aloud, but he felt safe, laying on top of Jazz. 

"Really?" Jazz asked, quietly befuddled. "But- I mean- look at you!" 

Prowl didn't have anything to say about that, but his doorwings waggled lazily in the air, betraying how warm the compliment made him feel. He normally wouldn't think such things of himself- he was more than his frame and wanted to be known by his actions rather than his generous bumper or his sleek armor... but when Jazz said it he could let himself acknowledge it. There was also the fact that Jazz thought he was attractive, and that was a whole other plane of warm and fuzzy feelings. 

"How was work?" Jazz asked after what could have been an eon of comfortable silence only disturbed by the pops and pings of their armor cooling off. 

Prowl sighed deeply, turning his helm so he could rest the opposite cheek on Jazz's bumper. This allowed him the slightest view of the mech's jaw and cheek vents. "It was irritating," he murmured, emphasizing the 'was' to himself. Funny how fragging a pretty mech could make one's troubles wash away. Even when he skimmed through the memory files of the day, he didn't get that frustrated feeling again. 

"Yeah?"

"Yes." Prowl shuttered his optics. Even if he wasn't getting upset again, he would rather not risk it by going into it. "But it was also uneventful. There were no new reports of theft in any of the establishments I have contacts with; not since I was hospitalized and not currently."

"Well that's good, ain't it?" Jazz asked, finding a tense bundle of cables in Prowl's shoulder and kneading it gently. 

"Hmph. No. It only means that the investigation cannot move forward, as we still have no leads. Just because there is no theft currently happening, does not mean that the thief will not steal again. In any case, they should be brought to justice for their crimes, no matter how petty the theft has been." 

Jazz hummed. His servos moved to massage at a different spot on Prowl's back, and the enforcer melted. "Makes sense." 

Prowl was about to go more in-depth, because for some reason, Jazz made him feel like talking, but his comm. rang. He frowned at the time- just before sunrise- but accepted it regardless. "One moment," ::Prowl speaking.:: 

::Prowl.:: 

::Mirage.:: Ever the dramatist... he felt Jazz sit up slightly, forcing him to readjust from his comfortable position. ::What is-::

::What in the Pit did you do with my roommate.:: Mirage wasn't asking- then again, he hardly ever asked things. 

Prowl opened his intake to reply 'nothing, leave me alone' when Jazz piped up.

"Put him on speaker," the visored mech said, pushing Prowl further up and less on top of him as he sat up completely. The enforcer cut off a whine in complaint, then flushed because seriously? Whining about being stripped of his role as a two-ton blanket? Grow up. 

::Jazz.:: Mirage hissed, coming in loud and clear through the small speaker on Prowl's helm. ::No, actually, I am mad at both of you. What the frag!::

"You're gonna haveta use your big mech words, 'Raji."

::You haven't come home in four cycles! When you said you were gonna 'hang out' or whatever, I thought you'd be back during the day cycle at least!:: 

Prowl frowned, struggling to find the issue. Mirage hadn't liked it when Prowl was over at their apartment at all, and now he was upset because they weren't bothering him? 

"Miss me that bad?" Jazz teased. He pointed at Prowl's subspace pocket at his hip, then gestured to the transfluid that was currently drying on his plating. Prowl wordlessly retrieved a cleaning cloth and began cleaning up the mess he'd made despite the other mech trying to take it from him to do it himself. "Or did you lose your vape again?"

::That is besides the point- Prowl, give him back!:: 

Prowl raised an optical ridge at Jazz, who was failing to hide his grin behind a servo. ::I do not control where he goes,:: he said cooly, though part of him fluttered at the reminder that of anywhere in Cool City, Jazz wanted to stay in his boring apartment just for him. 

::Yeah, right. You've done something to him and I know it!:: 

Jazz broke into a fit of laughter, which Prowl had to try very hard not to join in with. He focused on wiping off the worst of their fluids from Jazz's thighs, and tried to hold onto the small fear he had of Mirage. It barely worked. 

"Yeah, he's just fragged my lights out, that's what he's done. Can you hop off it?" 

Prowl expected to be a little more mortified than prideful, not the other way around. He pushed that feeling off for later. 

::T.M.I., mech,:: Mirage grumbled. ::Just. Come back soon, got it?:: The comm. clicked out there, and Prowl was forced to feel a little bit of sympathy thanks to the sudden defeated tone in the mech's voice. Emphasis on little. 

"He's so clingy," Jazz muttered, finally stealing Prowl's cloth to give himself a once-over and to return the favor. He kissed Prowl's bumper guard lightly once he was done, then got up with a languid stretch. "I better go."

Prowl pouted, then quickly schooled his face away from disappointment and into something resembling neutrality. He just said Jazz can do whatever he wants- he doubted he could contain the mech if he tried- so why was he so dejected about it? "I understand," he said, and he did, but something irrational was nagging at the edges of his processor. "Recharge well."

"You too, sweetspark." Jazz gave him a regretful smile, then turned for the door before stopping and facing Prowl again, chewing his derma. "One more kiss?" 

Prowl wanted to say yes without missing a beat. He wanted to kiss Jazz until he starved. But that was precisely the problem; if he let one more kiss happen, who's to say it won't become two, and then three, and then another enthralling escapade leading to sore components and sticky messes. But... would that be so bad? The tac-net declared that, yes, it was, because Jazz had to leave and Mirage was going to kill him if he didn't let that happen. 

"Best not," Prowl whispered sadly, tucking his knees to his chassis as if that would keep it from sinking further. A sliver of hope gleaned that Jazz would kiss him anyway, and then it wouldn't be his fault if they got out of hand. 

But Jazz only nodded, then left Prowl in the emptiness that was his apartment. 

"C'mon, please?" Sunstreaker pleaded, stepping partially in front of the door. "I'm sorry I lied, but you look like slag!" 

Prowl's derma pressed into a thin line. Get tricked into visiting a paint shop once, shame on his subordinates. Get tricked into visiting a paint shop twice... "Your opinion is noted," he grumbled, not for the first time being made aware that his paint was a righteous mess thanks to getting blown up. There was only so much nanites could do to fix burnt plating, and making the artist's impeccable work good as new was not among their abilities. "But I am on duty and-"

"What if it was your lunch break?" Sunstreaker blurted, hands pressed together in a prayer. "I can get the worst of it cleaned up in a joor, easy! Just please don't go back out looking like this, please." 

Prowl studied the yellow mech's huge, rounded optics. Maybe he could forgive him for pulling such an underhanded trick (at least it was more convincing than Bluestreak had been), but he was still ruffled over the whole thing. He'd trusted Sunstreaker... but it was clear the artist only wanted to help- even if part of that was because he just couldn't stand how his work was walking around Cool City looking absolutely ruined. Maybe it was unacceptable for him to be neglecting his appearance, anyway... maybe bots would respect him a little more. 

"One joor," Prowl bit out, forcing his mildly flared plating down. "Do not attempt to coerce me again." 

Sunstreaker let out a deep exvent, frame loosening. "Thank you! I won't, I promise, but you have to understand, I couldn't think of any other way to get you here." 

"You could have asked me personally," Prowl suggested, following the artist to the little studio he would be standing in for the next joor. "We could have scheduled an arrangement that fits both of our schedules." 

Sunstreaker ducked his helm with a sheepish smile. "Oh... yeah, you're right." 

Prowl rolled his optics when Sunstreaker's back was turned. He watched the mech gather the right paints and tools while he positioned himself how he had been the first time he got painted. He ignored the scrutinizing observation of every nanometer of his frame and counted the breems as they passed by. 

"Mech, you've got supreme paint transfers," Sunstreaker complained at one point, while touching up the backs of Prowl's thighs. That made him plummet into supreme embarrassment, and he double-locked his jaw. "No way you were gonna want to walk around like this another day, don't lie to me." 

"I... was unaware," Prowl muttered, willing the embarrassment to just kill him already. He needed a washrack mirror. And then he remembered Jazz's washrack mirror and that got him all flustered too, so he busied himself with deleting threads and feeding dummy data to the tac-net. "I appreciate your willingness to help," he sighed, though he would rather not admit that at all since he got tricked into it. Some things could be forgiven, he supposed. 

"What would you do without me?" Sunstreaker laughed, moving on to the doorwings, which Prowl turned the sensors off for just however long it would take. It was a joke, but he couldn't help but admit to himself that he would be half-doomed if it weren't for Sunstreaker; he only knew one other paint shop and he hadn't liked the atmosphere there one bit. He likely would have kept neglecting to make an appointment with the artist anyway. 

Sunstreaker stepped away with a dissatisfied huff exactly fifty-nine breems later, shaking his head. "Alright, well... come back soon and you won't know you got exploded." 

Prowl stopped himself from saying 'I did not explode, I was in an explosion'. "I will try, thank you, Sunstreaker." He began digging around his subspace for some shanix to pay for the service, but the artist waggled a digit at him. 

"It's on the house, mech. Call it my gift, yeah?" He leaned in, a shadow cast over his optics as he uttered "compensation for what those other freaks got you." 

Prowl was simultaneously very grateful for Sunstreaker's gift, and disappointed that the... gifts... had to be brought up again. Oh well. He passed over it like everything else and bowed his helm in thanks. "You do not-"

"I insist! Only if you come back, though. If you don't let me finish what I started I'm charging you double." 

Prowl shut his intake and nodded solemnly. That wasn't a joke, and he knew it. "Of course, Sunstreaker." 

"Go on, get, go do your job, break's over now," Sunstreaker urged, practically shoving Prowl out of his establishment. "Walking PR nightmare..." 

Chapter Text

"Uh, sir?" 

Prowl dragged a servo down his faceplates with a long sigh. The camera he'd installed the night prior lay in several broken pieces on the ground as if it'd simply fallen off the wall and shattered. Unfortunately, Prowl knew he secured it right, there had been no wind storms, and he knew what that model of security camera looked like when it fell from a wall and onto hard pavement, and the condition it was in was not it. The breakage points didn't line up with the point of impact, for one. For another... the data was missing from it entirely. Wiped clean. Nothing. 

"Camera 4C, deliberately destroyed and wiped," Prowl announced, crouching to begin picking up the pieces and placing them in an evidence bag. "It is the same as the other seven."

"Dang," Trailbreaker muttered, typing his glyphs into the report notes. 

It had been a depressing shift after Prowl's forced lunch break. Not only was there nothing new to narrow down the suspect pool, but so far, all but two cameras had been demolished in this way. What was on the survivors was nothing of note; just empty alleyways with the occasional public interface that Prowl had to go through just in case one of those nasty bots was the thief. Newsflash: they hadn't been. The cameras had nothing, but the shop owners all reported their things going missing again, and Prowl was getting that unscratchable itch at the back of his processor that would start driving him insane sooner than later. 

Whoever the thief was, was smart. Smarter than Prowl would have given credit for had it not been for how almost-perfectly the security cameras had been taken out. Before, the lock-picking and undetectable break-ins had been just slightly impressive. Combined, Prowl was sure he was facing a mastermind. 

Good thing Prowl himself was quite smart. 

"How good are you at staying awake?" Prowl asked without looking over his shoulder at Trailbreaker. He subspaced the eighth broken camera and continued on to the next building. 

"I dunno, alright, I guess," Trailbreaker replied, diligently walking a few paces behind Prowl. "Why...?" 

"I am issuing a stake-out." Prowl would have been waiting out the thief during the day cycles ago had he not been injured at Brainstorm & Co.'s, and would have been assigning himself to the same task had he not the misfortune of having Doctor Ratchet as his new primary physician. He had tried to argue that sitting in his alt-mode in an alleyway all day was hardly 'excessive activity', but the doctor insisted that it could easily turn out that way, should he get into an altercation with the thief. 

"And you want me to do it?" 

"Yes." Prowl stopped to face the other enforcer. "Are you available and able?" 

Trailbreaker looked astounded, his optics blown wide. "Me?!" he repeated, pointing at himself. 

Prowl flicked a doorwing with mild irritation. He was clear, wasn't he? Besides, it should have been obvious; Trailbreaker had taken this case seriously since the beginning, and was clearly eager to see it through to the end. He also hadn't harassed Prowl about his personal life any of the times they'd taken their rounds of the establishments, which proved he was less prone to distractions. It was perfect behavior for a good stake-out. 

"Yes," Prowl said again, slower. 

"Yes!" Trailbreaker cheered, and, ah, so that was why he was so surprised. "I'd love to, ooh, I won't let you down, sir!" 

Prowl retained his optic roll at his over-enthusiasm. "Good. I recommend sitting in the alleyway across from Press Play. It will give you a good vantage point of both the club and the neighboring second-hand furniture store. Or-" he rattled off a few more points of interest as he continued walking, following the frequency of the robberies and the proximities of establishments. He could hear Trailbreaker's digits softly clacking against his datapad as he took notes. He decided that this was perhaps his favorite subordinate... not that he should technically have favorites, but to be fair... Cliffjumper. 

Prowl sat in his office chair heavily, sighing in relief from getting the weight off of his struts. His doorwings were aching, which was only a little bit of a surprise. They had just been fixed five cycles ago, after all. He ignored the tac-net for ten kliks before giving in and continuing productivity. Ten kliks was a better break than nothing. 

His datawork went uninterrupted for a whole six breems. 

"Sergeant?" 

Prowl resisted the urge to slam his helm face-first into his desk. "What," he grumbled, not bothering to look up at Smokescreen. Sorry chief, too busy signing off on reports.

"Oh, spicy today, are we?" Prowl dutifully ignored that remark in favor of picking up a second data pad. "Just letting you know I'm adding myself to the stakeout." 

That... was odd. The chief had shown little interest in the robberies, even when the number of effected establishments climbed from seven to twenty in just two cycles. He was also notorious for sleeping in his office or gambling rather than doing anything of significance. 

"Are you?" Prowl asked, incredulous. He looked up, and the sliver of Hound's green plating peaking out from behind Smokescreen explained everything. He knew he would never just do something of his own accord. He pretended not to notice Hound. "That is a good idea, Chief Smokescreen." 

"Yeah, it is, so... don't say I never did anything about it." Hound cleared his vocalizer with a grunt behind the chief, to which he scowled. "I mean- happy to help, sarge..." 

Prowl sighed, but didn't try to fight it. Another bot running stake-outs would greatly improve their chances of spotting anything that could lead to this case getting solved. He didn't like that help was coming forced, but he was fed up enough as it was. "Will that be all, sir?" 

Smokescreen's doorwings twitched, and his face contorted into another interesting look. It was clear that Hound was still behind him, silently urging that, yes, the conversation was over, but the chief was practically vibrating from whatever baseless accusation or desperate plea for information he was holding back. Prowl raised his optical ridges, waiting for the dam to break or for Hound to drag him away or both. 

"How long until your doctor's note expires, again?" the chief asked, probably to the surprise of all three of them. 

Prowl narrowed his optics, suspicious. "Three more cycles after today." Saying it aloud made the time that passed seem so short; he'd expected the orn plus two cycles to feel like forever, but the past five cycles felt like a blur. A crazy, confusing, strangely wonderful blur. 

"What do you wanna bet- ah ah! Let me finish! Put your wings down, let me explain!" Smokescreen waved his hands frantically, begging to be heard out. Hound's shadow loomed threateningly behind him, and Prowl did not relax from his puffed-up posture. "What do you wanna bet I can catch the perp before you're cleared for full-duty? And I'm not talking shanix." 

"I am not betting with you, Smokescreen," Prowl warned, not for the first time and surely not for the last. 

"But it motivates me!" Smokescreen protested, also not for the first time. "C'mon, c'mon, you want this bot caught, I don't want to keep seeing this case on my desk, I'm not even asking for money-" 

At that point, Hound did his signature servo-on-the-back-of-Smokescreen's-neck, which only mostly stopped the chief from getting on his knees and begging to have his addiction scratched. 

"Why not pretend, like the last time you insisted on making a bet out of your work?" Prowl, sickened by the chief's behavior, turned his immediate attention back to his datapads. 

"That sucked so bad, mech, you don't even know. The gratification lasted half as long and I'm no good at pretending," sniffed Smokescreen, absolutely pathetically. "You're not even gonna ask what I want to bet instead?" 

Prowl shook his helm. He didn't want to know and he didn't care. He paused his current perusal of Strongarm's lockers inventory report to do a quick search on the datanet for rehab centers. Of course, no such thing existed in Cool City unless you got yourself so comatose you wound up in one of the hospitals. 

"If I catch the perp in three cycles, then you have to tell me everything so I can settle the bets I've made. Bots are slagged and want their shanix back. If I don't, then, uh, I dissolve those bets and take on a whole lot of debt." 

Prowl pursed his derma.

"And I don't make new bets on you anymore."

"I believe you were not to make new bets regarding myself since the first time I asked," Prowl reminded the chief, idly correcting the spelling errors in Cliffjumper's vacation time request. 

"Yeah, well..." a metallic clang told Prowl that Hound just knocked the chief upside the head. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, okay?! But if you do this one I swear I-" 

"Smokey," warned Hound. "You can't force Prowl to take that bet. You shouldn't be makin' it in the first place, you know that." 

