Author's Note: Hello, fellow TF fans! This is the first story that I have written (read: have actually completed) and published, and I honestly do not know how to feel about this being the first. Seriously, of all the ideas I have and have had over the past few years, my horrible attempt at a humorous take on something already quite hilarious is it. Go figure.

Please see the note at the end of this story for an explanation of what prompted this, if it isn't clear. I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: unbetaed, innuendo, mild language

Pairings: Jazz/Prowl (non-explicit, implied bondmates)

Rating: T / PG-13

Universe: G1

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using the characters and setting of Transformers (Hasbro) and utilizes references from the dialogue and scenes from the 1989 Steel Magnolias comedy-drama film. I do not, nor have I ever, owned either sources of the content for this work. This work is the construction of my own imagination using the aforementioned sources without permission and is not for profit. Credit to other fan fiction works that contributed to, or may have contributed to, this work are included at the end of this work.

The "Bleeding Armadillo" Incident

"SURPRISE!"

Looking to his left at his startled companion, Prowl smiled slightly at the blinding smile and utter joy that radiated from Jazz as the lights in the recreation room, previously dimmed, suddenly flared to life to reveal his personal, weeks-long project. It had been the work of many mechs and some clever finagling of the duty schedule in order for this to be pulled off, but seeing his bondmate's surprise and delight as he turned to beam at him and toss his arms around him in an ecstatic hug made it well worth the effort.

He and Jazz had just returned from a pleasant drive that he had manipulated by suggesting scenic routes, stopping to enjoy some beautiful sights, and prolonging their uninterrupted quiet time together so as to give the rest of the off-duty Ark crew sufficient time to set up the room for the occasion. With a quick comm. to the waiting mechs, he and Jazz detoured by the communal washracks before heading to the rec. room to supposedly just grab a quick cube of energon before returning to their quarters. With how busy the Ark and its crew had been over the previous few weeks due to heightened Decepticon activity and human politics, Prowl knew that Jazz was not expecting more than a few well wishes and perhaps a small, relaxed gathering in the evening for his creation date. Cybertronians only held major celebrations for significant creation dates due to their longevity. Even then, many of such celebrations were postponed or simply overlooked because of their perpetual war. This one, however, was not going to be overlooked, Prowl had decided.

As the two of them were swarmed by the present mechs once they fully entered the room, each wishing Jazz a happy creation day and exclaiming their indignation over his audacity at trying to pass this one under the radar, Prowl passed his scrupulous gaze around the room in inspection. He was pleased to see the decorations and color palette were exactly as he had specified. The room was festive and filled with human "traditional" items that Jazz's inner sparkling adored like streamers, balloons, and those weird, shiny-metallic weights that looked an erupting volcano, all doused with a touch of Cybertronian elegance in warm lighting rather than the typically harsh lighting of the room. Everything was in one of three colors: gold, white, or ebony. Prowl felt a swell of mirth that he kept from his face, though the slight cant of Jazz's helm as he turned to him with a curious yet beaming look once the initial rush of greeting was finished and the others had returned to their drinks, conversation, or (for a few) dancing indicated that it had slipped through their bond.

"You planned this, didn't you?" Jazz asked, gesturing to the room with a servo. Prowl simply inclined his helm in acknowledgement, small smile gracing his lips, and then he found himself once again ecstatically embraced by the slightly shorter Polyhexian. Leaning back, Jazz's expression slid into something Prowl would categorize as "playfully admonishing" as it was obvious the mech was fighting to prevent the impending, face-splitting grin at this surprise.

"This why you've been all secretive and oblique lately, 'working' even more pass reasonable than usual? 'Cause I know you haven't had that much more work lately," Jazz asked with a light poke to Prowl's nose, making the tactician jerk back a little in evasion.

"Maybe," Prowl replied outwardly cryptic, but his happiness and satisfaction at his success in actually surprising his mate – a feat made exceedingly difficult, virtually impossible if he were not the expert tactician he was, by the fact that Jazz was such a skilled saboteur and Special Ops. leader – flowed across the bond between them. It was somewhat subdued at the unspoken knowledge between them of just how little time they had been able to spend together as of late. For the past few weeks, the only time they could manage was a few breems over energon and recharge, though for the latter it was more proximity than quality time as one was usually already in recharge or gone for the orn when the other was awake.

