A/N: Merry Christmas, wonderful readers! Have the first chapter of your three-part Christmas gift! The next couple of chapters will be coming out before Christmas Eve.

This came to me suddenly, and quickly grew out of all expected proportions. It's spawning all manners of plot bunnies. So I hope you like it, readers, because I think I'm stuck for the ride.

From me, to you. Happy holidays.

Arc 1: 'Tis the season

Chapter 1: A time for giving

(On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

"Jazz, what is this?"

The saboteur grinned, visor flashing at his doorwinged lover. "'S a partridge in a pear tree."

Prowl turned, staring at the other mech. "A what did you say?"

Jazz huffed. "Okay, so technic'ly it's a bird-figure decoration on a tree branch. It's a human Christmas tradition."

A corner of Prowl's mouth quirked. "Really?" He eyed the decoration again with speculation. It was pretty, he supposed, if you liked such things; the small, artificial red-breasted bird stuck to the green-needled branch with a piece of wire and affixed to the rec room wall.

"Yup." Jazz bounced on his pedes. "'S from a song. On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree. Ah dunno why."

"And this is because…" Prowl stretched out his arm, touched the tiny bird carefully.

"It's from me ta ya, Prowler." A black hand gently caresses the edge of one doorwing. "Ya know, from one true love ta another."

"Thank you, Jazz," Prowl said softly, doorwing trembling at the touch. "It's lovely."

(On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

"The bird seems to have multiplied."

"Nah, Prowler, that's the second verse. Those're turtle doves."

Prowl canted his head, looked at the two tiny bright-white ceramic birds hanging from the edge of yesterday's fir branch. (Hound had been kind enough to confirm the type of tree – Prowl had been fairly certain that a pear tree it was not.) "What's the significance of turtle doves?"

Jazz walked up to him, snuck an arm around his waist plates. "The humans see 'em as a symbol of love an' devotion, 'cause they mate for life."

"That's nice," Prowl murmured. "They're very pretty, too. Where did you get them?"

"Carly helped," Jazz said, placing his head on his mate's shoulder. "They're from a store."

Prowl reached around, pulled Jazz closer. "Thank you, love. I do appreciate the symbolism." That small smile quirked his mouth plates again. "True love from my true love."

"Careful, Prowler, mechs might think ya sappy," Jazz grinned.

Prowl just tightened his grip. "That's why you show me these when no one else is here, isn't it. So I can be sappy in peace."

Jazz's mouth presses gently against his shoulder struts. "Ah do love ya when ya're sappy."

"Likewise, love."

(On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

Prowl just looked. The fir branch had gained a brother, the two branches fastened in an angle against each other to make room for the decorations. On the new branch, three fat little balls of feathers sat.

"Three…. Somethings?"

Jazz laughed. "Aw, Prowler, ya're usually more eloquent than that. They're French hens. Or, they're supposed ta be." He shrugged at his mate's raised optic ridges. "Ah dunno. It's in the song. Ah think the humans ate 'em or somethin'." He grinned proudly. "Ah made'em. Glued the tiny feathers on the tiny balls." He held up his servos, tell-tale traces of feathers and glue still evident on the tips of his fingers. "Was a pit of a task, too, since they're so small. Ah got the biggest polystyrene globes Ah could find, didn' help much."

"Jazz, I love you." Prowl smiled at Jazz, more touched than he would have expected, and got a radiant grin back. "Come on, let's get your fingers cleaned."

(On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

There was a button. Prowl was hesitant to push it. You never knew what a button on the Ark was programmed to do. Or who had programmed it. At least it wasn't red.

"C'mon, Prowler, push it," Jazz murmured, leaning his head on Prowl's back.

White fingers stretched out, pressing the button carefully. The sound of bird song filled the air.

"Four callin' birds," Jazz said, pressing tiny kisses against the back of Prowl's shoulder struts. "Ah got the recordin' from Hound."

"It's beautiful," Prowl murmured, leaning into the touch. "Thank you. Are you going to let me do something for you?"

"Ya are doin' something for me," Jazz replied. "Ya let me do this. Ah'm fairly sure it's against regs. Also, it's in public. Anyone can walk in an' see it. An' see you."

"It's art," Prowl replied, pushing the button again. "It should be admired."

"Ah think Sunstreaker'd disagree wi' ya." Jazz's grin was audible in the tone of his voice.

"Let him. It's not his gift."

"No," Jazz murmured, mouthing gently at a doorwing, eliciting a gasp from the other black and white. "It's yours. All Ah have is yours."

Prowl meant to respond to that, but then his doorwings were mouthed again and his vocaliser fritzed out and that was the end of intelligent conversation on his part.