Prowl, again, not for the first time and not for the last, was thankful for having a sane, clear-headed deputy to wrangle the mess of a chief he had the misfortune of working for. But because he worked for Smokescreen, he knew the mech took his bets very seriously- if he lost, fair and square, he would hold up his end. 

"I accept your terms." Prowl decided that he didn't have that much to lose if he lost- the whole city knew too much about his private life, and so what if they got their fill of old details? The pros heavily outweighed that con. If Smokescreen won, that meant that the thief would be brought to justice and that the establishments effected wouldn't have to worry about their things getting stolen anymore. He could close the case and move on. If Prowl won, he would get a little more privacy. And Prowl was feeling confident that he could win- the thief just had to evade arrest for three cycles, or Prowl would have to catch the thief first. Which... how would he do that, when still on light duty? 

"See, I told you- wait what." 

"Yes!!! Yes, thank you Prowl, thank you! It's on, sarge, just you wait!" The chief transformed right there in the hall, tires skidding as he crashed through the side door and into the night. 

Prowl silently pulled up a tab on his monitor and sent in an order for another new door. Then, he began running ideas through his tac-net on how he was going to catch the ghost of a thief without being able to participate in stake-outs.

"Prowl, do you have any idea what you've just agreed to?" Hound asked, exasperated. The deputy sat himself across from Prowl with a huff. "You're crazy." 

Prowl shrugged. "I have weighed the positives and the negatives. I have accepted either outcome, however much I may not like the one where I lose. It is... not so bad." 

"Please don't get into this, mech."

"I am not- and will not- indulge Chief Smokescreen beyond this instance, I assure you." 

Hound sighed, defeated and tired. "Alright. As long as you know what you're doin'." 

A joor later, Prowl had finally been able to absorb himself in datawork. No bot bothered him, and it was bliss. Until his comm. rang, and he accepted it without missing a beat- he still had the hotline this cycle.

::Enforcer line, what is the emergency?::

::Yeah, there's a cute enforcer stealing my spark, gonna need help straight away!::

Prowl's servos cupped his faceplates to hide the flush that immediately befell them. ::Jazz, I am at work,:: he said, not to push him away but to warn him against saying anything too crass. Or endearing. Either way, he couldn't afford smiling in front of his coworkers, lest they catch on to something Prowl still couldn't really admit to himself.  

::Ya don't say, Mr. Enforcer Line...:: Jazz teased. ::When're you off?:: 

::Half joor. Why do you ask?:: 

Prowl couldn't stop the processor threads from springing up- bringing up ideas related to the roller rink, or the chase, or any of their times in berth, or maybe something entirely new, like... he didn't know. Something new. 

::Just wanna see your pretty face again.::

'Just seeing your pretty face' was a veil as thin as wisps of smoke, and Prowl knew it before he agreed to visiting Jazz. If Jazz wasn't intending on getting into some trouble tonight, then Prowl would probably find a way to initiate it instead. The tac-net was also highly aware of this, and dug its heels in over the entirety of the drive to Visages. It stopped whining the instant Prowl was yanked inside the apartment that rested above the club that was just beginning to wind down for the coming day cycle. 

"You got a touch-up," Jazz gasped breems later, Prowl's derma releasing the other mech's in favor of sucking on throat cables. How they ended up on the dining room table, neither really knew, but their frames were pressed close and warm, so did it really matter?

Prowl's doorwings fluttered- Jazz noticed (of course he noticed, spat the tac-net, stating a fact)! "M-hm," he hummed, letting his servos wander the planes and curves of Jazz's frame. "Sunstreaker called the hotline. Tricked me into it." 

"Primus bless him." Jazz's own servos mapped out the places where the paint had been ruined, now mostly obscured by Sunstreaker's rushed joor of work. "You're goin' back to get it finished, right?" 

Prowl hummed another affirmation, too busy trailing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down the other mech's hood. The rumbling engine underneath made the oddest vibrations to his intake. But then Jazz's servos were pulling his face back up, mashing their derma together harder than before- he wouldn't be surprised if one or both of their nasal ridges dented.

"Mind if I give him a big job?" Jazz purred once he released Prowl's helm and laid his own helm back on the table, drool making his lower faceplates glisten. 

Prowl's cooling fans stuttered, also making him aware of how high they were cranked already. The tac-net wasn't on board with deliberately ruining his new touch-up, but Prowl managed to persuade it that if he was going to get it fixed anyway... plus wasn't it curious? Prowl sure was. Among other things. He unpinned Jazz, allowing the mech to get back on his pedes.

"Is Mirage-"

"Handled it, sweetspark. Set him up with a mech, he should be plenty occupied," Jazz said into Prowl's neck, dentae lightly grazing his main fuel line. That was good enough for Prowl, already half-slagged by the heat in his frame and the addicting physical touches. He surrendered to it completely as he was spun around and pushed down into the table, and oh wow, they were going to do this right there, were they? After ruining Mirage's berth and Mirage's living room carpet? What's a dining room table... 

Heat and lubricants pooled deliciously behind Prowl's valve cover, and Jazz's servos were all over him, grabbing and pulling as the mech promised to really ruin his paint, just how he liked it. It was all so dirty, but this time he didn't think about shying away from it. The tac-net was blissfully quiet, simply observing as their closed arrays rocked together, how Jazz hoisted one of Prowl's knees up to rest on the edge of the table, giving him bright ideas for what was to come, filling him with anticipation.

Just when Prowl was sure it was time for panels to slide away and for his processor to get thoroughly blown, Jazz suddenly left him-

"What are ya doin'?!" Jazz yelped, prompting Prowl to look over his shoulder and of course. 

Mirage suddenly being back and walking in on them for the third time wasn't much of a surprise. What was a surprise, however, was that Mirage had his legs wrapped around Hound's waist, both of them frozen in the doorway. 

"I said go out 'n' have fun, not bring fun here!" 

Mirage was out of Hound's hold in an instant, marching to Jazz with a digit already pointed accusingly at the visored mech. His plating was flared wide, optics overbright with charge. "What, so you can have fun here instead?! You- you're- unbelievable!" 

The two roommates continued to squabble, shouting and snarling at each other with waving arms. That left Prowl, now standing rigidly, sharing horrified optic-contact with Hound. Deputy Hound. His boss before the big boss.

It wasn't like Hound didn't know- the entire city knew about Prowl and Jazz to some extent or the other. To be seen bent over a dining room table with his (thankfully closed) valve panel on clear display, however... If his jaw could clench any tighter, it'd fuse permanently shut. Hound looked almost equally embarrassed, and Prowl could understand why- the bright blue paint transfers on his codpiece were stark against his dark green paint. He wished he'd never seen that, and he would guarantee Hound thought the same. 

"We were here first!" Prowl heard Jazz protest once he tuned back in to the loud argument happening right in front of him. 

"Like I'm gonna let you ruin my table too! Nasty-aft." 

Prowl grimaced. The charge nearly completely left his frame by then, leaving him with clarity. He couldn't believe he had been about to do that... stupid... He cleared his vocalizer softly, muttering that he was just going to go home. 

"What?" Jazz peeped, helm jerking away from Mirage to look at Prowl as he awkwardly trudged to the door. 

"Yesss!" Mirage cheered evilly, flicking Jazz's helm. "Hound?" He cocked his hip, surely intending to pick up where they left off. Gross. 

Hound straightened, then shook his helm. "I'm, uh, gonna head out too, I think. Sorry, 'Raj. Nice meeting you." 

It was Mirage's turn to falter, faceplates falling in a slack-jawed expression. "What...?" 

Prowl didn't stick around to see Jazz's reaction, nor the beginnings of another heated argument heard through the shutting door. He also pointedly did not look at Hound as they both had to walk/drive in the same direction. Because they also lived at the same complex. Because of course they did. Thankfully, Hound also very much did not look at him, either, but it didn't make the silent drive any less awkward. 

"Sarge?" Hound piped up, just before the entrance to the complex. Prowl slowly raised his helm to look the deputy in the optics. "Not a word to Smokey." 

Prowl nodded wordlessly- as if he even wanted to talk about it to anyone- trusting that Hound would do the same for him. His plating itched as he lay in berth, and his spark made the room feel even emptier than it really was. He considered inviting the mech that did this to him over. But he was tired. And cold. He pinged a simple 'good night' to the mech instead, quickly adding a snapshot of his known work schedule for the next couple orns. Then, he promptly fell into fluxless recharge. 

Chapter Text

::Report.::

::Nothing, sir. Streets were empty all day. Blaster said everything's in order. Want me to send you the dashcam?::

Prowl sighed, resting his chin on a fist. He began queuing up the comm. codes of the other establishments, hoping this was just an off-cycle rather than a sign of the thief catching on to the plan already. ::No, thank you, Trailbreaker. Try to recharge for tomorrow, but keep your sensors on.:: 

That comm. clicked out, then Prowl immediately dialed the next code.

::Chief Smokescreen, report.:: 

Smokescreen scoffed on the other end, barely audible, before admitting that he didn't catch anything either, but not because there was nothing, but because he had gotten 'distracted'. ::Could never resist big rigs...:: was his mumbled reasoning. 

Prowl was highly disappointed, for many reasons, but the tiniest sliver of realization that Smokescreen could very well throw his own bet kept him from blowing a fuse. He did not ask for the chief's dashcam footage. He'd had more than enough glimpses into his superior's sex lives lately, thank you. 

Most of the following calls were dead ends, as well. Only three establishments reported anything stolen, and none of them had a clue. So, Prowl prepared himself for a long day of walking around and finding no evidence whatsoever. 

Just as he'd accepted that he would be on his own, which really shouldn't feel so lonely because that's how he worked everywhere else, a certain alluring speedster pulled up to the curb with a brief flash of his hazards. Prowl swallowed the deja-vu that followed, the tac-net reminding him that he hadn't been miraculously given the cycle off. He didn't say anything as Jazz made a show of his transformation, coming to stand just in front of the enforcer. 

"Mornin'!" chirped Jazz, though Prowl could see that his grin was half-forced. The tac-net reached for the pots and pans to clang around. "Whatcha up to?"

"Good morning, Jazz." He subtly scanned the area for onlookers. Of course, with the sun completely gone from the sky, there were quite a lot of bots on the street rushing off to do copious amounts of drugs and dance until their axles broke. It wasn't immediately obvious that anyone was staring, however Prowl remained on alert. "I am on my way to investigate the petty theft case." 

Jazz perked up as if Prowl had said the most interesting thing in the world. "Mind if I tag along?" he asked hopefully, wringing his servos together in a show of anxiety. Anxiety. Prowl eyed him suspiciously, and the mech quickly waved his hands in front of himself before the tac-net could really start ringing the alarm bells. "I'm not gonna take you out or anything! You're workin', but I miss you and-" 

"Alright," Prowl sighed. The tac-net scoffed, crossing its metaphorical arms in disbelief. "But there is nothing... fun happening," he warned, the glyph 'fun' coming out of his intake lopsidedly thanks to neglect. He was forced to admit to himself that he had missed the other mech too, and that he didn't have the spark to turn him away. 

Jazz straightened into a mock salute, and Prowl's concern melted away when the mech's goofy grin shown through his serious facade. He didn't ease up, but he acknowledged the warmth in his chassis this time. He still didn't understand or believe it, but he'd discovered that it was easier to let it be than to freeze it back. Either way, it meant he was going to act a fool sooner or later, and there was no stopping it because there was no stopping Jazz. He was resigned to his fate. However, the tac-net proposed a scenario where murder was legal, and he chided it for living in a fantasy world. And also for suggesting Prowl would cross a line such as that- seriously, so rude. 

Prowl only mildly regretted letting his... letting Jazz tag along when the store owners he was trying to talk to kept gawking and nudging their coworkers like they were celebrities- alright, well Jazz was certainly a big celebrity, and Prowl wasn't exactly unknown at this point- instead of treating the investigation seriously. But Jazz stayed in the background as much as he could, idly wandering the shops as Prowl updated his files and tried not to let it get under his plating. On the sidewalk, Jazz walked beside him, occasionally brushing shoulders and elbows like he was going to die if they didn't touch at all, but didn't go further than that. Jazz asked simple questions about the case, and Prowl gave simple answers to the extent he was allowed to reveal. It was casual, and it was nice.

Until without warning or fanfare, Jazz took Prowl by his forearms and dragged them both into the mouth of the nearest alleyway. 

"What are you-"

"You're not mad at me, right?" 

Prowl frowned down at Jazz's worried expression, then slowly removed the servos from his arms. He tried to smooth his plating down, but he didn't like being suddenly pulled into an alleyway. Prowl knew what went on in these alleyways... none of it was something he'd like to try, and certainly not when he was on the clock.

"No?" was his reply, because it was the truth, but also because he wasn't sure what could have made Jazz think that. The tac-net decided for him that he would be mad, if Jazz decided to try anything funny in this alleyway. "Why did you feel it was necessary to ask me this... here." There was a smell his olfactory sensors were picking up on now; something he'd fortunately missed in all of his alley-cam footage. Like grime and waste products topped with ozone. Disgusting. 

"Paparazzi," Jazz muttered as an answer.

"Ah." So Prowl hadn't been imagining the subtle flashes of light and the staring... great. He resigned himself again, remembering that any attempt at fading into obscurity would be futile in this city. 

"I'm sorry I didn't make sure Mirage knew not to come home. Didn't mean to run you off by yellin' at him, either." 

Something clicked into place in Prowl's processor at last, and he finally relaxed fully. "It was not your fault," he told Jazz sincerely, because that was also the truth. "But," he began, hesitating before his next words, "why did you set Mirage up with Hound?" 

And then something must have clicked for Jazz, too, because his visor lit up a little brighter, and his plating loosened. "Oh, Pits," he laughed. "When he walked us back to your place I figured he'd be great to mellow Mira out a bit. Plus, y'know, he's got a type and-" 

"I do not need to know more than that," Prowl interjected swiftly. "But thank you. His presence..." he searched for the right glyph, pointedly ignoring whatever the tac-net had to offer, "surprised me, is all. I was not prepared for him to see me like... that." 

"Do I gotta hack into his cortex?" Jazz asked, tone a little too serious for Prowl to simply pass off as a joke. He labeled it as one anyway, afraid to open that particular can of bolts at the moment. He doubted Jazz would or even could perform mnemosurgery, but he was reminded that there was still a lot he didn't know about the mech, despite how much it felt like they had known each other for vorns.

"No, do not do that," he settled on quickly, just in case. One of his oldest memories crackled to life, reminding him why he wasn't a fan of mnemosurgeons. "Hound is respectable and keeps his intake shut." 

"Good." Jazz glanced at the entrance to the alley, then to the other end, far, far back in the darkness, before angling his helm a certain way and stepping closer.

The tac-net dove for the controls before whatever was bound to happen could happen. "I am not interfacing with you in an alleyway," Prowl blurted, subconsciously taking a step back, only to find that the wall was closer than he thought. 

Jazz's faceplates did a number of things before settling on amusement. "I wasn't gonna try!" he laughed, a promise. "Can't a mech kiss his lover's hand?" 

Lover. It felt a little too crass or too bold for Prowl's liking, but he supposed it was accurate enough. He'd done surface-level research on interpersonal relationships before, trying to parse out what category or what terminology he could use for whatever Jazz was to him and vice versa. In the same vent, he realized that Jazz had been reaching for his servo, not any other part of his frame. He felt stupid for jumping the gun, but the tac-net told him it was better to be safe than sorry, and to probably not touch Jazz ever again in any capacity. Now he wasn't sure who was most logical. 

"Ah," muttered Prowl, doorwings sinking a little. "My apologies. I suppose that is acceptable." Though barely. A kiss to the back of his servo could easily become getting fired for breaking the law if he wasn't careful. As Jazz smiled at him so warmly and so gently brought his servo up to his derma, he let the tac-net sit at the front of his processor to facilitate his behavior and emotions. 

"You're coiled tighter than a shock, babe," Jazz teased, still holding his servo lightly after placing the most gentle kiss to his knuckles. "Wish we could just walk around together without the cameras." He bowed his helm to kiss the flat plate of the back of his hand next, which was both concerning and thrilling in a low-key way. 

"Me too." Prowl frowned, watching Jazz place a third kiss to the back of his wrist, and the tac-net slammed the big red button to shut down the operation. Unfortunately, the tac-net was in Prowl's helm, not Jazz's, and had no effect on the mech's next carefully aimed attack to his forearm. "What are you doing?" 

"What's it look like?" A seam on his arm. The inside of his elbow joint. Just above the elbow joint. 

"I am working," Prowl warned, the tac-net tugging at him to shove Jazz away, to pin him and cuff him- but that had the complete wrong effect and it quickly switched to filling Prowl's processor with images of disappointed role models. That was much more effective, but still not quite enough. 

"Then stop me." 