"I am sorry that I have been so negligent in spending time with you these past few weeks, Jazz," he continued quietly, aware of the others in the room noting the saboteur's suddenly subdued mood at that thought.

"It ain't your fault, love. It rarely is," Jazz replied equally quietly, gently brushing a servo over a defined cheek arch as he sent acceptance and reassurance across their bond. His azure visor dimmed slightly for a brief moment as they both reveled in the quiet moment only to flash back to its normal, vivacious glow as he stepped back with a broad grin. "Besides, if this is how you'll make it up, I sure ain't complaining! Though I have to ask: I get the gold and white, classic, signifying achievement and prosperity as well as lots of other positive stuff...and reminiscent of a certain winged wonder I know. Why black, though? Nothing against it, heck, we both wear it! But, seems kinda damning and gloomy to me for a party."

"Why, Jazz, I thought you, as our resident expert on indigenous and varying cultures, knew about this particular tradition the humans have," Prowl stated with a hint of feigned shock. Neatly clasping his servos behind him in the same way he did when he had welcomed new recruits back in Iacon or when he presented the facts to a group after much detailed and exacting research or planning, he continued, absently noting that he had now garnered the attention of most of the room's curiosity.

"As you know, we Cybertronians only celebrate certain creation dates due to our comparatively, and typically, long lifespan. Although there are some regional discrepancies and extenuating circumstances that can also factor in practice, those particular occasions are mostly standard. However, humans celebrate the occasion of their birth every time the Earth completes a full orbital rotation from the date on which they were born. That is, the day on which they were physically separated.

"While I was researching some of the ways humans celebrate such an occasion," he paused briefly at the numerous and unsuccessfully stifled snickers he received at that, ignored it, and continued. "As I was saying, I came across some information regarding the significance of the achievement of a specific age that intrigued me. Out of curiosity, I calculated what your equivalent age, adjusting so that certain physical developments, relative maturity, and some 'rites of passage' common across both our species, would be according to humans. They coincided. The age I am referring to is fifty, and while our general limits in 'human equivalent years,' for lack of a better term, astronomically exceed that of the average limit for the most developed countries, I found the sentiment and some of its more light-hearted idioms fitting.

"Thus, I was, as you would say, 'inspired' to plan and execute a surprise party that blended both traditions that have contributed to our local culture and lives here on Earth. Gold is synonymous with the occasion as, according to humans, the date marks when an individual has reached the 'golden age.' Beyond complimenting gold, black, to my understanding, is merely a dose of customary humor," Prowl finished, watching Jazz's over-bright visor as the mech assimilated his words and, based on the slightly gaping expression and furrowed brow, most likely conducted his own cursory search. Figurative optics twirled as the other 'bots in the room parsed what they could from the impromptu lecture.

The silence except for the music playing at a thankfully moderate – for the Ark – volume lingered like the cloying morning fog of the Appalachians until Jazz abruptly straightened, visor flaring in indignation and, assuredly exaggerated if what he felt across the bond was accurate, outrage.

"Are you calling me old!?" Jazz shrieked.

All helms swiveled, eagerly awaiting Prowl's hopefully fantastic response.

"I prefer seasoned or well-aged," Prowl delivered deadpan, though the effect was ruined by his microscopic yet contextually obvious smirk. The rest of the room burst into laughter at Jazz's expression, completely on board with this twist on the evening and immediately engaging full throttle with the comment.

Due to Jazz's extravagant amount of energy, his preferred lifestyle, his at times immaturity, and his just plain "cool" and accessible attributes, most tended to forget that Jazz was notably older than most of the rest of the non-Command mechs and femmes. In fact, the only instances in which his age and experience truly shown was during missions and battles when he commanded, during long nights and difficult, spark-felt conversations on tough orns when open audials and words of wisdom are needed, and any sort of historical or obscure, cultural reference where "you had to be there" to fully comprehend it. It was definitely a testament to his skill, quality, and resolve that he was still with them and thriving.

