Title: Mr. Sensitivity
Fandom: Animated
Genre: Romance/Humor
Pairings: Jazz/Prowl
Rating: M
Warnings: Lots of graphic interfacing of the sticky kind.
Disclaimer: There isn't a day that goes by where I'm not sorely tempted to go into a bookstore and put a slash mark through the word "copyright" in every single dictionary I can get my hands on.
Summary: The idea for monstrosity was, believe it or not, inspired by a picture on deviantART. Said picture can be found at the following link (remove the spaces):
crimson-nemesis. deviantART.
com/
gallery/ ?q=jazz#/d3cttbu
Make sure to thank crimson-nemesis for drawing my future brain child!
Author's Note: This is the first time I've ever written hardcore smut. This is also the first time I've ever attempted a TF story set within the Animated continuity. My former opinion about the show was summed up in eight simple words: what the hell was wrong with their chins? Of course, after a mini-tantrum and some much-invested research into the show, I altered my opinion…somewhat. It took a lot of fanart to make me appreciate their designs. A lot of my conversion is thanks to a fun meme done by digistardbz on deviantART. Fans of Animated should take a stroll through her gallery and bask in the awesomeness of said picture:
digistardbz. deviantART.
com/
art/ Trust-Me-Baby-162015860
Chapter One: Taking the Bait
He really should have seen this coming.
In hindsight, it had been his excitement to escape their base and acquire some much-needed alone time that had been his downfall. Having felt confined in the rundown warehouse, Prowl decided that performing some errands would satisfy his desire to stretch his legs. Unfortunately, in his impatience to escape, he had neglected one tiny detail.
Its name was Jazz.
Ever since the arrival of the Elite Guard over a month ago, the other ninja had made it his mission in life to prod into his team's affairs. Not a day went by where the brilliantly white Autobot couldn't be seen lounging around their base, challenging Bumblebee and Sari to those obnoxious videogames, arm wrestling with Bulkhead, or heckling the resident medic. After a week or two of Jazz's presence, Prowl found a way to maneuver about the base that didn't involve their paths crossing.
This strategy lasted about a day before Jazz had come to the conclusion that their new arrangement simply would not do.
From that moment onward, Jazz became Prowl's vigilant shadow.
To many of his comrades, it was "endearing" to watch the sleek white-and-silver ninja trail after him like a lost puppy. To Prowl, it was aggravating. His routine was abruptly invaded, and the black-and-gold mech was powerless to stop it. For all of his planning, Jazz still managed to spontaneously pop out of nowhere with that too-wide grin and those swaying hips. There was no explanation behind the behavior, either. Both were polar opposites with contrasting personalities—in fact, as far as Prowl was concerned, the only thing they shared in common was their martial arts training and faction emblems. Where Prowl lacked social graces, Jazz practically oozed charisma. While one preferred solitude and reflection the other basked in jaunty music and constant company.
Why Jazz had developed a sudden fascination with him was beyond reasoning.
Perhaps the other ninja's constant presence had attributed to his longing for privacy. It certainly wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, given that every other second was spent either with Jazz or trying to hide from Jazz.
Today, however, would be different. Today he was going to make a break for it.
With his list of items firmly tucked away, Prowl moved through the base in utter stealth, eager to be driving down the humans' asphalt roads. Vorns of practice enabled him to cling to the minutest shadows along the walls as if he himself were a part of them. As the lithe mech padded toward the base's entrance, a cheerful voice halted him in his tracks.
"Hey, Prowl!"
From his location on the worn-down sofa Bumblebee waved him over. Legs were lazily kicked over the back of the sofa as the scout gazed upside-down at the TV screen. An impish smile bloomed across his face as he chirped, "Feel like playing a game or two with us?"
"Yeah!" A pair of red pigtails poked over his thighs. With wide-eyed innocence Sari tacked on, "You never take us up on our offer! Come on, please? Just one round?"
As per usual, the gold-and-black mech dismissed the invitation with flick of his hand. "I have errands to attend to, Sari. And you know that I have no desire to partake in such games. Perhaps another time."
"Pfft." The eight-year-old responded to his answer with a strange hissing sound halfway between a huff and a snort. Gesturing with her controller, Sari complained, "You always say that!"
Bumblebee spared a second to pause their game before flashing Prowl a broad grin. As the smaller Autobot sprawled across the furniture in a luxurious stretch, he said flippantly, "Maybe he never wants to play with us 'cause he knows he's gonna lose. I bet the 'I have errands' slag is just an excuse to avoid some serious ownage."
For a second Prowl opened his mouth, debating whether or not to reprimand the canary-yellow scout for cursing in front of Sari. There was also the meticulous part of his processor which felt the need to correct Bumblebee's grammar—Just what in the name of Primus is "ownage" supposed to mean? Both musings, however, promptly withered and died as a third voice rang across the spacious room like a death knell.
"Careful what ya say, kid. We ninjas got mad skills. Prowl's jus' sparin' ya th' shame of runnin' away with your spoiler tucked between your legs."