Jazz lightly kissed all up his arm and shoulder, across his collar, his other shoulder and down to the elbow joint of that arm before Prowl could even think of actually stopping the mech. The tac-net screamed that he wanted it to stop, but he couldn't fully agree with its assessment. 

"I could charge you for assault of an enforcer," Prowl grumbled, not putting up any effort in blocking Jazz from peppering him with kisses. He stood stock still, plating nearly locked with his face scrunched up. "Quit it." 

"The drama." Jazz went for the derma, and Prowl swiftly turned his head away. His fuel pump was hammering away, but the tac-net was easily winning this round of control. He couldn't be caught like this, not on shift. But Jazz laughed and kissed the turned cheek a couple times before finally retreating, hands on his hips and a cocky grin. "Wasn't so awful, was it?"

Prowl didn't immediately get blown up or fired or sent to jail, but that didn't mean he wouldn't get in trouble later. He gave a disapproving frown to Jazz, who shrugged it off like a thin tarp. 

"You guys are so cute!" 

And there it was. 

Jazz and Prowl both gawked at Bumblebee, who just sort of materialized from the farthest corner of the alley, and was now rooting around the dumpsters. 

"You didn't see me back here but I'm just looking for a- a- a- I don't know actually, but you didn't see me! But I'm gonna keep looking, 'kay? Jazz, you should totally kiss him again that was so sweet, and personally I don't care that you're not even playing like you used to because there's a new bot taking your spot already! Imagine that... Jazz! Dethroned! What kind of Cool City is Cool City without Jazz, amiright? Mech, this garbage stinks!" 

"New bot...?" Jazz muttered under his breath, completely overshadowed by another long-winded rant about how great the minibot thought they looked as a couple interspersed with how gross and slimy the trash was. 

Prowl watched the yellow minibot get covered in grime before shuddering and turning away, heading for the street rather than sticking around for... whatever that was. "Jazz," he beckoned, as the visored mech was absolutely entranced by the scene. A look over his shoulder earned him the image of Bumblebee's pedes disappearing into the dumpster and the lid falling over him. 

"Explosion musta knocked a few more of his screws loose," Jazz muttered, finally falling into step beside Prowl. "Love him, but he's a weird lil dude." 

Prowl hummed in agreement, but made no further comment. He was still trying to compartmentalize everything that'd just happened, and the tac-net was being petty by not helping him out with that. But then his tanks growled, and his pedes were getting sore, so he paused in the middle of the sidewalk with a sigh. 

"Can you behave yourself at Pyrite?" Prowl asked both Jazz and himself. He was feeling pretty good about keeping his servos to himself now that he was certainly doomed to get caught no matter where he turned. No where was safe anymore. As for Jazz...

"Hmmm. Maybe!" 

Prowl decided that was good enough, and began navigating to the little diner. With any luck, it wouldn't be as crowded as it had been the past couple orns.

"Wee-Woo!" cheered all three Pyrite employees as Prowl entered the diner, Jazz hot on his heels. This meant that Prowl's responding doorwing flutter bashed the mech's face a couple times, which caused an awkward pause in the doorway as he tried to simultaneously get away and apologize. 

"And you brought Jazz! Aw, you shouldn't have!" Arcee cooed, screwing the cap to a condiment bottle back on. "Not working too hard, are ya?" 

Much to Prowl's relief, Pyrite wasn't overflowing with bots at this time of night. Not that it ever got absurdly loud in the establishment, but the decrease in volume and prying eyes made him feel a little more comfortable with being out in public. Plus, Arcee, Hot Rod, and Springer were all nice to him, and he suspected were secretly cheerleaders for whatever his relationship with the musician would turn into, which was better than them muttering about the loss of Jazz like most others did. 

"Unfortunately, no," Prowl replied, deciding to sit at the counter so he could converse with the Pyrite bots easier. "It has been quiet." 

"If anyone can catch that pesky thief, it's you, babe," Jazz said assuringly as he sat down next to Prowl. He sat in a way that made their knees touch, and the tac-net pressed its attention against the bars of its enclosure. 

Hot Rod hid a snicker behind his servo that Prowl didn't bother trying to decipher. 

"I sure hope so. Have you heard about Smokey's new bet?" Arcee slipped a menu in front of Jazz, but not Prowl. He assumed she would put in an order for what had steadily become his 'usual', and so wasn't perturbed by this. Springer reached from behind Arcee to place a plain energon cube in front of him, which he looked at with delight until Jazz pulled supplements out of his subspace. What kind of freak carries supplements for another mech around?!

"Nope, what's he got cookin' this time?" Jazz asked, tearing the little packets open and aiming for Prowl's servo-covered cube. 

Arcee side-eyed Prowl before laying the details out, and Hot Rod took it upon himself to help Jazz ruin the cube. Traitor. Hot Rod held one of his wrists while Jazz had the other, forcing Prowl to watch in silent horror as the powders dissolved in the energon. He couldn't even complain without looking like a sparkling, so he resigned to grumbling under his breath and drinking it despite the horrible taste. He considered swapping it for the cube Springer had placed in front of Jazz not long after, but it was four against one here. He'd have to cause a scene. 

"Smokey's an idiot," Jazz chuckled, now fully in the loop about the bet Prowl took with Smokescreen. He wasn't proud of it, but at least he wasn't losing an absurd amount of shanix over it. "No way he catches the bot in two cycles. If Prowl doesn't have a clue, no way he does." 

"But you forget that Wee-Woo can't be on the stakeout yet. Smokey just has to see the bot once and he'd probably be able to catch them!" Hot Rod argued, retreating into the kitchen to make their orders. 

Prowl put his helm in his servos with a groan. Maybe that was why it had suddenly gotten so quiet... if everyone knew that there was a stakeout happening to catch this thief in the first place, then the thief probably knew it too! What a disaster. He wondered if Trailbreaker blabbed first, or if it was all the chief boasting about the bet. Either way, the chances of actually catching the bot now were incredibly low. He spurred the tac-net into drafting a new plan, internal fans whining at the mental strain. 

"Still," Jazz muttered, loudly sipping his very much not supplement-filled energon. What had become his life. 

"It'll be alright, Prowl," piped up Springer, voice hopeful and reassuring. "TB said you're real good at this slag, right? You'll win this one, and you'll be the one to solve the mystery." Somehow, that only made him feel slightly better about the whole thing. Just two cycles... that would be easier to push through than pulling a suspect out of thin air. He had to figure something out. He'd take just about anything at this point!

Prowl sighed, mumbling his thanks to Springer as he drooped over his disgusting energon cube. He wasn't sure why or how, but something that glimmered in the reflection of the glass gave him an idea. It was kind of foolish, but-

"Arcee, would you mind if I remained here after closing?" 

"I mean, not really, but why?" Arcee leaned forward, catching on to the fact that Prowl was cooking something up in his processor. Jazz, too, was drawn in, visor trained on the side of his face. 

"I may not be cleared for a stakeout," Prowl paused when Hot Rod burst from the kitchen, two steaming platters in his servos. "But Ratchet said nothing of day-time private parties." 

Chapter Text

Springer was ecstatic. He was practically sprinting around the diner as he pushed tables against the walls and stacked chairs to make room on the floor for a small, private party. He'd never been invited to one before! Probably because most people went to the big parties, anyway- there was more to share or pass around and it was easy to get lost in the bump-and-grind and come out just a little bit different. But private parties? He had friends, sure, but never any that invited him to them. And even better? The Jazz of Stanix was going to be there! He hummed one of the mech's top hits as he mopped the floor, doing a little dance as he went along. And what was even better than Jazz being there? Prowl was also going to be there! The badaft super detective! Double-whammy!

"I hope we get robbed!" Springer chirped to Arcee as he put the bucket and mop away in the back. He would die to see Prowl in action. He probably had like, awesome ninja skills to take down bad guys. He envisioned the enforcer doing a double front-flip vault over the counter and karate-chopping some masked burglar in the faceplates. That would be so cool. 

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but me too." Arcee finished putting all of the cooking supplies away, then likely took an image capture of each shelf to keep track of it all. "They keep taking my good salt." 

"And the drugs, now!" Hot Rod called from a different corner of the backroom/kitchen area. "Unless one of you stashed all the 88, which, rude. I was gonna do that." 

Springer poked his head around to the closet-sized drug cabinet Hot Rod was looking in. It was in a little bit of disarray, because half the time they get into it, it's in a hurry to put something in, not take something out. Bots who didn't have the shanix to pay their tabs often forked over their goods to avoid any trouble. This... also became a semi-common method of bartering as a result, even from those that could afford the tab but didn't want to spend it because they'd rather offload the stuff they'd already gotten enough of. Needless to say, Pyrite had quite a lot stored up because if they were going to accept it as payment, they might as well try to use it as payment somewhere else. Springer's apron? They'd traded a couple mgs of Tryptic Powder for it where it would have cost them a good thirty shanix. 

"Not me." Arcee shrugged, cramping the space by reaching through Hot Rod to start putting things in order. "But we should probably keep these away for the party anyway." 

"What?!" crowed Springer, who was already debating between Hollow Matter and DS-GX5. Maybe both! "But-"

"Wee-Woo'd have a fit, mech," Arcee explained, wrestling her co-owner out of her way when his organization wasn't matching up with hers. "Yeah, he's sort of getting used to the whole deal, but he gets twitchy whenever it's in sight. That's why we don't get high on the clock anymore, remember?" 

Springer did remember. But if Prowl wanted a party, but didn't want to do fun drugs at the party... was it really a party? He scratched his helm as he tried to puzzle it out. 

"Speak for yourself," Hot Rod muttered from the sidelines, butthurt from being kicked out of the cabinet. Arcee shot him a look, then closed the cabinet, even locking it as she finished. Tiny, private, day-time, sober party it was. Whatever, they could still have fun with two of the coolest mechs in Cool City, right? Right? 

Speaking of the coolest mechs in Cool City, the front door's bell chimed not a breem early or late. Springer forgot his moping about not being allowed to take any drugs, and sped out of the kitchen to greet them. 

Prowl's paint was noticeably better, and he was still a little glossy from the top coats. He always had a presence about him, like he was bigger than he really was (maybe the doorwings made him seem that way too), but somehow, he didn't look so big and important as he shook the worst of the rain off of his plating. Jazz, however, had the same presence he always did, which was also larger than life and quite liquid. He actually did a few minor transformations in quick succession to get the droptlets off of himself, and it just looked so cool. 

"Prowl! Jazz! Hi!" Springer greeted, back to being nothing but ecstatic over the whole thing. He had been so excited, he hadn't even noticed when it had started raining. Kind of dreary for a party, but at least it wasn't crazy bright out. He wasn't used to the sunlight anymore, and frankly hadn't seen it in probably a vorn until now. 

"Springer! What's up?" Jazz greeted with a broad grin. Prowl did his usual polite nod and wing dip. So stoic! Cool! 

"Uh oh, Wee-Woo in the house!" Arcee, followed by Hot Rod, joined the group in the main area of the diner. "We've kept it low-key, but don't be afraid to let loose, ya hear?"

Prowl ducked his helm again, and for probably the first time Springer had ever witnessed, gave Arcee a small smile. "I appreciate your willingness to host this... event, Arcee. I do apologize that I must use it as a cover to work, but I hope that catching this thief will bring me more time to socialize in the future." 

Wow, this guy could talk like an archivist. Springer thought it was kind of silly, but it made Prowl unique and being unique also added to the cool factor. 

"I'll hold you to that, Wee-Woo. Don't test me!" 

Arcee then slipped behind the counter to prepare drinks for everybot. It was mostly just coolant, because this was a lame sober party now, but that was fine. Springer was more than happy to talk to Jazz and also Hot Rod and Arcee outside of work (Prowl was dutifully checking the kitchen for a third time whenever he was ready to switch conversation partners). He started feeling introspective after a while of that and that bothered him, so he got himself some high-grade to mellow it out. 

"Day-time parties used to be all the rage until the glow-in-the-dark paint got popular. Then it was like, 'what's the point?' when no one could see your new job in the sunlight. We should totally bring this back, though," Hot Rod explained at one point, glancing out at the rain. "Oh! We could play a game!" 

Springer perked up at that, abandoning his high-grade. He was wondering when something fun would happen at this 'party'. No offense to the coolest mechs in Cool City, but this was just standing around and talking (and not talking) not... partying. 

Hot Rod had suggested Spin the Bottle- 'filthy style'- at first, but Jazz shot it down in favor of a less intimate game. No one was the least bit disappointed when the mech said they should play Truth or Dare instead. No one would have to swap oral lubricants (unless dared, which Springer was totally going to do) but it still had that sort of scandalous premise where secrets could come out. Cool City, and by extension Springer, loved to dig for secrets. He could already list a dozen or more Truths he wanted to ask everyone in the room, but was getting a helm full of ideas for Dares as well. This was probably even better than filthy style Spin the Bottle! 

"Prowl, you should join us!" Springer urged, already scooting over to make their circle bigger. Yeah, the mech was probably doing some super-important business by standing off by the kitchen, but he had orchestrated the whole party, so he should have at least a little fun, right? No harm in good-ol'-fashioned Truth or Dare! 

Springer could see the very tips of Prowl's doorwings twitch from his vantage point on the ground. He made a face, probably overthinking it, then trudged over from his post. Look at that, winning! He contained his joy when the enforcer rigidly sat cross-legged on the floor between him and Arcee. He looked out of his depth for just sitting in a circle with his friends, which was kind of silly since he was super smart and super cool. 

"Never played Truth or Dare?" Jazz asked from across the circle. He was leaning back on his wrists, and Springer wished he could tell where he was looking. Probably at Prowl, but who's to say. 

Prowl shook his helm for an answer, looking at the bottle and then around at everyone in the circle, like he was trying to solve a mystery. Good thing he didn't have to, because Arcee gave him a quick rundown of the rules and how it all worked (crazy that she had to do that- everyone knows Truth or Dare!) before spinning the bottle herself.

"Nothing illegal, nothing overly sexual, and no ruining the diner," Arcee decreed as the bottle spun quickly, then slowed until the neck pointed at Springer. "Truth or dare, rookie?" She grinned, which meant she absolutely had something nefarious planned for each and every one of them. 

"Dare!" Springer picked without hesitation. He'd always been good at this game- at least when bots actually played it. There wasn't hardly a thing he wouldn't do in the name of the game. He'd never backed down from a dare, and he'd never kept a secret to himself. Well, except for that one time, but to be fair, he had signed an NDA. 

"I dare you to lick the floor." 

Pah! Meaningless dare. Springer had licked countless floors, walls, chairs... he hoped Arcee or someone else would have something a little more unique than the old floor-licking dare. He folded forwards, intake open and glossa sticking out, and licked a broad strip across the tile. It tasted like cleaning product- probably because he had just mopped. Beside him, Prowl's optics were wide with something almost like fear. He was so going to pick on the enforcer if the bottle landed on him. 

Miraculously, several rounds went without the bottle pointing to Prowl. Springer had asked Jazz to reveal the most embarrassing song he'd ever written (a drunken ballad about potholes or something), Jazz had dared Arcee to balance on a wobbly stool for the rest of the game, Arcee had dared Hot Rod to dump a bucket of icy-cold solvent over himself, Hot Rod asked Springer if he lied on his resume (yes.), Springer dared Arcee to lick the underside of the counter, and finally, Arcee turned her nefarious gaze to Prowl, who chose truth. Typical for beginners. They always went for truth because it felt safer than a dare, without realizing that it was an option for a reason. 

"Have you ever arrested the wrong bot?" 

Springer thought that was kind of a lame one to ask the enforcer, but with the way Prowl tensed up, he realized that Arcee was better at getting at the good bits than everyone else. 

"...Yes, unfortunately," Prowl answered, helm dipping a little lower. "Only once." 

"Ooh, what happened?" Hot Rod pressed. He was now sitting on a towel thanks to the previous dare, and it almost looked like he'd sprung a leak. 

Prowl gave the mech a forlorn look before sighing and recounting the most boring story about the enforcer mistaking two split-spark twins and the following legal battle. That wasn't even that bad! They were identical, of course a slip-up was bound to happen! Could have been any bot who made that mistake. The only one who seemed intrigued by the story was Jazz, who, now that Springer thought about it, had only been looking at Prowl the entire time. 

At the end of that slag, Prowl leaned forward and accurately spun the bottle just as everyone else had. It seemed to spin forever until finally, it landed on Jazz. Of course. The enforcer stared at Jazz blankly for a few clicks, real beginner Truth or Dare behavior not having anything equipped, and asked the name of the game. 

"Hmm, dare," Jazz replied casually. 

Prowl stared for another few clicks, probably trying to come up with something not too lame but not too crazy either. Springer prepared a couple of his own should he need a lifeline. "I dare you to..." he looked around the room. Oh boy he really was new to this. "Clean the ovens."  

Springer pouted. Lame. Wasn't this guy supposed to be a super-cop? Hot Rod, on the other hand, cheered, because usually that would be his job and he hated doing it. That was how they all came to be standing in the kitchen, watching Jazz scrub down the insides of the ovens. Well, everyone but Prowl was watching- the enforcer was instead staring blankly at the opposite shelf, his back to the mech on his hands and knees. He was missing out on Cool City's best view, but Springer supposed that he did win the title of Jazz's betrothed, and could rightfully have a piece of that aft whenever he wanted... still, what a waste! 