"Like fine high-grade," Jazz muttered sarcastically as his trademark mirth and suavity returned with each step he took toward his mate. Smacking Prowl's shoulder, the saboteur retorted, "I am not that much older than you, Sparkles," leading into their long-standing, light-hearted banter on the topic as Prowl escorted Jazz toward the tables lining the back wall that were filled with tastefully arranged and approved high-grade, solid delicacies that had been deemed h'orderves, and something else enclosed in a tall white box on the rightmost end. Judging by the size, his directions, and the one missing detail, Prowl discerned that it should be the cake. Why was it still in a box, though?

The chaos and ruckus reigned throughout the room as the two predominantly black and white mechs weaved their way through filled tables in order to reach the mouthwatering display of elegant energon confections, most of which where Jazz's favorites, and high-grade. They stopped a number of times for Jazz to chat along the way. After reaching the spread and collecting a small high-grade and a few of the solid treats, they made their way to and sat at the open table that had clearly been held for them. For the next few breems, Jazz enjoyed and Prowl accompanied a rotation of laughter and conversation as the Ark 'bots swung by their table.

Once every individual attending had the chance to visit Jazz, some much longer than others based on personality and the rotation of abbreviated shifts Prowl had set up so that everyone who desired to come could, the Twins stood before the monstrous white box and urged everyone to quiet down. Prowl's icy optics narrowed into a suspicious glare, only slightly alleviated as Hound and Bumblebee joined them, Wheeljack sitting closeby. This was not part of his plan.

"Good evening, everyone!" Sideswipe boisterously began. "Jazz-man, happy creation day! And I promise, I won't tell everyone when you have to move the targets on the range closer because you can't see as well in your old age, and I'll be sure you always have an escort when you cross the main hall, and-"

The rest of the red mech's myriad of "old people" stereotypes was drowned out by uproarious laughter, including Jazz's own in addition to his shouted "As if!" retort. Prowl just shook his helm, glancing fondly at his adjacent mate. He was still waiting to see what mayhem would come of this, hoping his intuition was wrong, the one-point-seven percent chance that was.

"Anyways," the red mech continued as everyone quieted down once again. "To preserve anonymity of the brilliant processor behind this, we were asked to present this certain surprise. And I have to say, it's quite fitting! So, without further ado…"

The four mechs each pulled away a side of the massive white box, revealing its contents. Inhaling sharply, Prowl tensed with widened optics as he staved off the tell-take twinge in his processor. He wasn't sure what exactly to feel at the sight, but simmering fury and horror beneath a barely impassive façade was what showed.

While he had to deliberate over a number of details and even deferred some of those decisions to those more suited to make them, one detail that Prowl knew with one hundred percent certainty from the inception of this idea was his expectations for a cake. While the concept of a birthday cake was human in origin, it was merely a more extravagant, rarely seen extension of some of their own celebration delicacies. And, it was an extension he knew Jazz loved. Recruiting the talents of their resident scientists – Wheeljack for ingenuity and Perceptor to temper the explosion-prone inventor – as well as Sunstreaker for an artistic perspective, Prowl had commissioned the creation of tiered, elegantly decorated cake of white and gold that bordered on the cusp of museum-quality, Romantic-inspired art. Most importantly, and the possibly catastrophe-inducing aspect, it was to be Jazz's favorite kind of celebration energon cake: blue silk, a sweet, ultra rich, and decadent blend that resulted in a shade of blue of almost the same beautiful hue as his mate's ubiquitous visor. Luckily, the recipe that Prowl had obtained from Jazz's creator millennia ago had survived their crash and extended stasis, so only some experimenting in synthesizing one of the ingredients that was not naturally occurring on Earth, as well as scaling the recipe, was required. Thankfully, he had not received any reports on mishaps, though he was not convinced that the suspicious, glow-in-the-dark haze that had filled the Ark last week was not somehow involved. Ignorance was bliss, in that case, since it was not caustic or explosive.