(On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

"Five gold rings."

"Ya got it in one," Jazz grinned, touching the golden chain hung across one of the fir branches. "Five golden rings."

"Do they mean something?" White fingers intertwined with the black ones.

"Eternity, Ah think. An unbreakable vow."

"You're making that up." Prowl nuzzled gently at Jazz's helm.

"Well, yeah," the saboteur grinned. "But that's how Ah mean'em. And since Ah'm the one givin' you the gifts…"

"… then you get to decide," Prowl agreed. "That sounds only fair." He mouthed at one of his lover's sensor horns. "I bow to your expertise."

Jazz gasped. "Prowler…"

(On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

Prowl looked. He looked again. He tilted his head. It didn't help. These, these six swirls of silver, he did not understand.

"It was supposed ta be six geese a layin'," Jazz said, sauntering up to him. "But Ah was so tired of birds. Ya'd think the humans never thought of anythin' else, there're so many birds in this song." He stretched out a hand, tracing the swirl of one of the symbols. "These're G clefs lyin' flat on their backs. Humans use'em to write music. Pretty, ain't they?"

"Very," Prowl agreed. "Almost glyph-like." He traced a version of the symbol on Jazz's back, smirking slightly when the other mech shuddered. When Prowl stepped closer and put his arms around his mate, Jazz turned to him eagerly.

"Love you," Prowl murmured, nuzzling Jazz's cheek plate. "More than you know."

"Ah know," Jazz moaned as clever white fingers stroked the rim of one headlight. "Ah do know."

(Interlude)

"So what's new today?" Sideswipe detoured over to the wall, where the night's most recent addition shone among the green branches. "Some form of silver doohicky?"

Smokescreen grinned. "They're the new ones, yeah."

The red twin raised an optic ridge. "Makes no sense to me. D'you know what they are, Smokey?"

"They've got something to do with music," Bluestreak put in from his perch on Sunstreaker's lap. The golden twin was leaning his helm up against the gunner's cheek, eyes half-closed. "At least that's what Carly said, though she didn't know what they were called. But they're pretty, aren't they? All swirly and stuff. I like them."

"I'll make you some," Sunstreaker murmured.

Sideswipe grinned at his brother, before sauntering around the table and sitting down next to Smokescreen, leaning against his lover's side. "Take him up on that, Blue. He doesn't offer often."

"Really?" Blue twisted on Sunstreaker's lap and flashed him a smile. "Thanks, Sunny. You're the best."

Sunstreaker nuzzled Bluestreak's neck. "Of course I am. You deserve only the best."

"They're adorable," Sideswipe stage-whispered to Smokescreen, a small smile curving his mouth plates.

"You're adorable," Smokescreen replied, pulling the red twin closer and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Love you, Sides."

Jazz grinned from his perch behind them. From his vantage point he had a clear view of Sunstreaker whispering sweet nothings into Bluestreak's audials, and Sideswipe and Smokescreen as they stared at each other, having apparently forgotten both where they were and that they were in no way alone.

Praxians. If we could gift-wrap a Praxian and send to each Decepticon, maybe the war would be over by now.

He caught the eye of the last Praxian on the Ark as Prowl entered the rec room and made his way over to the energon dispenser.

Nah. The 'Cons'll have ta find their own happiness. Ah've got mine.

(On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

This time, he didn't hesitate to push the button. The soft music filled the room, as the small – for an Autobot – screen set in between the branches lit up, white-clad dancers moving elegantly across it.

"Swan lake," Prowl sighed, pulling the saboteur close to him and resting his helm on the other's shoulder.

"One of your favorites," Jazz nodded. "For seven swans a-swimmin'."

They stood silently together, watching and listening as the ballet dancers moved across the stage.

"You know me so well."

"Ah know everythin', Prowler." Jazz grinned suddenly. "And yet ya surprise me."

Mouth plates pressed against sensor horn. "I do?"

"Yeah. Ah didn' expect that ya'd appreciate this quite this much. Ta be honest, Ah thought ya'd think it a bit silly."

"It is a bit silly," Prowl replied softly. "And unexpected. And thought-through. And innocent. And I love it. I love it because it's something you're doing for me. Every night, I find that I'm walking faster to get here, I'm so excited to see what you've come up with this time." He pushed the button again to start the dancers off. "It's perfect."

Jazz twisted the other's arms, pressed a kiss to his mouth plates. "Ah'm glad. Ah'm havin' so much fun plannin' it out." He chuckled. "Didya fall for the temptation yet and look up the song?"

"I won't," Prowl replied, kissing him back. "That would spoil the surprise."

"Ah aim to surprise," Jazz whispered, optics closing.