"I think this is the worst dare I've ever gotten, and I had ta suck on Starscream's heel thrusters!" Jazz complained, his voice echoing comically in the oven. 

"Ew!" Arcee laughed, leaning against the very same oven. "Your first mistake was playing Truth or Dare with Starscream." 

Jazz got into the half-remembered story of that horrible dare, and Springer was encapsulated by it. Now this was an interesting story! Not that Prowl was that boring, but, c'mon mech, no one cares about the court battle for spark-split twin mixups. A punchline made all of them (minus Prowl) burst into a cacophony of laughter.

Laughter that obscured the sound of the back door's lock being picked, then opened. This was hindsight to Springer once Prowl was suddenly no longer standing awkwardly to the side, but sprinting after a blur of movement that darted from the back door to the front of the diner. He got to see a stack of chairs clatter to the ground once he finally caught up to watch the rest of the action.

Prowl was on the cloaked intruder in a nanoklik; tackling them to the ground and finding their arms through the mess of fabric. Springer watched in awe, then amusement when the enforcer whipped a pair of fuzzy pink cuffs across the room, then back in awe as actual stasis cuffs were secured with a perfected movement around their wrists. The whole time the enforcer was straddling the back of this small bot's thighs, he was doing that really cool speech about the 'right to remain silent' and blah blah blah, and Springer felt like he was in a movie. There was the action he'd been waiting to see! 

"Ack! Argh! Get offa me! Pitslagged pig! Off! Off!" complained the thief, wriggling under Prowl's firm hold all the while. At last, the cloak was ripped away, and the bot quit their struggling. 

"Woah," muttered Hot Rod and Jazz in unison, though it was very clear that Jazz was muttering it for a different reason than Hot Rod. 

"Gears?" Hot Rod rushed forward, kneeling a few feet away from the minibot's head. "You're the thief?" 

Springer didn't really recognize Gears- they'd probably been at the same club once or twice, but it wasn't like they were buddies or anything. There were a lot of faces in Cool City. 

"Yeah, I've been stealin'! Whatsit to ya?" Gears spat, giving one last futile wiggle before letting the tension bleed out of his frame. Only then did Prowl get off of him and bring him to his pedes. "An' I'm not talkin'!" 

Hot Rod flinched away from the mouthy minibot, casting an unsure glance towards Arcee, who only shrugged. Yeah, no one really knew who this guy was. And just like that, Prowl was marching Gears away, out the door and down the street to the precinct. Leaving the rest of them standing in shock in the middle of the diner. 

What a party!

Chapter Text

"I caught the thief." Words said in unison by Prowl and Smokescreen, followed by a confused staring match right there in the precinct lobby.

"Excuse me?"

"Huh...?" 

There was no conceivable way Smokescreen caught the thief. Because Prowl definitely caught him halfway through the day cycle thanks to his- yes, he'll admit it, only to himself- friends. And then it clicked. Of course. Of course he had been thinking so narrow-mindedly, to have not even considered the possibility of there being multiple thieves. The patterns had been so close together it had seemed very plausible that one bot could do it in one day, but now, with the new knowledge, the tac-net was churning out new possibilities. This thing was bigger than he thought, and his processor was starting to heat up. 

"I caught Windcharger breaking into Press Play to nab Blaster's coasters," Smokescreen explained slowly, beginning the walk to the holding cells that had previously been unoccupied the entire time Prowl had been working in Cool City. "Twerp admitted to everything."

"I arrested a mech named Gears who had broken into Pyrite Diner last night. He also momentarily confessed to being behind the robberies." Prowl peered into the holding cells through the tiny, servo-sized windows in the separate doors. Sure enough, a second minibot that Prowl had not arrested was in the other cell. Both were pacing anxiously, but it was unclear if they knew the other was there. 

"Frag," Smokescreen muttered under his breath. The chief began pacing the small corridor in front of the holding cells, tapping his digits against his chin. "This is paradoxical." 

Prowl frowned, tilting his helm in confusion. "No it is not; there are multiple thieves. There are likely others, if there are two. This can only be confirmed when-"

"No, no, I mean-" Smokescreen paused his pacing to gesture vaguely at the space between himself and Prowl. "We both won, and we both lost. This has never happened to me before. Do we both get our ends or does it void out?" 

Of course. The bet. Because that's all the chief really cared about. "Deal with it later," Prowl grumbled. This was much more important. "Start calling the other businesses to see if they have been broken into as well. I will start interrogating these two to create a timeline, and then we can figure out if there is another suspect we need to catch. Hopefully, they will just tell me if that is the case, but Gears was quite clear about keeping his intake shut." 

Smokescreen began moving to do just that, but then he paused, doorwings fanning out to warn Prowl that he was about to have an argument on his hands. 

"Hold on, I'm the chief of this city. Why don't you call around and I interrogate these minibots?" Bravo to Chief Smokescreen for remembering what his job was. He must be quite clear-headed today. 

Prowl gave the chief an unimpressed look before stepping aside anyway. It didn't really matter who did what (though honestly, he felt his interrogation skills were likely far better than Smokescreen's), and he did pull the rank card, so there was no use in raising to the bait. Just as he was about to leave, Trailbreaker burst in, a third minibot in tow.

"I caught the thief!" cheered Trailbreaker. The yellow and green minibot didn't look quite as happy, and neither did the other two enforcers. 

"Join the club," Smokescreen snorted, already unlocking the third holding cell. He squinted at the newcomer for a moment, then brightened. "Brawn! No way. You still owe me a thousand shanix plus interest! In you go." 

Brawn muttered something foul to himself as he was herded into the cell, but otherwise went without a fuss. Prowl began working on more theories; could there be more than three? They had been quickly proven that there were more than two... just what was going on with these minibots? Why were they stealing random items? Why were they so good at it? Well- until now, apparently. 

"Wait a breem..." Trailbreaker peeked into the other two cells. "There's three of them?!" 

Prowl sighed, then nodded. The lost recharge was catching up to him fast with the added stress of realizing that his frustrating robbery cases were more complicated than he'd originally thought. He couldn't help but let the tac-net berate him for missing such an important possibility, even though he couldn't recall the hardware ever giving it to him either. It seemed they were both running a little behind. 

"What's gonna happen with the bet, then?" Trailbreaker asked, which earned him a tired side-glance from Prowl, who decided he was going to start on calling establishments.

Smokescreen could handle Smokescreen business. He... didn't have the energy to care what came next regarding the bet. Hopefully it would just become null, thanks to the lack of foresight they had each had over the terms of the bet. In another case, perhaps Smokescreen would still lose to his three cycle time limit- the odds of the chief officially solving the remainder of the case in one cycle was significantly low, because of the potential apprehension of further suspects, plus the paperwork involved. This could be another orns-long deal until these bots saw a court. 

Did Cool City have a court?

Prowl knew there was a city hall, where supposedly there was a mayor that he still hadn't been able to contact, but was there a courthouse? Was the city hall acting as both perhaps? Actually, Prowl doubted the competency of any judge in Cool City, if there were any. He was getting a serious helmache trying to process both the case at hand and what he was even going to do about it. Progress in this city was difficult at best, and nearly impossible at worst. He'd sent in request after request to meet with the mayor to start tackling the drug problem, even convincing Ratchet to tack on his own findings with crossing substances and their health risks. Nothing. 

And there still weren't any street signs to make anything make sense. 

He felt like he was in his first day all over again- frustrated and overwhelmed and struggling to find the right corner to tug on to pull the sheet out from under the mess. He was going nowhere like this. 

The tac-net churned away as fast as it could while Prowl interviewed establishment owners, writing out any semblance of a timeline he could get. His cameras were useless. Everything was useless. He performed a near-flawless arrest and it felt pointless. He had three bots in custody and it still all felt so pointless. What was he doing? 

By the fifth or sixth comm. call, Prowl had to surrender completely to the tac-net. Data and information only. His pitiful state faded to the background noise, and his focus sharpened on the tasks at hand. He needed to know what the suspects had to say through their interrogations. That was the biggest thing. He just had to wait for the chief to get through three minibots and report back to him. That was fine. It was all going to be fine. 

Jazz was shaken awake by his crystal bloom of a roommate quite harshly. He groaned, turning over and burying his helm in the cocoon of blankets he often slept in. He wasn't used to staying up so late- he'd left Pyrite a few joors after Prowl left upon realizing that the enforcer wasn't coming back. He didn't blame him- he'd finished his job and that was the root of the reason he had set up the whole daytime 'party'. 

"Jazz. Get up." For once, Mirage didn't sound absolutely irate with him. That was good, because Jazz wasn't going to get up. He was sleepy, Mirage. "Jazz, I'm serious." 

Jazz harrumphed, pulling the blankets over his helm. Mirage was always serious these days. It was getting old. 'Jazz, go out and play', 'Jazz, stop hogging the washrack', 'Jazz, I need you to take care of your dishes', 'Jazz, I'm going to rip your leg off if you keep bouncing it against the table', so on and so forth. He'd been extra snappy since Hound decided not to lay him, which Jazz had found funny at first- until he realized that his ego was still bruised over it. He suspected he'd picked a little too well this time around.

"Jazz." Mirage shook him again, jostling his whole frame. "C'mon, Jazz I need to show you something." 

"Jus' put it in front of my helm," Jazz slurred, feeling too warm and comfortable to hatch from the bundle of warm, soft blankets. He'd found the kind Prowl had and bought three of them, of course. 

"Yeah, I can't do that. You have to get up." Mirage kept shaking him until Jazz freed an arm to smack his roommate with, which got him to stop shaking, but didn't get him to leave. Beggars can't be choosers, he supposed. "Please?" 

Jazz's helm snapped up. 'Please'? Coming out of Mirage's mouth? So it really was serious. He met Mirage's optics, which were just as pleading as his glyphs were. "Alright, alright, fine," Jazz muttered, beginning the spark-shattering process of untangling himself from his perfect setup. This had better be good, and he grumbled as such to his roommate, who then led him out to the living room. 

A broadcast was on the TV, the preppy, shiny frame of Orion Pax present on the left side of the screen as he always was when reporting something slightly out of the ordinary for Cool City. He was standing in front of Soundwave's club, Dancitron, which was easily one of Jazz's top five favorite places to play. Soundwave wasn't much of a talker, but he knew how to mix a good sound and he let Jazz pet his beastly cassettes (Ravage had really warmed up to him after a lot of spare treats and scratches behind the ears). Dancitron was perhaps one of the oldest standing clubs as well- part of the 'Big Names' that included Visages, Press Play, and The Oil House, though in recent vorns it had become more background to the big scene. Not anymore, apparently. The line was huge- spanning at least double of what Visages typically pulled. 

Mirage turned the volume up just in time for Jazz to catch the tail end of Orion's introductory segment.

"-remodeled club, and bots all around the city are dying to get in and see what the new co-owner has in store." 

"Co-owner?" Jazz mused, watching the camera pan down the line, really showing off just how obscenely impressive it was. "Soundwave'd never-"

"Starscream finagled his way into a deal, apparently," Mirage explained. Jazz cursed under his breath. He uttered the devil's name and this is what he got... "Jazz, they're all saying he's dethroning you since you've gone off the market and stopped playing so much." 

Jazz didn't like how worried Mirage sounded about that- like he was already mourning Jazz despite him being very much alive and not planning on leaving any time soon. A small part of him was stressed that he wasn't going to be quite as popular now, but to keep it real with himself, a few decavorns of high-status were bound to end eventually. He had a long fuse, but there was no way anybot could hold that title forever in a city that liked to try new things. Apparently more mellowed out, romantic ballads weren't the new things bots liked to try. 

"Jazz?" Mirage waved a servo in front of Jazz's visor. "Jazz, you're gonna lose it all if you keep up like this. Why aren't you-" 

"Let's be real, 'Raj. This was bound ta happen." Jazz shrugged off the weight of knowing his peak was ending. He would mourn it, absolutely, but he'd had plenty of time to prepare for the inevitable end of Jazz: The King of Cool City. It came a little quicker than he'd thought, but then again, he hadn't exactly planned on falling in love with someone who was the antithesis to what the city was about. And Pit, was the fallout worth it if it meant feeling this way for another mech and getting to experience all of the lovely little things that came with it. 

Mirage looked aghast. Completely dumbfounded. "Jazz..." he sighed, grasping his shoulders and searching his visor for- for what, he didn't know. Processor damage, probably. 

"You're really startin' to wear my name out, y'know," Jazz teased, gently brushing the mech's servos from his shoulders. "What's the hurt about, mech? Soundwave's good at what he does, he deserves the popularity, he's not at charming as I am, sure, but-" 

"But you're not even going to put up a fight!" 

Jazz frowned, a rare sight, and crossed his arms over his chassis. He didn't have to fight for a stupid title that didn't even really exist; not when he'd been ready to lose it for a long time. It stung, yes, and was going to until he made peace with making music for himself no matter what the crowds reception was. He was going to survive a little loss in viewership. 

"Did you miss the part where Starscream is the one who's helping this happen? What's the matter with you? You should get down to Visages or Pit- go start busking in front of Dancitron for all I care! You've gotta get back on top!" Mirage grabbed his shoulders again, shaking him lightly. 

""Raji... c'mon, relax, it's not a big deal. This just means I get to look for the next big thing, yeah?" 

Mirage didn't look convinced. He just kept staring into Jazz's soul with a worried, irritated look. 

Jazz sighed, and once again shrugged Mirage's servos off of him. "Listen, I'm fine with this. If it wasn't Soundwave, it was gonna to be Blaster, or- or- I dunno, maybe even Skybite. Point is, there is a lot of talent in Cool City, an' it's just not fair for me to hog all the attention for so long. It's been fun, and I've got some hits that'll still be boppin' 'til I'm gray and dust in the wind, but it's okay for it to be over now. Well- not over- I'm still gonna play my spark out whenever you'll have me, but-" he took a deep breath, pausing to gauge the teariness in Mirage's optics. "I think it's time for a change, don't you? I want to live now, not live in the past forever. I'm happy, whether I'm at the bottom of the charts or shakin' the mayor's servo. Besides!" He clapped Mirage on the shoulder, grin broad and warm. "You're still gonna be my best buddy, aren't ya?" 

Mirage put valiant effort into not breaking, he could give him that. But the moment his lower derma trembled, he knew the battle was lost. How his roommate was taking this mild news worse than he was he didn't understand, but he pulled the mech in for a big ol' hug anyway. 

"I hate you," Mirage mumbled into Jazz's plating as coolant escaped from his optics. "You're too good for this damn city. They don't know what they're losing..." 

Jazz chuckled, though he rubbed soothing circles against Mirage's back plating. "I'm not goin' anywhere." 

"Better not."

"Gears wouldn't say anything but slurs, Brawn also didn't give me much, but Windcharger spilled almost everything. I hope," Smokescreen scratched his helm, organizing the transcripts he'd just finished on his desk. 

Prowl snatched them up quickly, looking them over for key words first, then the whole. Gears... yup those were slurs. Lots of them. Prowl didn't even know there were that many! Anyway, Brawn's transcript was almost as short, and held little substance aside from the admission that he'd been stealing for a only an orn. As mentioned, Windcharger had a lot of information. Without a glyph, Prowl kept that datapad and took it back to his own office for review. 

Windcharger insisted that he never wanted to steal, and that he'd only been stealing for a couple cycles before Smokescreen arrested him. He made mentions that he was stealing for somebot, but couldn't or wouldn't say who, nor would he admit who got him roped into the ordeal. When Smokescreen mentioned Gears and Brawn, Windcharger had a flash of recognition, but also didn't explicitly admit that he was working with them. When asked what he did with all of the stolen items, he said that he was told to dump them down a chute and that he didn't know what happened after, but it probably wasn't something he should be proud of. When asked why he didn't just refuse to participate, he said quote "and deny my spark The Well for the gruesome deactivation that faces me if I don't?" which was quite ominous, to say the least. 

Prowl marched right back down to the holding cells without a second glance at any of his coworkers that were dying to know the scoop on the bet. Prowl didn't care. He was going to get somewhere with this case because it was his job and it was the right thing to do. He was helping people. 

Prowl practically kicked the door to Windcharger's cell open, plating and doorwings flared. He didn't want to play games anymore. He wanted to get to the end of this stupid, frustrating case, and he wanted to get to it ASAP.

"Please, no more! I already told Smokey everything!" Windcharger pleaded, flinching away from Prowl. That made him reassess his approach, and he let his plating flatten out just a little. Maybe shouldn't sell it that hard. "I don't know! I don't know!" 

"But you do know where the chute is, correct?" Prowl pressed, staring down his nose at the minibot, who nodded and sniffed pitifully. "Then you are going to take me to it." 