What he saw now, proudly displayed before the entire Earth contingent of Autobots, was most certainly not that. It was impressive in its own right and in its realistic details, and a part of him, deep beneath his shock at the sight, was humored and awed. Where he expected to see his envisioned, elegant tiers stood an almost to-scale rendition of Jazz, jauntily, even sensually if viewed at a few choice angles, posed in a comically heroic way with his signature winning smile, though the statuesque heroism effect was humorously thwarted by the addition of a cane which cake-Jazz exaggeratedly used for support.

Hilarity ensued. Uproarious laughter, applause, the works. Prowl scanned the present and distracted crowd for any indication of the delinquents who changed this, but his search immediately fled the forefront of his thoughts at the sight of his mate, leaning against him, breathless from laughing so hard. Though he would identify those responsible if only to ease his processor's need for closure, it could wait. Seeing and feeling the life, adoration, and exuberance of his mate was a welcome reprieve he would not waste.

"Love, did you-?" Jazz breathlessly asked with a huge grin, to which Prowl simply shook his helm. The glint of his visor, the brush against his doorwing, and the not-so subtle prod across their bond indicated he was not convinced but was not going to push it. Yet. Jazz was intimately familiar with his publicly obscure sense of humor. Taking a quick sip of his drink, the smaller mech sat back up, arm still wrapped around Prowl's waist, and addressed the room.

"Mechs, thanks," he said simply, uncharacteristically lost for words. "Just…thanks. I love it."

The party picked up once again, Blaster turning up the volume much louder, a mix of mostly fast, upbeat dance or danceable music with some quieter, slower songs intermittently woven in. As requested, it was still below the normal level that irritated sensitive doorwings. Prowl watched as his mate leaped into motion while he remained at the table just off the central clearing that was now the impromptu dance floor. The smaller mech smiled radiantly as he danced, and occasionally he would sing as well in his enjoyment. Prowl had always loved to watch his mate dance, all effortless grace, beauty, and palpable excitement. He joined Jazz for each of the slow dances with minimal coaxing. Overall, the surprise party was thus far a success, a sentiment further reinforced by his brief exchanges with those who passed by him.

After a while, at Jazz's prompting, the two headed to the back tables to grab a piece of the energon cake that someone had begun serving after their arrival. As they once again approached the long tables at the back of the room, Prowl suddenly halted with an aghast expression. Incidentally, his sudden stop jerked the still-moving and animatedly jabbering Jazz into a stumbling stop as well. An inquisitive gaze and confused expression met him.

"Prowler?" Jazz questioned with a small tug via their clasped servos to try and attract his attention. All thought fled at the startling sight before him, and he found himself speaking before he thought better of it, his normally calm and even voice flooded with bewilderment and appall.

"Primus, that's morbid!"

The confused stares he received from his mate and those nearby made his plating crawl, his distaste for being the center of attention flaring, but his gaze was frozen ahead. Following Prowl's line of sight, it took a brief moment before others began to realize what was affecting their typically reticent and composed SIC. Where the acclaimed and deliciously edible parody of Jazz was proudly posed earlier now stood a partially deconstructed variation, appearing as though random, and revealingly suggestive choices that 'random' was, chunks had been removed from their TIC. However, what was originally looked over by the others who had already claimed and begun enjoying their own pieces of the cake was that whoever had instigated the design changes either had no foreknowledge and therefore no reason to alter the type of cake used, or someone on the stranded ship hand a wickedly dark sense of humor. The cake was still the requested blue silk, and that type of energon cake, reputed for its beautiful blue color and soft texture, incidentally resembled the blue energon flowing through and supplying their frames, a sight they were all familiar with from millennia of war and its grotesque encounters with the worst atrocities of which their race was capable.