"I know," Prowl whispered back. "You're my own personal brand of chaos. That's why I love you."

(On the eight day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

"Carly."

"Yep."

"Eight of her."

"Yep."

"…Okay. What's with the look on her face?"

"Bumblebee took that picture o' her after she'd fallen down and broken her leg, an' we had to carry her everywhere." Jazz grinned, tilting his head at the smug-looking blonde youth in the pictures. "Ah remembered 'cause Spike said she was milkin' it for all it was worth."

"I do recall that," Prowl replied, a slight quirk to his mouth plates. "Ratchet said she had been well for several days before she finally admitted she could walk on her own." The tactician's amusement would be difficult if not impossible to spot for anyone who was not Jazz. "So what's the connection?"

"Eight maids a-milkin'."

Prowl's soft noise could almost be called a snort, if the tactician ever did such a thing. "Eight young Carlys milking it. Excellent idiom transferral."

"Ah knew you'd appreciate it," the saboteur grinned.

Prowl smiled one of his tiny smiles again, reaching out to take the other's hand. "I think it's brilliant. Thank you."

(On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

"Oh Jazz, it's beautiful," Prowl whispered.

The nine polished balls of precious Earthen metals spun around each other slowly on tracks of smooth silver, the glowing golden ball in the centre giving out its own soft light.

"Ah'm glad ya think so," Jazz replied in a soft voice. "Ah made it for ya. Wheeljack helped. For nine ladies dancin'."

Mesmerized by the spinning jewels, Prowl didn't immediately respond. But then he turned his head around so fast that he should have twisted at least one neck cable. "You made it?"

"Yeah." Jazz grinned, a bit awkward under the tactician's focus. And even more surprised by the sudden embrace he found himself in.

"Thank you, Jazz," Prowl murmured into the other's audials. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Really? 'Cause as orreries go, it's not that complex or elegant. Ah've seen better," Jazz objected.

"I've seen more fanciful ones, yes," Prowl agreed. "Made my master artificers who'd spent half their younglinghood as apprentices and could use vorns on a single installation. This…" He turned his focus back to the spinning gems. "You made this. That makes it perfect."

"Aw Prowler, now ya're sappy again," Jazz grinned, happiness apparent in his optics.

"I can't help it," the SIC said, nuzzling at the other's faceplates. "You bring out that side of me."

"Well, Ah shoulda done this before, then," Jazz smirked as his mate took his hand and pulled him towards the rec room door.

"I'm glad you're doing it now. Come with me? I need you."

"'Course," Jazz replied, willingly letting himself getting tugged along with a pleased look on his faceplates.

(On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

The row of little cardboard figures were balanced individually on springs. Prowl counted ten of them. Each figure was familiar, some faces well-known, others less so. And some were a bit of an unexpected sight.

"Starscream."

"Well, he's the Air Lord of Vos," Jazz shrugged. "And Ah needed more lords ta get ta ten lords a leapin'. Plus, ya have ta admit, he looks good."

"Megatron?"

"Same thing, minus the lookin' good. Ah tried ta avoid usin' him, but Ah didn' know who else to use." Jazz touched the little bell on cardboard Megatron's head. "At least Ah made 'im festive."

Prowl smiles faintly at that. There was no doubt that the figures were festive – from Optimus with red sparkles, to Sentinel with a tiny santa hat, to Starscream covered in glitter.

"They're funny."

Jazz brightened. "Great! 'Cause Ah wasn' sure ya'd like 'em, since Ah put the 'Cons on there. But if ya think they're funny now…" The saboteur grinned. "Wait 'til Ah do this." A black hand reached out and gave the stick the figures were attached to a tug.

And the figures started bouncing on their springs.

"Ten lords leaping," Prowl chuckled. "Well played, Jazz."

"Ah aim ta please," his mate grinned. He reached out to tug at the stick again, making the bell on cardboard Megatron's head jingle merrily.

(Interlude)

Prowl had looked long and hard, and found nothing. Jazz had taken the only song that involved giving lots of gifts to one's mate.

Oh, there were plenty of songs about gifts. But many were aimed at sparklings, or involved the human giving themselves to their mate, or wanting someone else, or wanting snow, of all things. There was even one about wanting one's two front teeth, which made no sense at all to Prowl. But he couldn't find anything that fit. And now he was struggling.

The closest he had come, was a song that said that all the singer wanted for Christmas was her mate. But it seemed – flippant, somehow, to Prowl. Besides, he already had Jazz. They were already bonded, they couldn't re-bond. And there was one song that ended with 'I built my dreams around you', and that line was perfect, but the rest of the song was just depressing. So he couldn't use that either.