Windcharger started hyperventilating, looking around the cramped room for an escape that wasn't there- it was designed that way for this exact reason. "No, no, no, no, no-" his optics were blown wide, nearly sparking. "I can't do that! I'll- I'll die!" 

Prowl doubted that. Cool City may be rampant with crime that wasn't technically crime here, but there was hardly any violence to speak of (unless of course you counted party-goers that were upset about Jazz's absence). All bots cared about was having a good time, not slagging each other. He chalked Windcharger's panic up to irrationality, but tried to come off as less imposing once more.

"No one is going to kill you, Windcharger," Prowl said, holding his servo up in a placating gesture. "But I do need you to show me where this chute is so that I can stop whoever is threatening bots into stealing from the good business owners of this city. I cannot promise your own punishment being absolved, but the chances that your sentence will be reduced drastically should you help me are much better than if you do not comply." 

Windcharger came down from his panic little by little as he debated what Prowl was saying. It was taking forever, though, and Prowl didn't have the patience to stand there and wait. 

"You want to stop stealing, do you not?" 

Windcharger nodded frantically, something faintly rattling as he did so. "I hate it, I hate the stealing. I feel so terribly." 

"Then I implore you," Prowl loomed over the minibot, maybe going too far again, but he was so tired, "take me to the chute." 

"Maybe I could be a holovid star," Jazz mused, laying on the couch with Mirage's legs overlapping his. The mech was getting absolutely hammered across from him, which was a more natural look compared to the crying he'd done earlier. "But not for those slag ones, like actual good ones." Jazz was also getting hammered, it seemed. But definitely not as badly. Mhm.

"Hey! Slag vids are... they're better than good vids. Slag vids are good vids and good vids are slag." Mirage scrolled through the slag hollovids he'd insisted on downloading, eventually hovering over two equally horrible titles. "Terror at Energon Purge Lake, or The Dinopriest?" 

"Dinopriest," Jazz muttered, taking a long swig from their shared bottle of engex. He was gonna need it for that slagshow of a vid. The soundtrack was kind of fire though. "Did I tell ya I got Prowler to watch that cop rom-com?" 

Mirage snorted, queuing up the vid. "I don't believe you." The title card flashed on screen, complete with the dramatic slash of dinobot claws through the black. 

"It's true!" Jazz passed the bottle over to Mirage. "He hated it. A lot. But he put it on for us and-"

Mirage groaned dramatically, putting the bottle down on the floor instead of drinking any more. Fair. "Don't get all sappy when we're about to watch Dinopriest," he complained. "You're gonna make me miss the opening scene." 

Jazz had the patience to wait until after the SUV got hit by the worst CGI meteor he'd ever seen to continue rambling about Prowl. "He was tryin' so hard not to hate it 'cause I think he didn't wanna hurt my feelin's. It was so sweet. I fell asleep on 'im before I could see his reaction to the endin', though."

Mirage rolled his optics, but Jazz kept going. 

"He's so endearing in his own way. And smart. And... and sexy-"

"Dude, I'm gonna kick you in the face."

"He's sooooo sexy and he doesn't even cromp- com- comprehend it."

"Pede? Going into your face. In... three kliks."

"You're just jealous you don't got a hot cop aft for yer own," Jazz accused lightly, lazily watching Mirage draw his pede back to deliver a nice face-kick. 

Mirage put his leg down with another dramatic groan. "You ran him off..." 

"Did not!" Jazz scoffed. He was barely watching The Dinopriest. "Weren' you the one who got all mad 'cause I wouldn't comm.? Why don't you comm., Mr. High-and-Mighty?" 

Mirage grunted in lieu of an intelligent answer, then batted his servo around for the remote to turn the volume up. Petty mech. A hypocrite, too. Jazz figured he had no choice but to handle it himself. 

But maybe tomorrow.

He was slagged. And The Dinopriest was actually kind of funny.

Chapter Text

Windcharger had a tiny breakdown over physically taking Prowl to the chute. The enforcer had almost gotten him to comply (cuffs on and everything) before the minibot freaked out and just told Prowl where the chute was. It wasn't his preferred method of uncovering the location of all the stolen items over the last couple orns, possibly longer, as who knows what could be in store, but it was better than no location at all. 

So Prowl set off to go to the chute by himself, because it felt like the longer he had to wait, the longer these thefts would continue. He was so close to the end now, he could feel it in his core. 

"Woah, where are you off to in such a hurry?" called the voice of Smokescreen, halting Prowl from pushing through the precinct doors. 

Prowl half-turned to give the chief an irritated look. "To the bottom of this case." And he was going to be right slagged if Smokescreen was going to interfere with that. 

"You're still on light duty only, Sarge." The way Smokescreen said it was more of a taunt than a reminder. "Um, you have to stay here." 

Prowl seethed. Stupid medical restriction. Stupid chief. Stupid case. Stupid processor ache with the stupid tac-net driving him further and further into a wall. He glared at Smokescreen, hating to submit to the restrictions that he was so close to being cleared for, and hating to submit to this bumblefrag of an enforcer. "Why?" he bit out, against better judgment. He still had his servo on the door handle. The tac-net began weighing the consequences of disobeying direct orders, which he shunted immediately. 

"We're, um, ah-" Smokescreen floundered, looking around the precinct. He could have just pulled the chief card again, but no, he was looking for an excuse. If robots could sweat, Smokescreen would be sweating right then. "We're commemorating you!" 

"I thought that wasn't until-"

"Shut it, Cliffjumper." 

"Yessir," the minibot grumbled, going back to hunching over what was certainly not an actual report. Prowl would have to get to that later.

Prowl looked between them, then at the chief again with a challenging stare. 

"We're commemorating you for the good work you did saving Brainstorm and Bumblebee! Right now!" Smokescreen clapped his hands together, getting the attention of the other enforcers that were also not really working but looking busy enough. Really, Prowl had noticed their attention on them from the start. Bots really loved their drama. 

Prowl, again, didn't say anything. His tac-net was still spamming the green light to just go out and do his job, but the rest of him was firm on not acting worse than he already was. How could he preach proper work ethic and respect for the chain of command if he was just going to ignore those very same structures because- what- he wanted to? He shook himself out slightly, needing to get the tac-net under control and himself back into a more professional stature. 

"Nothing fancy, just uh, a traditional commemoration ceremony, right here, right now." Smokescreen looked desperate. It almost made him want to try testing the mech, but a deep invent allowed him to walk away from the door.

He had to wait. It would be better, in the long run probably, to cool off and go back to the chute with a level head. He was in a bad headspace. 

Smokescreen looked visibly relieved when Prowl abandoned his desperate attempt at finishing the case that was making his energon boil. "Yes, alright, just stay here for a klik, I'll grab Hound and we can get this show on the road!" The chief hurried off, leaving Prowl standing in the middle of the precinct, which had since gone silent. Optics were on him, and his plating was starting to crawl. 

Did they think he deserved to be commemorated? 

Slowly, when everyone realized that Prowl wasn't about to say or do anything interesting, the tension in the precinct faded away and conversations picked back up. 

Prowl didn't think he deserved it.

"Are you gonna sit down?" Jazz asked for the third time since he arrived at Prowl's apartment. The mech was looking mighty comfortable on his couch, just tracking Prowl as he paced vigorously around the living room. 

Prowl, for the third time, shook his helm. The tac-net was going absolutely haywire, and the only way he was able to keep his processor from melting down was by staying mobile. He'd been trying to get it to cool off since his near slip-up at work earlier that cycle, but it just hadn't quit. It was churning numbers and scenarios like crazy, and it was all Prowl could do to keep things trimmed down to a level where he wasn't going to crash. 

"You're gonna carve a trench in the floor, mech." 

"That is unlikely-" Prowl blurted, wincing as he kicked at the tac-net again. Figure of speech, you stupid-

"What's goin' on?" Jazz asked, beginning to sit up from his comfy spot. Curse this mech for caring so much about him.

Prowl debated getting into the whole tac-net thing. It wasn't exactly a secret, nor was he uncomfortable with bots knowing about it, it just... wasn't something he felt necessary to bring up. It was part of him, sure, but it was invisible to everyone else. 

"My..." Prowl began, slogging through the torrent of unrelated data. "I have a piece of hardware in my processor. It is a tactical network and it is... it was supposed to aid with preventing processor crashes, but instead it has managed to become a separate problem at times. It is being a problem at the moment." 

Jazz kept tracking Prowl's route around and around and back and forth through the living room as he listened, absorbing the information. "Oh. I'm sorry, Prowler, that must be a pain." 

Prowl nodded, bracing for a million questions about his condition and the tac-net, but instead Jazz just kept watching him quietly. A few breems later, with Prowl not slowing down, the mech asked if there was anything he could do to help. 

"I believe it will take forced stasis at this point," Prowl grumbled. He tried a few different things on the tac-net, but it bit him back with a vengeance. It wanted to work, but his shift was over, and there was nothing he could do. 

"Hmm. What do you call it?" 

Prowl paused for a moment, then picked right up where he left off. "The hardware?" he asked for clarity. Primus knows he needed that. Jazz nodded. "The tac-net." 

Another few breems passed, and Prowl's cooling fans clicked on to a higher speed. Not a great sign. He grumbled under his breath, only having a little bit of room to worry about being an awful host to the mech he was seeing. Actually, he had no idea why Jazz was there. He couldn't really remember at the moment if there was something they had planned in advance, or if the mech had explained, or anything. But he was there, and sitting on his couch contentedly. It was both comforting and confusing. 

"What's the tac-net tryin' to do?" Jazz asked, stretching his legs out on the couch, probably because it was clear Prowl wasn't going to sit down with him any time soon. And he wanted to! But it wasn't going to happen. 

"It is... doing a lot of things," Prowl explained poorly. It was mostly just being really bothersome. It was also very desperate in its attempts to get Prowl to investigate the chute. "I was unable to uncover what I believe is to be the bottom of the robberies. It is... upset." Prowl was also upset, but he wasn't going to admit that. 

"You mean Gears isn't the end of it?" 

Prowl shook his helm with a distraught sigh. "Two other minibots have been apprehended since last cycle. I suspect there to be others, but I was kept from working further due to Ratchet's medical orders and... Chief Smokescreen's impromptu commemoration ceremony." 

Jazz perked up at the latter half. "You got commemorated?" 

"Yes." Prowl dug the little medal out of his subspace and gave it a gentle toss to Jazz for inspection. He switched the directions of his pacing thanks to the soreness creeping up on his struts. Jazz tossed it back after an impressed whistle. "He was behaving oddly. I do not think the ceremony was supposed to happen for a few cycles, but he insisted on it just as I was about to go out and hopefully crack this case." 

"You don't think..." Jazz tilted his helm, allowing the suggestion to float in the air. 

The tac-net had been chewing on the idea that Smokescreen was somehow a part of the robberies since the moment the mech started acting twitchier than usual. Prowl also couldn't deny his suspicion. Had the chief known that Prowl wasn't going to run out regardless of the sudden commemoration, he wouldn't have acted so nervously. Maybe the chief wasn't part of the robberies, but part of whatever underlying evil was occurring linked to the robberies. That, paired with the location Prowl had been given...

"I do not know," Prowl huffed- because he didn't. Not for sure. As much as he wanted a reason to get Smokescreen out of his position as chief, he couldn't make an accusation based on such minimal claims. "I hope not." 

A half joor passed before Jazz got up from the couch to hold Prowl by his shoulders, effectively stopping the constant pacing. 

"What if you went out and did whatever it was you were gonna do?" Jazz asked, earnest. "You caught Gears by finding a loophole. Why not find one here?" 

It was as if a floodgate had been opened. The tac-net abandoned its frantic dumpsterfire of calculations for a nanoklik, latching onto the glyph 'loophole' with fervor. Prowl's optics cycled a few times as the hardware realized it could have been trying to find ways around obstacles rather than repeatedly trying to slam through them. 

"I could simply take a late night stroll," Prowl breathed. "Happen to come across the chute. I would be curious..." 

Jazz grinned wide, nodding his helm encouragingly. "We could go for a lil late night stroll. Less suspicious that way." He winked, and Prowl ignored the subtext. "I could insist we check it out 'cause a... wait, a chute?" 

"A chute. That is where Windcharger said the stolen items go. Where the stolen items go must be where the mastermind is. Or a hidden society of minibots. Or a spacebridge leading to a different colony. Or-" Prowl sucker-punched the tac-net and clicked his vocalizer off. 

"Then I'll insist we check out this chute and you can take the credit for stumbling upon something big." Jazz beamed at him, giving his shoulders a firm pat. "If it'll help you settle down, then we oughta go right now, yeah?"

"Yes. Right now. Yes. Thank you, Jazz." Prowl gave an awkward, yet meaningful squeeze back, just briefly, before hurrying out the door. Finally, the tac-net settled enough to make him stop overheating. 

The sun was rising on Cool City as they began their walk to the chute. Few bots were still out, most of them trudging along to their homes or wherever they went when the parties were over. They paid Jazz and Prowl no mind, thank the Primes. 

Prowl suspected that the hype and intrigue was beginning to die down now. He had hoped for and expected such; as crazy as bots could get about the smallest things, they were also just as quick to move on. He was grateful for that aspect. So much so, that when Jazz timidly laced their digits together as they walked, he didn't immediately worry about some no-life paparazzi springing out from around the corner to take a picture and then run off again. In fact, he felt brave enough to strafe a little closer to the other mech, shoulders brushing as their arms swung in tandem. It was a warm comfort in the still chilly air of the city.

Despite the eased tension in his helm, Prowl still took the most direct route possible to the chute. This made the walk feel much too brief, and he briefly mourned that loss, but the tac-net spurred him on under the shadow of City Hall. 

"Woah," Jazz uttered, stopping in front of the building. "The chute where all the stolen slag's gone is here?" 

"That is what Windcharger confessed, yes," Prowl replied, letting go of Jazz's hand to continue around to the side of the building. The alleyway there was dark, even with the rising sun illuminating the streets. 

'Left side of City Hall, back in the alley a little, behind a painting on the wall.' That was what Windcharger had squeaked out kliks before being dragged out of his holding cell. 

Prowl's whole focus went into finding- oh okay, it was a literal painting. In a fancy frame and everything. The painting itself was pretty unremarkable compared to the kinds of graffiti that decorated every building, but it was odd that such a thing was on an exterior wall. He examined it closely, checking for obvious seams or tricks, then spotted the hinges. Classic. 

"Huh," Jazz said as Prowl opened the makeshift painting door. Behind was the mouth of a chute that opened up into darkness. He made a mental note to put in a good word for Windcharger's cooperation. "That's a chute, alright." 

"Indeed," Prowl muttered. He scanned the ground for something to toss down it. A crushed up aluminum can. It thunked against the chute's walls softly at first, then nothing. Not even a sound of it hitting a bottom anywhere. 

Prowl and Jazz exchanged a look. That was odd. 

"Why would these minibots be throwing stolen junk down a weird chute behind City Hall?" Jazz said into the open air. Prowl couldn't help but share the same question. His tac-net had been churning away on that aspect, too, and had just as many bizarre scenarios saved up as it did for what could be at the other end of the chute. 

Prowl began trying to figure out how he was going to get to said other end. The chute was large, large enough for a minibot to fit down, but not for mid-sized mechs. If Jazz was perhaps just a little narrower, he could have squeezed himself through, but there was no way Prowl would be able to make it with his doorwings. He briefly considered trying the front doors in case they were unlocked, but then wasn't sure how he would find the chute from the inside. Perhaps-

"Hey guys!" 

Prowl and Jazz both whipped around, startled by the sudden appearance of a certain minibot. How the mech could sneak around like that was beyond either of them.

"Just gonna dump this stuff in there, okay? But you didn't see me! Remember that haha! Also, Prowl, we don't need any more cans, but it's nice of you to try to help. But seriously we got this you can um, go somewhere else? Not that I'm saying I want you to leave, but-" he began dumping spoons, coasters, and tiny bottles of artificial lubricant down the chute from his subspace. 

Prowl gawked, astounded by the sheer audacity the minibot continued to have. 

"Listen this is supposed to be a secret and I'm not supposed to let anyone know about this but it's really really really really really-" ten 'really's later- "important and I'd hate for your sparks to be denied The Well, y'know?" 

There was that phrase again. Windcharger had said it when Prowl was trying to get him to bring him to the chute. What did that mean? 

"I'd hate that, too," Jazz said before Prowl could jump right into slapping the stasis cuffs he was already pulling out of his own subspace to slap on Bumblebee's wrists. "Can we get in on having our sparks going to The Well, maybe?" He gave Prowl a look, motioning him to put the cuffs away. Against the tac-net's better judgement, Prowl decided to trust whatever it was Jazz was getting at. 

Bumblebee emptied his subspace and turned to Jazz with a lopsided grimace. "I dunno, Jazzmeister... I don't think you're ready to get into the slag we've got cooking. I mean maybe you are, I don't know, but it's crazy, mech, crazy! But I guess I could put in a good word to the up-and-coming savior of Cybertron A.K.A. the new Primus?" 