Prowl's first coherent thought once he unfroze from the image and its connotations was what would Jazz think of such a display. His mate had gone utterly still, expression blank, lips slightly parted in a minuscule gape, and presence over their bond still and muted. No doubt this was affecting Jazz, bringing up harsh, dark, and painful memories of distant and not-so-distant experiences and ill-fated missions, both Special Ops. and not. Prowl could accept the change in design as it was thoroughly enjoyed and retrospectively quite clever, but this was too far, too potentially upsetting. Prowl glanced around with a darkening expression, doorwings subtly flicking upward and outward in a muted show of his rising stress, in frustration that his intended reprieve and distraction from their current circumstances was afflicted by yet another prank, and in a show of protectiveness of his mate. He was once again searching for the possible culprits as well as assessing the scene to formulate a potential plan of action for if he needed to quickly remove Jazz from the room, for everyone's wellbeing.

Reaching through the bond he shared with the Polyhexian, he gently brushed against Jazz's side in question as to whether he was alright or not. He received an overwhelming and confounding mix of emotional layers. Preparing for the worst, physically stepping closer to the still quiet Polyhexian and shifting their joined servos closer to himself, Prowl opened his mouth to speak but was halted by a quiet sound emanating from Jazz.

"Jazz?" He asked, shifting so he was facing the mech. Watching closely through concern-filled optics, tensed in preparation, Prowl saw the quickly spreading grin, felt the rising mirth, as Jazz began uncontrollably giggling. Stepping forward, praying to Primus that he was not dealing with another psychiatric crack that had been missed after one of the saboteur's recent missions, Prowl cupped his free servo along the side of Jazz's now broadly smiling faceplates, wary optics meeting glowing visor.

"Jazz, are you alright?" He whispered. Feeling Jazz nod under his servo, he relaxed slightly, though not completely. He didn't sound hysterical or that terrifying, humorless cold that always proceeded his most dangerous lapses, but it also would not be the first time his stubborn mate would hide something so serious.

"Why so serious, love?" Giggle. "Primus, Prowler," Jazz was full out laughing now, "I never knew ya had it in ya!"

With that, Jazz was now doubled-over in uncontrollable, loud, honest laughter, prompting the rest of the room's occupants to relax, join in, or whatever. Some who thought that, despite his reactions thus far, this was all really something Prowl had contrived raised their cubes in good-natured salute. Flustered for a moment, slightly affronted at the thought of being credited with something so borderline obscene, Prowl huffed his frustration then found himself being dragged along by his still laughing mate to the dismembered statue of a cake.

"This is awesome, though maybe I should be offended," Jazz commented as he edged around his likeness, voice dropping to a whisper as he came back next to Prowl and, despite the visor, looked the wary tactician straight in the optics with a failed and significantly salacious impression of Prowl's signature deadpan. "Art speaks, right? So, in addition to old – ah, 'well-aged,' as you so elegantly put it – are you quite boldly suggesting that I'm not sweet tasting enough for you?"

Prowl tried to reply, but he could not find any words. He heard numerous snickers and a few catcalls as they were overheard. He felt a distinct processor ache coming.

"Jazz- I-" He stumbled, stunned. "No! Of course not. I-"

"Prowl, relax," Jazz smirked at him with a knowing – what did he know, he sardonically thought – look as he handed the Praxian one of the already cut and plated pieces. Prowl grudgingly accepted it as Jazz took up the utensils and moved around to the backside of the cake. "Come on, help me. It's not every orn that I have the chance to sample this fine asset of an aft that you love so much."

"Jazz!"

"C'mon Prowl, everyone loves a nice piece of aft!"

Deliberately whacking Jazz in the helm with the closest doorwing, the shameless saboteur laughed at his mate's reaction. With Prowl holding his plate steady, Jazz served himself a generous helping with the cheekiest grin the whole time. Settling down, they both enjoyed the special dessert, Jazz more so and quite vocally at the realization that it was his creator's recipe as well as continuing to poke fun at his mate to great delight. As things settled out once more, the high-grade really starting to kick in for some, and everyone had visited with Jazz, the two black and white mechs were left alone together as the party continued.

"This was really nice, sweetspark," Jazz said as he leaned against Prowl, his arm wrapped around the Praxian's waist while Prowl's was gently draped across his shoulder along the back of Jazz's seat. "Way better than I would ever have hoped."