So it was with a slight sense of desperation that he stood outside Prime's door, pinging for entrance.

Optimus looked up from a datapad as he entered. "Good evening, Prowl. To what do I owe this visit?"

For once not making a fuss out of the fact that his leader was working late again, Prowl made sure the door was shut and sat down on the chair in front of the Prime's desk. "I need some advice."

Prime put down his datapad, giving his SIC his undivided attention.

"You must have noticed," Prowl began, sitting straight on the chair, "the display set up on the rec room wall these last ten days."

"The Christmas song decorations, yes," Optimus nodded. "I wondered if Jazz had something to do with that."

Prowl permitted himself a small smile. "They're a gift for me," he admitted, "from Jazz. One for each of the twelve days. And I… Well, I do love that he's doing this, and I want to do something for him in return. But I don't know what to do." He shrugged minutely, a tiny flick of doorwings. "I've looked at the other Christmas songs. There's nothing similar. There are a lot of songs that have a line that fits, but no songs that fit perfectly."

"I see," Optimus agreed, and Prowl didn't think he was imagining the little glint of humor in the Prime's optics. "So do you feel the need to mimic his actions? Will something else do?"

"I want it to be heartfelt and interesting and considerate and perfect for Jazz," Prowl sighed. "And I'm beginning to realize that Jazz is much better than I at such things."

"Jazz may be more impulsive and prone to intuitive leaps," Prime said. "But you know what he likes, and what pleases him. I'm sure you can come up with something." Optimus placed his palms on the desk. "If this was me, I would write a poem, but that may not be what you are after."

Prowl just stared. "A… poem?"

"Yes," Prime grinned. "Or a list of sorts. I would try writing what would please my mate the most."

The black-and-white frowned. "Surely, Prime, you're not saying that I put his interfacing desires into words and hang them on the rec room wall."

Prime chuckled, shaking his head. "No, that is understanding it a bit more literal than I intended it. Although I dare say that there are some that would find it amusing. No. I merely meant that you are the one among us who knows Jazz best, so you will know what makes him happy." He stretched out a hand and put it on Prowl's arm.

There was not much to say to that. He had asked for advice, and gotten it, and the fact that he didn't understand what to do with it was mostly his own problem. He stood up to leave. "Thank you. There is one more thing."

Prime arched an optic ridge at him.

"Jazz had help, setting up these gifts. And I want to do something in return to all those who helped him. So I'm asking permission to arrange a Christmas party for Christmas Eve."

That had Prime surprised. In all their vorns of working together, Prowl had never before asked permission to hold a party. That kind of planning was usually left to his mate.

"Of course," the Autobot leader replied. "However you see fit."

Prowl nodded. "Thank you, Prime." Then he left.

(On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…)

The sketch was small, hardly bigger than his two servos put together, but it was exquisite. The colors seemed to have a muted glow, and the details were sharp, pulling him in.

"Jazz?" Prowl asked quietly.

"This one's a bit of a stretch," the saboteur grins. "Ah had t' find somethin' for eleven pipers pipin', and Ah didn' really want ta have eleven human figures playin' instruments on there. So Ah found this song called 'Pipes of peace', and its music video, and that led ta this." He took hold of Prowls fingers carefully, angling the miniature so they could both see. "It's a moment from the humans' first world war, somethin' called the Christmas peace. Apparently, on both sides of the war, the trenched soldiers jus' decided to stop fightin' since it was Christmas, an' instead they gave each other gifts and sang songs and such." He grinned suddenly. "Ah asked Sunny to put a piper in there though. Ah think that's him, on that rock."

"I thought it looked like Sunstreaker's work," Prowl said quietly. "Jazz, this must have cost you. He doesn't do this kind of work cheaply."

"Nah, it didn', actually," his mate replied, still looking at the miniature. "When Ah told 'im what Ah wanted it for, and the motif Ah wanted, he said that he'd waive the fee this once 'cause of the occasion. But only if he got to show it ta Blue first, before ya got ta see it." Jazz's visor turned towards Prowl. "Ah said that was okay."

"Of course it is," Prowl murmured. "It's the kind of story that Bluestreak loves. The idea that there is something out there that's more important than fighting, that's worth laying down your weapon for, and the idea that the enemy doesn't really want to kill you in the end."

In fact, it gave him an idea. And it was an idea that was almost guaranteed to put Red Alert in the med bay with an aching processor. His tactical battle computer and logic center briefly threw the same conclusion at him – can't be done – but when he changed a few variables… It could work.

Yes, it could work.

A/N: coming up: what does giving Prowl free reins at party arrangements really mean? Are Praxians really conducive to peace? And what could possibly make Rumble's tanks roil? Stay tuned for more!