Prowl was officially lost. The tac-net chimed in with it's previously discarded minibot cultists theory. Well, it had been 'hidden minibot society', not cult, but close enough. 

"Oh, yes, please!" Jazz nodded enthusiastically, lightly flicking Prowl's side as a hint to play along. Right, the mech was a good actor... Prowl was not. He would try his best, regardless. 

"Yes, er..." Case in point. 

Bumblebee peered at both black and white mechs scrutinizingly, scratching at his chin as he tapped a pede rapidly on the ground. He looked back at the chute, back at Jazz and Prowl, back at the chute- "Alright alright fine fine fine fine fine! But no funny business, either of you! Looking at you, mister- don't crash in there I might not be able to drag your aft back out!" 

Prowl frowned, but kept his comments to himself with the help of Jazz's reminding nudge. "Thank you, Bumblebee, I- we- appreciate your willingness to help." 

Bumblebee ranted something unintelligible to himself, scrambling into the chute and disappearing into its depths. Just like with the aluminum can, there was no sound of the minibot reaching the end. A breem passed, then five, then twelve before Jazz spoke up again.

"Is he comin' back?"

"I... do not know," Prowl whispered, deigning to lean his head into the chute to try and peer down into it's unknown depths. Just as before, he couldn't see a damn thing. "He made it sound like-"

"Hey, guys, I'm back!" chirped Bumblebee from behind them, this time from the other side of the alleyway. Prowl startled pretty bad, hitting his helm against the top of the chute before he could properly remove himself from it. "So, the bossman said it's ok for you guys to come down, but you can't touch anything and you have to swear to the oath and everything if you want your sparks to go to The Well when it's your time. And if you break the oath you, uh, yeah you don't get to go back to The Well, your spark gets denied The Well." 

Jazz hissed through his teeth and reached up to rub the back of Prowl's head where he'd hit it. "Well- heh- well, we'll just have to stay true to the oath. Right, Prowler?" 

"Right, yes... we shall follow this... oath." Prowl reset his optics as the pain subsided from his helm. "I am ready when you are." 

"Follow me!" Bumblebee scrambled off almost too quick to follow. Prowl got deja-vu to his first night in Cool City, chasing after the minibot through the crowded train station. If only he'd known... 

Bumblebee led the two of them through the alley, into a hidden door along the exterior of City Hall, and through a variety of odd passageways that diverted from the main architecture. Despite the chute seemingly going down, the minibot took them up; climbing a few dingy stairwells and a rusty ladder in what could have been an elevator shaft. The higher they got, the more it reeked of... of something Prowl couldn't put a digit on. Whatever it was, it was unpleasant, to say the least. 

An intimidating set of double doors were pushed open by Bumblebee, unleashing the worst of the stench and a scene of absolute horror. 

All of the stolen items were carelessly thrown about the small room. There was no order to the chaos, just a complete mess like all the city's dumpsters had been dumped at once, and then a tornado blew through it, and then a second tornado blew through it again. In the center was an absurdly large cauldron over a fire that was being fed by the various stolen items. Prowl grimaced, determining that most of the bots these items belonged to would likely either never see their things again, or wouldn't want them back again anyway. Above the cauldron, on a makeshift staircase, was a blue minibot, various bird-like creatures perched on his shoulders and helm as he stirred whatever concoction was in that cauldron with a huge metal rod. He dropped what must have been a kilo of powdered Hollow Matter (if Prowl's drug database was accurate (which it was, thank you Ratchet)) and it caused the sludge that was brewing in there to slosh over the edge and land in the fire. 

Prowl gagged, nearly purging, which Jazz covered up with a well-placed cough. Either way, neither minibot seemed to notice or care. 

"What the frag..." Jazz muttered, staring mostly at the blue minibot talking to himself as he made Cybertron's worst stew. 

"Alright, Beachcomber, here's the mechs that were snooping around the chute. Um, please don't make me cut them into tiny little pieces?" Bumblebee kneeled before the fire and cauldron, bowing his helm reverently. 

Those glyphs put Prowl into fight-or-flight mode. He had no doubt in his mind that if this minibot- Beachcomber- told Bumblebee to butcher him and Jazz, he would do it. He wouldn't enjoy it, but it was clear that whatever was going on was intense and not easily breakable. This bot was in deep. 

"Ah, no need for that, friend!" Beachcomber hummed, and Prowl recognized his voice. Why did he recognize his voice? He'd never met or even seen this mech before. "Jazz is a good ol' pal o' mine, and his new beau is right dandy. Violence isn't necessary, mech!" 

Bumblebee stood from his kneeling position and nodded firmly. "Understood, sir! Then in that case they said they want to do the oaths and pledge their undying loyalty to you, as the new and upcoming Primus, savior of all and ever so wonderful and cool." 

Jazz was holding onto Prowl's arm tightly, apparently just as scared as Prowl himself felt. This was much worse than anything he'd anticipated. The fumes coming from the fire and the amalgamation in the cauldron were beginning to make him dizzy and his plating itch. 

"Call for backup," Jazz whispered in Prowl's audial urgently. "He's mixed something bad." 

Prowl grimaced, but did as Jazz said. He pinged every enforcer code he had saved, trying to keep it on the down-low as Beachcomber started rambling about the oaths they were supposedly taking. While he was doing that, the tac-net began being useful for once, and started pin-pointing wrappers and containers for illicit substances, compiling their information and the potential side effects they could have when mixed with others. This took up almost the entirety of his processor's bandwidth with the effort, plunging him into a locked-frame, dim-opticked state before he realized it would take that much power. There were a lot of different substances around. Distantly, he could sense something important transpiring. 

Hollow Matter, Coal Cygars, Grud, RX88, Pulmonary Retreat, Acid, 92-42, Tourmaline, Grud 2.0, Circuit Boosters, and Grud: Unlimited were analyzed, thrown into a blender, and by the time Prowl was released from his catatonic state (without a clear solution, of course), Jazz was miraculously scaling a wall in attempt to get away from Bumblebee, only to get swarmed by various birds of paradise and a couple flyts. Beachcomber, meanwhile, was descending his staircase of garbage and heading right for Prowl, something malicious burning in his optics. 

"How are you still functioning?" Prowl demanded, stepping back away from the minibot. He scanned the immediate area for things to defend himself with, but surprise-surprise, everything was broken and trashed and small. 

"I have been chosen to guide the universe, Prowl. I am one with Primus, and he is one with me," Beachcomber replied, holding a spoon full of slop out towards Prowl. "You, too, may join the new age of wonder..." 

Prowl swatted the spoon out of Beachcomber's servo, the goop splattering with a hiss against something. "You are out of your processor!" 

"No," Beachcomber chuckled, and it should not have sounded so warm and inviting. "You, friend, are not in yours." He already had a second spoonful of goop ready, aimed at Prowl's intake. 

"Don't eat that slag, Prowl!" Jazz shouted from where he was now scrambling around up in the rafters. 

Prowl's one coherent thought was 'fragging duh' before slapping the second spoon away. He pinged Ratchet like crazy, then continued pinging enforcers his location and that he was in need of dire assistance. He still wasn't really sure what was going on, with birds screeching at Jazz, Bumblebee climbing up to the rafters, Beachcomber slowly walking Prowl into a corner. The fumes were really starting to make the back of his throat burn and he was fearing for the worst- that he was becoming intoxicated by them. 

Prowl darted around Beachcomber, struggling to focus on anything but calling for help. Unfortunately, his new position garnered him the attention of Bumblebee, who decided to target him instead of Jazz. The yellow minibot launched himself from the rafters, only for his pede to catch on the lip of one and send his momentum downwards instead of out- and he landed perfectly in the boiling cauldron of a million different drugs and Primus knows what else. 

"Bee!" Jazz cried, reaching much too late for the minibot, who splashed around in the sludge like he was drowning. 

In slow motion, the cauldron rocked, then tipped completely over, sending it crashing into the flames below. The miscellaneous burning items scattered, spreading the blaze, and the mystery sludge oozed around Prowl's pedes. Things were bad before, but now they were much, much worse. 

"No!" Beachcomber fell to his knees, absolutely devastated by his concoction being wasted on the floor. This didn't stop him from trying to scoop it up with his servos, filling his subspace pockets and intake as much as he could. Prowl really did purge now, retching awfully as every circuit within him burned. 

"Jazz-" Prowl coughed out, searching the rafters for his mech. "Jazz, we have to-" 

"Your sparks will be denied from The Well!" Beachcomber bellowed- well, actually it sounded just as lax as the rest of his laid back speech pattern. "You have doomed us all!" 

Jazz dangled from the rafters, gritting his dentae as he looked down at Prowl, wordlessly communicating what was about to happen. He let go, tucking his limbs in closer to his chassis, and plummeted. Prowl leapt without a second thought, arms outstretched and he just barely managed to catch him, softening his fall and keeping him from landing in the worst of the sludge. "Grab Bee, I got the mayor." 

"Y- wh-" Prowl shut down his questions. It didn't matter. Bumblebee was sizzling in the cauldron, screaming his vocalizer raw as he slipped and sloshed around in the bowl. Prowl yanked him out by the arms, himself grunting as the hot goop burned under his servos. Once more, deja-vu crossed his processor as he hauled the writhing minibot towards the exit, which was soon to be consumed by flames. 

Prowl hardly had to check for Jazz and Beachcomber as he hurried back the way they came as fast as he could. It wasn't easy; his perception and balance were becoming worse and worse, and he kept having to stop to cough and gag. His sensors were taking fuzzy data input, adding onto the difficulty of traversing such a weird route. He blinked once, twice, and then he was somewhere he didn't recognize. Voices were muffled all around him, and it was like trying to see through dense smoke. Maybe he was trying to see through dense smoke; things were on fire, after all. 

And then the nightmare got even worse. 

"Decepticons!" Prowl screamed, gasping for air as he sprang out of his hospital berth, wielding an invisible rifle.

Wires and lines disconnected with a snap, causing their respective monitors to scream right back. In an instant, First Aid was coaxing him back to the berth with a kindness that was so unlike the nursebot's usual spunk. He let it happen. As he got settled again, he wondered why he had shouted that. What did it even mean...? He had vague recollections of what must have been an absurd hallucination of being in a war on another planet. Whatever had been in that sludge was... potent. 

"Where is-" 

"Shh. Everybot's fine, Prowl. Just let us keep purging your systems, 'kay?" First Aid worked diligently, hooking everything back up to Prowl's frame. 

Prowl let his helm fall back with a soft groan, then immediately passed out again. 

When Prowl next woke, he was in a different room. The lights were dim, and there was padding against his audials to reduce the noise of the machinery hooked up to him. He felt like slag. He also couldn't remember a damn thing from after Bumblebee's accidental swim in the cauldron of horrors. He began to worry. About Bumblebee, about Beachcomber, worst of all he worried about Jazz. Was he hurt, too? He must have been just as affected by the fumes as Prowl had. Was he waking up now? Was he okay? 

"To your right," grunted the familiar gruff voice of Ratchet. "Reach your servo out." 

Prowl blindly did as the doctor said, wincing at the soreness in his arm as he reached out to his right, patting around the empty space until he brushed warm plating. He didn't have to look to know it was Jazz's arm he was touching. His sparkrate settled (he didn't notice it intensifying to begin with), and Ratchet muttered something to himself that Prowl didn't quite catch due to the padding around his helm. 

That much relieved, he once again slipped into recharge. 

"I still cannot believe that Mayor Beachcomber was ultimately behind the petty thefts," Prowl murmured, his cheek resting on Jazz's shoulder. They were squeezed onto one medical berth, wrapped under the same sheet, sharing some kind of energon pudding. It was cool and sweet in Prowl's intake, soothing his sore throat. 

"I... can," Jazz replied, lazily mixing the pudding around. "He's always been experimental. I just thought he'd be smarter not to go overboard like that." 

Prowl hummed, thoughtful. He wasn't nearly as tired as he had been, thanks to nearly four cycles of sleeping off the mayor's Primus-seeing sludge. In that time, he'd also been able to fully process what he could remember, as well as take into account whatever his visitors told him. His visitors being trusted coworkers only. Which really just meant Hound, Trailbreaker, and Bluestreak, if he was being honest. Hound gave an accurate retelling of what happened after he had arrived on the scene, while Trailbreaker emphasized the most 'exciting' parts, and Bluestreak tried his best not to ask a billion questions. Plus, Jazz being there was more comforting than he could have ever imagined, and he swore to his tac-net that his presence alone helped boost his recovery. The tac-net refuted the claim, naturally. 

"Who is going to run the city now?" Prowl asked, really just to fill the silence. He didn't truly have the energy to worry about the loss of a political figure- in any case, how much mayoral stuff did Beachcomber even do before he succumbed to the worst concoction of poisons ever seen by medical professionals? Cool City could survive without a mayor for a little while, probably. It wasn't like anyone cared about anything other than having a good time, anyway. 

Jazz shrugged, briefly lifting Prowl's helm with the movement. "Politics ain't my thing." He scooped up a portion of the pudding, then offered it to Prowl, who merely opened his intake and leaned forward slightly to receive the delightful food. "I'm sure someone will step up. Maybe you could be the mayor." 

Prowl snorted around the intake-full of pudding, nearly choking on it in the process. "I will not be running for mayor of Cool City," he scoffed lightly. He shut his optics, snuggling closer to Jazz's frame with a sigh. A nap was calling his designation. 

"Whatever you say, sweetspark." 

Chapter Text

Orion Pax and his gaggle of newsbots had been waiting for Jazz and Prowl to get discharged from the hospital. They had been waiting for Mayor Beachcomber more, but that minibot was still in intensive care thanks to the gallons upon gallons of slag he'd taken and somehow not completely disintegrated from. Bumblebee was in a similar state, having taken a full-frame swim in the stuff. But Jazz and Prowl had been the ones to prevent a minibot cult from taking over Cool City, so they were pretty good coverage too.

That was the other thing; Chief Smokescreen had visited Prowl (and by proxy Jazz) at one point and had explained what they found in City Hall aside from the melted room with the drug cauldron and all of the stolen items. 

"Thank fragging Primus you beat me to the punch, Sarge. There was a whole calendar in the mayor's office detailing when they were planning on dumping their cultist's stew in the plumbing system to get everyone hooked. Woulda been the next cycle. Woulda been a total disaster!" Smokescreen had said as he paced around the small hospital room, waving his hands around as he spoke. "I was kinda slagged you won at first, but this coulda been bad, just real bad. And I'm sorry you two got drugged as a result. We don't do that slag here, and I'm appalled Beachcomber tried to do it to all of us." 

Jazz had chuckled, and Prowl had to fight hard to keep his doorwings from doing that embarrassing wiggle in response. Then, Smokescreen reiterated the terms of their bet for if he lost, and promised to keep his gambling addiction off the subject of Prowl. He left with a mumble about how he really wanted to see the original bet to the end, and that he was never going to earn a good reputation back, but that only served to give Prowl smug satisfaction. Serves him right. 

That smug satisfaction was long gone now, and Prowl was shielding his optics from the bright flashes of cameras from the press. 

"Sergeant Prowl, is it true that Mayor Beachcomber started a minibot cult believing that he was the reincarnation of Primus and that he was plotting to drug the entire city?" Orion Pax jutted a thumb at Prowl's face, which he barely registered as a microphone at first. 

"Er-" 

"No comment!" Jazz blurted. "Sorry, we're not allowed to talk about it, important enforcer stuff, y'know?" 

That was a lie, but Prowl was thankful for it. There was hardly such a thing as classified information in this city, and because he hadn't been on-duty when... everything... went down, they were both more than able to talk about what they had seen. That didn't mean he wanted to, however. 

Orion Pax scrunched up his nose for a moment, likely cursing to himself at the loss of the most important story of the vorn. 

Jazz began guiding Prowl away from the crowd of newsbots, mumbling about 'where's Hound when ya need him' as several of them followed, still flashing their cameras and hurriedly asking questions. 

"What are you going to do now that your career is declining?" was the one question that broke through the noise. Jazz's steps faltered, then pretended like they hadn't, which Prowl caught on to in an instant. He stopped them both and turned to face Orion Pax again. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Not you- I'm talking about the joint efforts of Starscream and Soundwave effectively toppling Jazz from the charts and taking on the crown as Cool City's most famous." Orion Pax pursed his lips, holding his thumb out again, insistent. 

Prowl's helm snapped to Jazz. He vaguely recalled Bumblebee rambling about something akin to Jazz being 'dethroned', but he took every glyph that minibot said with a grain of salt. It had been meaningless jabber, and the mech was literally dumpster diving at the time. But if an actual reporter was now saying it...

"I'm gonna keep playin'," Jazz replied slowly, not looking at Prowl. "I don't think I could ever stop playin'. But I might, uh... try some new things, y'know? It's a big city. Big planet." He shrugged as if a huge part of his life wasn't ending. 

A few more follow-up questions later, none of them making Prowl feel any better about what he was hearing, and Jazz called the impromptu interview over. He picked up the pace on the way back to Icy Steel just enough to be noticeable.