"I am glad you enjoyed it," Prowl replied, still simmering slightly at the cake debacle but tabling it for now in favor of reveling in his mate's happiness. "We had the time opportunity and resources for once, and with the way things have been…well, there was no way that you were going to float this one. Besides, it significantly elevates morale when we are able to uphold traditions such as these."

"Ever pragmatic of you," Jazz hummed in reply, radiating joy and contentment as they enjoyed the uninterrupted opportunity to simply be together. "I have to ask, though. What possessed you to utilize a little creative interpretation on the bleeding armadillo? I didn't think you had seen that one."

"The what?" Prowl incredulously asked after a moment of shocked silence.

"Steel Magnolias," Jazz replied. "The groom's cake, with the red velvet? I got to say, this blue silk was definitely impressive. I didn't know it was possible here."

Prowl nodded absently, distracted by his internal search for the reference. Blanching at the results, he quickly shut that down and, leaning over, pressed his palms to his face with a groan at the helm-ache. Why did humans have to be so strange and irrational, especially the country where they lived? As if the impressionable Ark residents did not have enough inspiration for the absurd already.

"So…I don't here you denying this was your idea all along. Talk about a way to whip out that humor I know you hide so well!"

"Jazz," Prowl sighed, a flicker of irritation rising then suppressed as he sat back up and gave the triumphant-looking mech a pointed look. "I told you, that was not my idea. I would be happy to show you my intended design. I believe that I have narrowed down the list of possible suspects for who changed it, but I'll need to speak to a few mechs and check the security feed with Red Alert before I have my answer. On principle, I can almost guarantee two."

Jazz just smiled at him, used to his mate's tendencies and need for closure on such things.

"Retribution?"

Silence.

"Perhaps."

Jazz just laughed. He would try to convince Prowl to do so, for the laughs.

"Does it increase morale?" Jazz asked, not at all subtly trying to manipulate the ever logical Praxian's rationale.

Running the numbers, Prowl was actually shocked at the results. Sensing his mate's shift, Jazz peered up at him.

"It does?" Jazz incredulously asked.

"If it is not known who enacted it, no more than usual. However, were it to be merely suspected, not confirmed, mind you, that I was involved, it would increase morale by approximately seventy-six percent."

The two merely stared at each other, Jazz beaming and Prowl returning his small smile. For the sake of morale, then. Resolved, Prowl reflected on the evening, which was long from over if Jazz's gentle petting of his doorwing was any indication. Overall, he was satisfied, though his own surprise and implied inclusion with the cake still rankled. He shot the decimated remains of cake-Jazz another stern glare. As if sensing that thought, which would not surprise Prowl if he could by now, and following his line of sight, Jazz spoke up again.

"Cheer up, love. I know it wasn't your intention, but I love it. The party, the cake" – giggle – "and just spending time with everyone, especially you. You did good." Leaning in, Jazz placed a playful, gentle kiss on Prowl's cheek, prompting Prowl to give Jazz his signature subtle yet meaningful smile, meeting the unabashedly suggestive look his mate was giving him. Jazz was happy, and in this moment, that was what mattered most to Prowl.

Huffing over his shoulder at the mutilated remnants of the former rendition of his bondmate, Prowl muttered with a less heated glare at the impertinence.

"It still looks like a slagging autopsy!"

Jazz just shook with laughter at his mate's, at times, amusingly pedantic inclination.

Author's Note: My mother finally made me watch Steel Magnolias the other night because references to it kept appearing in conversation, such as how this one older lady at my church is nicknamed "Ouiser," but I was completely clueless. I highly recommend that you watch it! I believe it is still available on Netflix. There was a lot of stuff that had me very inspired (hint), but the armadillo cake – pun intended – took the cake. I will most likely be posting an epilogue to this, so keep that previous sentence in mind.

Known Contributing Works:

Imperium in Imperio by Mirage Shinkiro - the "not every vorn" creation celebration concept

Story of a Lifetime by Taralynden - the nickname "Sparkles" (story that comes to mind for this) and a larger age difference between Jazz and Prowl (kind of implied in this story, but can be read as not)

The Diego Diaries by Arctapus - the "hilarity ensued" phrase