Again, Prowl had offered his space so they could both rest in peace while their frames finished recalibrating from the crazy drugs they had been on by accident. But Prowl was stuck on the interview. Jazz's career was ending. He really was being usurped, and he was quickly fading from the spotlight. Guilt gnawed at his circuits, making his spark twist painfully in his chassis. 

"Why did you not tell me that your career..." Prowl began, feeling himself sinking into a small pool of misery. It was his fault, wasn't it? He was to blame for the downfall. Jazz would still be playing every night like he had been if Prowl hadn't shown up. Took advantage of a willing frame. Dragged him along knowing he wasn't sure he held the same feelings. Oh Primus, he was a terrible bot. 

Jazz hummed, shrugging casually again, and it almost made Prowl upset. How could he be so nonchalant about it? "It's not a big thing," he said. "Was bound ta happen eventually. 'Sides, I'm much happier now than I would've been." The smile he shone at Prowl was genuine and soft, but there was still the tiniest bit of sadness laced in with it. 

"It is a big thing. It is important," Prowl insisted, taking his servo and stopping them on a quiet street corner to look him in the visor. "I cannot... I am so sorry. I wish I would have known. I should have-" stopped seeing Jazz? It was impossible. Even if he could get himself under control, the other mech was far more wild and eager to do as he pleased- which, for some reason, was Prowl. He took a deep invent. "You should not lose your job because of me," he said instead, jaw tense. 

Jazz laughed softly, bringing their joined hands up to his derma to kiss Prowl's knuckles. "Sweetspark, I told ya- it was gonna happen at some point. And like I told Pax, I'm still gonna be playin' around!" Prowl's sour expression didn't fade away, and he felt like screaming. If his career plummeted because of his involvement with Jazz... he wasn't sure what he'd do, but it would be extremely difficult for him to find his place again. Jazz sighed. "You wanna know something?" 

Prowl nodded, afraid to say anything. 

"I decided I didn't care what happened to my glory the moment you started laughin' in my arms." 

Prowl was clobbered over the helm with the memory file of that night- only his second night in Cool City. Crashing, falling, being caught... he flushed and turned his helm away. That had been so stupid and embarrassing. He still didn't understand why his reaction had been to laugh at the situation. He didn't understand why that was the final blow to Jazz's high status and full life. But then Jazz turned his helm to face him again, and he couldn't deny the sincerity on the mech's faceplates. 

"I don't care what anybot says about- about fate or- or- or destiny or Primus or whatever slag, but I think I was meant to catch you. I think you're the best thing to ever happen to me." Jazz pressed their helm crests together, and Prowl leaned into the contact, that familiar aching void in his chassis tightening. "I'm ready to see what luck gets me and where life takes me next. I jus' want you to be there for it, if you'll stick around." 

"Yes," Prowl breathed, saying it so quickly and yet it didn't feel fast enough. The tac-net snarled hundreds of reasons he shouldn't be letting this go on, shouldn't be staying anywhere near Cool City, but for once and finally, Prowl knew what he wanted, and had set it firm in his coding- too deep to be uprooted like countless other wants. "Yes." He didn't have the proper glyphs. The chasm in his chassis caved in on itself, flipping and inverting until it flattened out into an even plane. No more grief, no more guilt, no more pain. A gentle ripple spread from its center to every distant edge of Prowl and then came back stronger, echoing impossibly. "Yes." 

Prowl and Jazz took turns giving each other sweet tactical overloads. It was hard to stop, in all fairness. They were both exhausted, but Prowl's berth was soft and cushioned their frames just so, and there was too much delight in being so intimately entwined. It was comforting, and real, and it was theirs. 

Jazz coaxed Prowl through perhaps the gentlest third overload of his entire functioning, petting his doorwings until he shivered and his frame went slack. "There ya go," the mech cooed, kissing Prowl's open, panting intake. "Frag, you're gorgeous." 

Prowl huffed a laugh, processor swimming as it came down from the surge of electricity. "As are you," he returned as soon as he could vent again. 

Jazz giggled that giddy giggle, hiding his faceplates against Prowl's neck and it was all so ridiculous, but Prowl soaked up every nanoklik. The tac-net reminded him harshly that he was ridiculous too, but it was sluggish as it did so. 

"You exhausted the tac-net," he told Jazz proudly. He was glad he was able to explain the hardware to the visored mech now- and that he understood what it was better than most others could. He never pried, never assumed things, just accepted it as it was. It was a huge relief that he hadn't known he needed. 

"Score," Jazz whispered, and Prowl could feel his smile against his plating. "Take that, Tacky." 

"'Tacky'...?" 

"Cute, ain't it? Tac-net is already like a nickname, right? So..." 

Prowl snorted, but mainly only because of how disgruntled the tac-net got about it. Not an efficient shortening of a designation, 47% or whatever. It cited the same amount of syllables as proof. "It is, I suppose." He rested a breem, then tapped Jazz's side. "Let us get some fuel. I do not think I am quite ready to power down for the day-cycle." 

"Ooh~ still got stamina left, do ya?" Jazz teased, rolling out of berth to follow Prowl into the kitchen. 

"You seem to have an affect on me, yes. In any case..." Prowl teased a single digit along one of Jazz's hip seams. "You forget that I am a pursuit vehicle."

“I’d say you should stop getting into situations where your paint gets this slagged, but if I’m being honest, business has been booming,” Sunstreaker joked as he began applying the first fresh layer of paint over Prowl’s frame. “Can’t quite give you another freebee, but-”

“I will pay full-price, Sunstreaker. However I appreciate your generosity, one free paint job is more than enough of a gift,” Prowl quickly interjected. "I will also be covering Jazz's expenses." 

Jazz made a noise from somewhere in the shop. He'd wandered off to look at all of the different paints, muttering about 'trying something new this time'. Sunstreaker made an amused face, but didn't otherwise comment on it. Instead, he regaled the two of them with his twin brother's latest antics, which thankfully were not related to minibots or cults or minibot cults. Halfway through the second story, the bell to the shop chimed, and Prowl heard Jazz excitedly greet the Pyrite bots. 

"We're not late, are we?" Arcee asked, stepping into Prowl's field of vision and waving hello. Prowl's frame was locked, but he did give an effort to smile, however small it wound up being. 

"No, you're good, girl! Early, if anything," Sunstreaker replied. "I figured we could have a little hang-out while you still have a night off," he told Prowl after his inquiring hum. Strangely, he wasn't concerned by the prospect of a surprise party. Perhaps it was the low-key experience he'd had at Pyrite Diner (up until the arrest of Gears), or perhaps it was because he was finally comfortable with small, friendly gatherings. These were his friends. It was a nice change. 

Prowl listened to Sunstreaker's continued story about Sideswipe wrestling a dine-and-dash seeker out of the air with the help of a jetpack, as well as the sounds of Hot Rod and Springer setting up a couple tables, followed by the delectable smell of Pyrite's signature dishes... oh yeah, this was going to be a pleasant night indeed. Prowl continued to listen as conversations circled around him, passing between different sets and groups of bots in a never-ending cycle of laughter and smiles. He shuttered his optics as he waited for the final layers to be applied, merely letting the atmosphere flow around him as his sensors took it in passively. 

He could have fallen into recharge that way; familiar, comforting voices, Sunstreaker's professional and soothing brushstrokes, Jazz beginning a song... but alas, the work was done before he could convince the tac-net to let him be so vulnerable. For once, he didn't discount it for just trying to do its job- keeping him functioning. He sent it a bundle of moderately-difficult equations as an apology, and it gradually accepted it. 

"His faceplates dry?" Jazz asked, already shaking himself loose to prepare for his turn on Sunstreaker's podium. 

"Ye-"

Jazz swooped in for a big kiss before Sunstreaker could finish his glyph, and was gone before Prowl could properly reciprocate or realize that he'd just been kissed in front of the majority of his friends. He flushed slightly, muttering "tease" under his vents as he went to join the Pyrite bots at the tables they had set up. 

"Lookin' sharp, Wee-Woo!" Hot Rod winked, stepping aside from the catering they'd brought. It was obvious the mech had been hogging the food, but Prowl was glad there was still enough left for him to enjoy. And enjoy it, he did. The smell had been near tortuous, causing his tanks to grumble. 

"Thank you," Prowl said, dipping his helm as he dug in. "Sunstreaker is very good at what he does." 

"Damn straight!" Arcee pointed to the design on her chassis. "Before I met Sunny, this looked like a wet blob instead of a spark. He did a lot of other cool things, but I'm the most proud of this." 

This turned into a small show of the three bots showing off their favorite parts of their paint jobs, which Sunstreaker pretended not to preen at as he focused on adding his signature flair to Jazz's frame. Hot Rod showed off how the flames along his plating lined up perfectly in his sporty altmode, and Springer pointed out the subtle etchings along his forearms; a memento to his late creator. When they asked Prowl what his favorite part of his paint job was, he stalled, but had to admit it was the overall symmetry of the pinstriping. It was perfectly executed from every angle, line weight, movement... it was impressive. 

Prowl stuffed his intake as he let the conversation wash over and around him again, more than content to soak it up. 

Until the front door chimed again, and Mirage strode in confidently, Deputy Hound right behind him. 

"Well, well, well," tutted Arcee, looking the two up and down. "Looks like somebot finally got the diodes..." 

Mirage flicked her helm, but there was no heat behind his dramatic optic roll. "What can I say, enforcers are all the rage right now." 

Prowl looked to Hound, who didn't seem phased by the implication of being part of a 'trend'. That must not be the real case at all- either that, or Hound was more into Cool City norms than he thought. Whichever was none of his business, of course, but Hound had done a lot of him, and Mirage had... done significantly less. Even sabotaged, at some point, he was sure. He had no proof of course, but-

"Did you know he can make holograms? Good ones, too. And I can turn invisible so, it's kind of perfect," Mirage rambled to the group as Hound casually looked around the shop as if it were his first time in. Actually... chances were it was his first time in Sunstreaker's shop. He really just wore that same matte green with minimal design. Prowl often wondered why he hadn't yet been coerced into matching the crowds, but in the end he was glad to see someone less flashy. And then he'd wonder how he let himself get coerced into matching the crowds, and conversely decide that he was better off fitting in. 

Jazz pinged him a message: Wanna know a secret? 

Prowl, despite really not caring about the inner lives of other mechs, indulged his lover: Yes.

Hound is neon green and pink under that guise. He's so matte and boring bc it's a hologram. You'll never recognize him at a club bc he's just as flashy as everyone else. 

Prowl didn't realize he was staring hard at Hound until the deputy gave him an odd look. He wished he'd never said yes. He was going to be picturing that... probably for forever now. He forced himself to stop staring, which probably wasn't helping. 

Acknowledged.

And once more, Prowl simply drifted in the sea of conversations. He sat quietly, optics dimmed as he let the tac-net begin defragging. He could almost believe that the city wasn't on the cusp of turmoil. 

Chapter Text

Skids almost didn’t notice the giant, shimmering billboard announcing the threshold into his new station. He had been too busy daydreaming out through the train window; imagining this and that and everything in between. Really, he only registered the sign because of a subtle shift in his frame regulation. Excitement, probably- but there was a deeper feeling underlying it that none of the other new stations had given him. It was new, and strange, and most importantly interesting. He was suddenly more eager to dig his servos into whatever it was that made this city tick. With the conflicting rumors and lack of information on the datanet, it had presented itself to be one big mystery. Skids loved a good mystery. 

Cool City proved to have a lot to offer just in her rumors alone.

"Mech, I'm tellin' you, they've got all kinds of drugs there. Real processor-melting slag." 

"My mentor's third creation's uncle went there once. He said that dancing by yourself was taboo!"

"Everyone's a whore there. At least, that's what I heard..." 

On and on, bots just had so much to say about Cool City despite never having been there. It was intriguing! Even more so was the fact that the moment anyone knew Skids was being transferred there, it was all they wanted to talk about. He'd gained quite a few new comm. codes as a result, all begging him to tell them what it's really like. 

Skids decided he wouldn't. Only for his creators, maybe. This adventure was going to be his, and he was going to savor every breem of it. This thought put him right back in his daydreams. How many of the rumors would be true? Which ones were really wrong? What would the bots be like? Would he make new friends right away or would he have to work to earn their trust? 

Would his new coworkers like him? 

Primus, he hoped so.

The train hissed to a stop, and nearly everyone in the car scrambled for the exit, all too eager to flood Cool City’s notorious club scene. Of course the cycle Skids was scheduled to transfer was also the same cycle of some big anniversary- some kind of parade, it sounded like. He listened in to all of the chatter around him as he stepped onto the platform. Wow. Just wow. Everything was so colorful and bright... paintings and murals overlapped each other in a sea of art. Lights shifted their hues and winked at him, pulling him towards this or that. It was beautiful in a whole new context. 

Skids spun in slow circles as he took it all in, not really noticing as bots barely bumped against him in their rush to explore the city beyond just the train station. But Skids wanted to absorb it all, not just the highlights. It was a good thing he would be living here for a while- plenty of time to really learn every nook and cranny. 

"Heya, mister!" chirped a yellow minibot that was practically all lights. Actually, wait... his plating was transparent! He was all lights! Skids crouched down to examine the minibot that had greeted him, then quickly realized that that was definitely rude, and- "Hehe! It's cool, isn't it? Wheeljack came up with it! It hasn't really caught on yet, but I think it's sick." 

Well, at least the minibot wasn't offended by Skids' undying curiosity. "It is really cool," he agreed, still trying to give the bot some space anyway. He had to meet this Wheeljack guy. "Um, hello, by the way." 

"Hi!" The minibot laughed, then pulled a folded up flimsy out of his subspace. "I'm Bumblebee! Bit of a local tour guide slash legend... your new boss sent me to take you to the precinct and then show you around!" 

Skids unfolded the- quite large- map, giving it a quick scan before ultimately taking an image capture and saving it to his files. He'd have to fully transpose it later, but already he could tell there was plenty to do in the city. He certainly wasn't going to get bored too soon. "Thank you, Bumblebee. Um, I'm Skids, but I guess you already know that, huh?" 

Bumblebee nodded as enthusiastically as he shook Skids' servo. "You betcha! Now c'mon, the night's just started!" 

It was easy to follow Bumblebee through the crowd thanks to his unique armor that literally acted as a beacon. He was quick, and darted around other bots with practiced ease, but Skids was always a fast learner (that was his whole thing, obviously) and caught up in no time. The minibot rattled off surface-level facts about the places they were passing, sprinkling little tips and tricks along the way. 

There were a lot of bars and clubs. Which made sense because the one thing that seemed consistent about Cool City was the nightlife. That, and the drugs, but c'mon, what city didn't have bots doing drugs? The difference, Skids learned very quickly, was that everybot did them openly. Legalization...? Probably. While there were a lot of bars and clubs pouring music out into the busy streets, there were also plenty of shops. Paints, frame adornments, mods, goodies, furniture... really everything that any city would typically have. He was also very glad to see that the artwork that decorated every surface of the train station had bled out into every other part of the city. Every building was unique and intriguing and just teeming with life. He hadn't seen such vibrancy in any other city. 

"You have to try one of these!" Bumblebee pulled Skids aside for a quick detour from his route to one of those mobile enerdog stands.

Already, he had been memorizing street names and intersections and tagging them with what kind of businesses were on their corners. They were walking too quickly for him to fully commit all of that to long-term memory storage, but it was still a good task to be doing. 

"Oh! Enerdogs?" Skids knew about these! They weren't super popular in other places, but they were pretty yummy. 

Bumblebee flicked a credit chip in the air, aiming it perfectly to land in the stand attendant's waiting servo. "Don't you know it! Gee, you sure do catch on quick! But can you do this?" As soon as the minibot had an enerdog in hand, he shoved the entire thing into his intake in one movement. Condiments went a little everywhere, but it was impressive. 

"Dang," Skids muttered, almost tempted to mimic him. Instead, he took a normal-sized bite of his own. "You know, I probably couldn't," he lied. He could do just about anything if he tried hard enough. 

Bumblebee swallowed hard, then grinned, bits of the food stuck in his dentae. "Thought so! Alright c'mon, let's keep goin'! Your boss is all about punctuality." 

With that, the minibot was hustling away again, and Skids raced after him, circuits buzzing with curiosity and excitement. He was going to learn and do so much here, he could feel it! In no time, they stood under the shadow of the Cool City Enforcer Precinct. He was going to die from anticipation. 

"I'll be waitin' out here when you're done! Don't take too long, though, we've got a lot of places to see!" 

Skids thanked Bumblebee, then took a deep invent and walked inside. 

The precinct was much quieter compared to the hustle and bustle of outside. It was still full of bots, however, all of them either chit-chatting by an energon dispenser or starting their shifts at their desks. It was orderly and clean, and felt just like every other precinct Skids had worked in, yet somehow completely and totally different. Maybe it was the outward appearance of the enforcers; they matched the rest of the city's aesthetics of flashy paintjobs and intricate linework. Maybe it was the subtle neon trim along the walls. Maybe it was the amount of conversation happening. 

Skids spotted his new chief from across the precinct and had to suppress the giddy feeling he got when the chief spotted him back. It was like meeting a celebrity, really- who could blame him for being excited to meet the mech in the metal? He was practically a legend, in the enforcer world. Of course, he couldn't say how many of the stories were actually true, let alone accurate, but the mental image he'd had built up of the mech was great. He was kind of like Skids' hero, in a way, which was odd because, again, he didn't even know what was real! He chose to believe that he just swooped in and single-handedly saved the entire city from getting wiped out, but held some reservations just in case. 

“You must be Skids,” Chief Prowl said in greeting, extending a servo as he approached. Skids took it eagerly, giving it one firm shake before letting go.

“That’s me! Sergeant Skids, reporting for duty- er, in two cycles, anyway.” Skids mentally face-palmed. Way to be a dork in front of a literal legend… “It’s so great to meet you!” 

One of Prowl’s elegant doorwings flicked, and Skids knew that one! He’d only spent a short two orns of vacation in Praxus one time, but he’d easily picked up on the frame language. That movement, if he remembered correctly (and he always did), was kind of like saying ‘likewise’ with a subtler, tinier angle that read as mild amusement. He tried to say something with his own stubby little doorwings, but he didn’t have half the range of motion or sensitivity, so he hoped at least half of it came across ok.

“Hm,” hummed Prowl, his intense optics very clearly tracking the movement. “I see.” And he did! - the Praxian responded with a more deliberate angle, displaying intrigue. Skids celebrated internally, tagging that particular skill of his as a solid recovery from being a bumbling fool. “Follow me to my office.”  

"Yessir!" Skids tried not to skip as he walked behind the chief, instead distracting himself by observing the other enforcers around him. Most of them were observing him right back, but didn't stare for too long until they went back to whatever it was they were working on. 

"This is Deputy Trailbreaker," Prowl announced once they had made it to the mech's office, gesturing to the mech standing beside the huge desk. "I had hoped that Sergeants Bluestreak and Thundercracker would be here for our first meeting, but they have been... preoccupied with a recent case. I do apologize, but I am sure you will meet them soon enough." He took a seat in the chair behind his desk, then motioned Skids to sit in the one across from him. "How was the train ride?" 

"Good! It was good. Long," Skids chuckled awkwardly. "But I made it! It's so cool here- no pun intended." 

Trailbreaker laughed, and that was good enough for Skids' social-interaction-winning-o-meter. 

"That is good to hear," Prowl hummed thoughtfully. He opened a drawer in his desk, then pulled out a stack of datapads and a packet of keycards. He briefly explained what each key was for, then went over the datawork Skids had to sign. He was quite thorough about it, which was honestly more of a relief than anything. Skids hated bosses that didn't tell him everything and then he'd wind up getting in trouble for something he didn't know about. He was a fast learner, sure, but that didn't make him psychic. "You will be in apartment 24 in the Icy Steel complex. Most other enforcers stay there as well because the precinct covers utilities and repairs." 

A whole apartment? To himself? Skids was really likin' Cool City. Okay, he was sold as soon as he stepped off onto the platform, but sheesh! Talk about too good to be true or something. "Do you live there?" he asked, turning the entry key over in his servos.

"No," replied Prowl, the barest hint of a smile ghosting his faceplates. "I have just moved into a penthouse a little further west from there." 

"Oh. Congrats!" 

"About time, too. I'll be right next door to you, Skids. In 22," Trailbreaker piped up. "If you ever need anything, that is. Though everyone helps everyone out from time to time." He winked, and Skids wasn't sure how far he was supposed to take that. 

"Truly," Prowl murmured before moving on to his next point of business. "I am sure you have many questions about the city. I trust you met my friend, Bumblebee, already?" 

Skids nodded enthusiastically. "Bright lil guy."

"Indeed. While I am sure he will be showing you some of the best the city has to offer, including the parade, I doubt he will explain to you how the city works. There are... many illicit substances that circulate the city. You will have a three-cycle training course with Doctor Ratchet about which ones have been deemed safe enough to be legal, and which ones have been made illegal. He will also teach you how to administer first aid for bots that have failed to adhere to guidelines and mixed substances that should never be mixed. Additionally, you will learn to check for proper licensing tags regarding these substances, among other things.

"I must also warn you that as an enforcer, you are not eligible for drug licensing. Engex, however, is still permitted without licensure, though my expectation for all enforcers is to be present at work completely sober. The third datapad goes more in-depth about that subject, but do not hesitate to reach out to me should you have any questions." 

Skids flipped through his small stack of datapads to locate the third one. Again, wow, he really thought of everything. This mech was thorough. Though, he supposed he had to be in order to keep a city that was all about clubbing and drugs in check. "Sweet... got it." 

"That last datapad has comm. codes for your coworkers, as well as some important individuals. You will need to get into contact with Mayor Hound to formally establish residency here. He is another great resource for all things regarding this city. The rest are not quite as mandatory, but are self-explanatory." Prowl leaned back slightly in his chair, tapping his chin. "Trailbreaker, did I forget anything?" 

Trailbreaker looked off to the far wall for a moment, optics dimming. "Hmm, no, sir. As on-point as usual." 

Prowl's doorwings fanned just barely in a subtle show of pride and Skids was pretty sure he was the only one that could notice. This was going to be a fun little game for him and only him, he decided. He would never try to manipulate such a thing, but he loved bot-watching as much as he loved mysteries. 

"Right. Do you have any questions for myself or Deputy Trailbreaker?" Prowl sat back up, perfectly straight. Skids wasn't an idiot, though. He bet that behind the perfect posture, he could really bust it down at the club. No professional was that proper all of the time- plus, like, Cool City was all about clubs and partying, right? No way the chief of a party city never busted it down crazy style ever. 

The mental image of Prowl busting it down crazy style had effectively wiped all of Skids' millions of burning questions clean out of his processor. "Um... nope! I'll let you know when I do, though!" He tried to shake the image away, but he was stuck with it. Good thing the chief couldn't read minds... that would be super embarrassing. 

“If that will be all, I am due to take my lunch with my cojunx. Do make sure Bumblebee shows you the parade. It is spectacular every vorn." 

"-and this is the original Pyrite Diner location!" Bumblebee actually stopped his fast-paced walk to stand before the neon sign for the diner. Skids made a mental note that this diner had some kind of extra significance, since the rest of the tour had gone without breaks. Thus far, he had pointed out numerous enerdog stands and which ones to avoid, a few paint shops, several bars that were all claiming to feature the most famous bots on Cybertron, a casino, and what the minibot said was 'the first street sign ever erected' with a giggle. "The original owners are off doing their own things now, but one of their first employee runs it now! Hungry yet?" 

Skids nodded, and his tanks gave a well-timed rumble. "What happened with the original owners?" he asked his vibrant tour guide as they slid into a booth. Plaques and photographs lined the warm walls. It was cozy, yet pretty busy. Skids guessed it would have been busier had bots not been preparing to watch the upcoming parade. They were already lining up along the sidewalks, claiming spots in an almost territorial manner. But they worked it out without too much pushing and shoving. 

"Well, Hot Rod actually started an asteroid surfing business that he runs mostly out of the upper atmosphere now. He's pretty good at it, but it's scary zipping around in an asteroid field like that! Plus, y'know, it's a long ways out and a lot of shanix just for two orns of lessons. And Arcee! Arcee's gonna be in the parade- I'll point her out to you- but she's gotten a few big gigs as an actress! She's really good. Have you seen- never mind, you wouldn't've seen Mean Femmes, it's still in production! Duh! It's gonna be a rager, though I'll tell ya. And-" 

"Bee!" A lime green mech hustled towards their table, flimsie menus tucked under his arm and a rag slung over his shoulder. "There's my favorite minibot, how've you been?" 

Bumblebee abandoned his storytelling immediately to shine brightly at the green mech. "Just great, Springer! Prowl told me to show the new enforcer around and he's real cool! Aren't ya, Skids?" 

Skids flushed slightly, but nodded. He was real cool... that must be high honors coming from someone in Cool City. Haha. "Nice to meet you, Springer," he said, extending a servo. 

Springer shook it firmly, his smile oozing friendliness. "You too! It's been a breem since we've gotten a new enforcer here, but I tell you, you're gonna love it." 

After Bumblebee and Skids finished chatting with Springer (which consisted of the green mech regaling the story of the first time he met Prowl at Pyrite) and placed their orders, other bots in the diner began introducing themselves to Skids. It was a lot, but Skids was made for handling a lot of information at once. He didn't try to completely log each individual that spoke to him, but he did save the offered comm. codes and was generally happy to talk about himself, as well as learn a lot about these strangers. They were all quite nice- a little blunt with some of their more personal questions, but Skids quickly found himself appreciating it In other cities, it felt like you couldn't ask everything that was on your mind. Bots didn't like being questioned, especially not on their personal lives. But Skids loved it! What was the harm, really? 

The openness of the other bots was also a relief because it meant that there was much less confusion in communication. There was nothing getting lost in translation when a mech inevitably hit on him, which he politely declined. And the best part? The mech just accepted it and moved on! The same went for the femme that offered Bumblebee something vaguely drug-shaped, which he quickly shook his helm and flashed his non-compatible certifications. Then, she just smiled and offered them to someone else. Communicating felt much easier here, in a place where, apparently, there were no secrets. Despite the mass of population, everybot knew almost everybot. He learned quickest of all that word of intake spread rapidly. A handful of bots had told him that they'd heard he was there, simply because of a friend of a friend of a cousin of a friend saw him exit the train station. It was incredible! 

Skids and Bumblebee both struck up friendly conversation with droves of other bots after their meal, out in the streets as they hunted for a good spot to watch the parade. He could hear a marching band off in the distance already, that accompanied by cheering that echoed like a rainstorm. 

"Pick me up!" Bumblebee urged Skids once it was clear that fighting their way to the front row wasn't going to happen. Skids wasn't that tall, but he could see between most bots' helms alright. 

"Are you sure?" Skids hesitated, servos nanometers away from a good holding position. From experience, minibots didn't like getting picked up, unless they were a cassette and the bot picking them up was their carrier. Never pick up a cassette unless their carrier and the cassette says it's ok... he could still feel the dent in his helm some days, despite it having been pulled vorns ago. 

"Yes! I wanna see!" Bumblebee lifted his arms up. "Just put me on your shoulders, 'kay?" 

Bumblebee was incredibly light as Skids hoisted him up and onto his shoulders. It was probably due to the fact that his plating was all some sort of reinforced glass as opposed to thick metal. The minibot whooped, and it was only a few more breems until the sound of the marching band came front and center.

The bass of the horns vibrated Skids' internal components in a ticklish manner, and his spark began swirling in time with the beat of the drums. His audials were completely overtaken by the full sound of so many bots playing so many instruments at once. Behind the marching band was a fleet of speedsters with super flashy paint jobs, and together they choreographed an odd little dance that really showed off the details. Banners for businesses passed, showcasing their owners and their staff, some of them blasting the kind of music they'd typically play. Coupons were handed out by some establishments, and others handed out little keepsakes with their branding. The parade seemed to stretch on forever, and the cheering never stopped. Eventually, a float with a red and blue seeker passed- 'Starscream for Mayor!' emblazoned across its front. The cheering died down slightly then, but picked up into an even greater roar when a second campaign float passed with a matte green mech walking in front of it. Hound, Skids determined. He also determined who he would probably be voting for based off of the crowd's reaction alone. 

Bumblebee patted the top of Skids' helm whenever he spotted a bot deemed a 'celebrity', shouting into his audial all about them, but of course, Skids could hardly hear over the music and the cheering. He'd find out soon enough, he was sure. 

He already loved Cool City. 

The words 'Undercover Operations' greeted Prowl as he traveled through the newest additions of the precinct. It was a small sub-department now, but there was little doubt in his processor that it would grow in time. For now, though, there was little going on, which meant he could go directly to the office belonging to the mech in charge.

“You're late.”

Prowl rolled his optics as he took a seat across from his cojunx’s desk. “I am perfectly on schedule, Jazz.” 

“Well, it felt like forever waitin’ for ya,” Jazz mumbled, getting up from his own seat to walk to the minifridge. He bent down to retrieve their cubes, and not a cycle went by that Prowl didn’t regret setting it up on the floor. He watched the show without shame. “Please tell me the new sarge isn’t a total bastard like the last guy.” 

‘The last guy’ was quite an… interesting… mech named Octane. As it turned out, all of his enforcer paperwork had been forged because he had wanted to infiltrate the Cool City precinct only to snoop around and abuse power. He did not last more than an orn under Prowl’s keen observational skills, though Jazz had been the one to initially tip him off on the shady behavior. 

“Skids is a good mech,” Prowl said confidently, bobbing his doorwings in thanks when Jazz handed him his cube. It was mostly plain- the taste of zinc had grown on him (he still refused any other additives or supplements). “He claims to have an outlier ability that allows him to learn at exceptional rates of speed. It explains how he got to his level in such short time.”

“He beat your record, did he?” Jazz mused, sitting on his desk in front of Prowl rather than in the chair that was for him and designed for sitting on. Prowl gave up on suggesting the chair decavorns ago, but that didn’t stop him from thinking about it every time. 

“It was hardly a record,” Prowl murmured into his cube. 

Jazz nudged Prowl’s knee with a pede. “Don’t give me that slag, sweetspark. I’ve seen your files. Everybot else doesn’t hold a candle to how quick you got through schoolin' and basic- and hey! Now you’ve been the big chief of the big city for nine decavorns. That sounds like a record to me.”

Prowl was well aware of his files and history. He knew he was smart, smarter still when the tac-net did it’s job as it was supposed to. He had climbed ranks faster than most, and yes, he was the longest-standing chief Cool City had ever seen. He deserved to be where he was. 

Hearing Jazz say it aloud still managed to give him the flutters. He pretended it didn't, if only for the sake of being humble.

“Who comm.ed me almost every night to help me study through my exams when I was in Iacon for a decavorn?” Jazz leaned forward, abandoning his cube to lay into Prowl’s well-meaning modesty. It was a game they exchanged now and again; a sort of power play of proving the other’s best attributes and skills. 

“I did,” Prowl admitted after a pause. And he had lost a lot of recharge, too; Iacon was a good five joors behind Cool City. In the end, it had been more than worth the lack of sleep and the lack of tangible companionship with the mech being so far away. Now, Jazz was permanent to his life and to his work; the tac-net could only be fussy when Jazz slacked off to pester his cojunx. 

“And who, pray tell, cleaned up Cybertron’s dirtiest city?”

“That was a collaborative effort, and you know it.”

“Nuh-uh.” Jazz tapped Prowl’s knee with his pede again. “If it weren’t for you, Beachcomber woulda driven the city into the Pits. You stepped in and changed everyone's lives for the better.”

“Mayor Hound is the one that helped finalize that change,” Prowl reminded Jazz. Though he had spent countless sleepless cycles fussing over this regulation and that by-law, meeting with officials and doing way too much for his position. In the end (which was less of an end, and more of an evening-out) it was more than worth it. Every breem Prowl hadn't slept in order to get to where he was now had been worth it. “Collaboration. Regardless, perhaps it was you who convinced me to remain here to help that change along.”

That argument would be rehashed once every two or three groons, and it would always end the same way: shameless smooching. 

“We are at work,” Prowl warned, the tac-net finally having enough of what was becoming inappropriate behavior in the workplace and what would have been a serious HR issue had they not been cojunxes. He pressed firmly against Jazz’s bumper when the mech tried to steal a kiss, per the usual end of the argument.

“It’s our lunch break,” Jazz retorted, making ridiculous kissy lips at the air since he couldn’t quite reach Prowl’s face. “Technically not working.”

“Yes, but we are, physically, in our place of work. You know how I feel about this.” Prowl tried on a meaningful frown to deter his cojunx’s unbearable kissing. And by unbearable he meant utterly addictive.

Jazz groaned dramatically. “Fine. Be that way,” he huffed, no real heat behind his glyphs. He sat back down on the edge of his desk, a devious grin curling from his derma. "You know, I think I forgot something at home..." 

Prowl rolled his optics. Sometimes he regretted letting Jazz in on his loopholes. Others... "What a shame. Do we need to take our lunch to go?" He kept his tone monotonous and level. The raise of an optical ridge betrayed his true intent. Yeah... he was gonna exploit the Pit out of this loophole. 

Jazz's engine revved quietly in response. "I guess we gotta... frag, I can't believe this," he muttered, trailing a servo along the upper ridge of one of Prowl's doorwings as he headed for the door.

Prowl kept himself from shivering, but did get up and follow Jazz to the door perhaps a little too eagerly. Cojunxed for two decavorns now, and he still got riled up too easily... He stopped his cojunx just short, however. "You forgot your cube." 

"That's alright," Jazz grinned, wide and sly. His visor shimmered just so in the light, and Prowl could feel his gaze trail down his frame. "I'm thinkin' I'll have somethin' else for lunch."