With a smile that could outshine Christmas lights, Jazz strolled into the room. Audio-shattering Earth music heralded the white mech's appearance. As a pair of eyes and two sets of optics fell on the new arrival, Jazz automatically adjusted the setting of his internal speakers, reducing the volume to a blessedly lower pitch. Blue visor flashing, he sauntered forward, pausing behind the back of the couch to smirk at the eight-year-old and scout.
"Oh, really?" A dubious optic arched upward on Bumblebee's faceplates. "Then why hasn't he shown us any of those so-called 'mad skills'?"
Before Prowl could defend himself Jazz spared him the effort: "'Bee, my friend, let me put it for ya this way." Lips twisting into a smirk, he leaned into and whispered, "If ol' Prowl gave away all of his secrets at once, there wouldn't be any surprises left." Ever so slightly Jazz tipped his head to the side. "'Sides, some of that is…classified."
"Classified," echoed Bumblebee and Sari in perfect rapt synchrony. Both tilted their faces to study Prowl with renewed fascination, as if he were some bizarre organism beneath a microscope. The gold-and-black Autobot subdued a sigh. Really, now he was just laying it on thick, putting ideas in their impressionable heads no less. Being the creature Jazz was, it was no wonder he could charm others into clinging to every last word. Vaguely Prowl paused to consider if there had been an innuendo buried somewhere in there. Not that it mattered; Jazz was an enigma at best left for others to—
A light, squeezing pressure fell on Prowl's shoulder, nearly causing him to jump. Jerking his helm sideways brought him almost nose-to-nose with Jazz. With a smooth curl of his mouth the Elite Guard patted his shoulder before addressing the room at large: "In fact, we got some ninja business t' attend to now, so if you'll excuse us?"
A firm grip turned and steered a shellshocked Prowl away from their gaping audience. Head dipped close to his audio, Jazz inquired, "Tryin' t' get out of Dodge, huh? I can sympathize."
No, you really can't.
"Hey, if you're goin' out on a coffee run, mind if I tag along? I'm in th' need of some fresh air, an' man, let me tell ya, I…"
Without giving Prowl the chance to protest, Jazz had neatly folded himself into his alt mode. Revving his engine ever-so-slightly, the ninja playfully goaded, "Well? You comin' or what? Hurry up an' transform so we can hit th' roads!"
That was how Prowl found himself twenty minutes later speeding through Detroit with a persistent bumper driving up his rear.
"Jazz," the ninja warned. Had he not been confined to his alt mode, Prowl would have sent a caustic glare at his companion. As it was, tone managed convey his increasing annoyance.
"Yeah?" No heed was taken of said annoyance.
"You're tailgating."
"So?" chirped Jazz. Sunlight glinted off of his windshield as the sports car accelerated, playfully nudging the other Autobot from behind. Stifling a sigh, Prowl added another notch to his speed and tried to place a legal amount of distance between them. To his chagrin, Jazz once more closed the gap and matched his velocity, both just toeing the speed limit. "It's not as if ya won't warn me when you're 'bout t' stop. An' we both know that we're better than any human drivers."
Another sigh, this one less inconspicuous. "While there is some truth to those words, we are on humans' roads, and as such, are required to obey their laws."
Three meters ahead, the traffic lights for their lane flickered to yellow. A picture popped up in his CPU of him, idling in traffic for an additional minute, trapped at the condensing intersection with him all but buffeting exhaust over his aft. It wasn't a pretty mental picture, and Prowl could all but feel the fluid in his pumps freeze over.
Oh Primus no.
Determined to not be condemned by the yellow light, Prowl revved his engine hard and barreled forward. Ignoring his comrade's laugh—"Hypocrite!"—the motorcycle all but sent his front tire in the air, determined to beat out the impending change to red. Like the falling blade of a guillotine, the yellow flashed to brilliant crimson mere seconds before he could continue down the road. Rubber screeched against hardened tar as the gold-black Autobot skidded to a stop almost directly atop the white line dividing his lane. Rich, handsome laughter followed Prowl as the sports car dogged his heel, evidently amused by the frantic display.
"Aww, c'mon, Prowl, I'm not that bad," Jazz drawled, and once again dared to prod him from behind. At the contact shivers lanced down the length of his axles. "You're makin' me feel like a leper with th' way ya were all but tearin' up th' road." Rather than sound offended, however, Jazz easily laughed off Prowl's dash for freedom, and had the audacity to continue bumping his rear wheel. Like a kid trying to see how many times he could get away with poking the grizzly bear at the zoo before it decided, enough was enough, and ate him.
While the motorcycle replied he kept his attention focused on the traffic lights overhead, begging for them to change. "I am in a hurry. Your presence has nothing to do with my desire to avoid rush hour traffic."
"But rush hour ain't 'til five, and it's only four now…," Jazz trailed off, wondering. Silence descended between the two Cybertronians before he felt the need to break it: "What's so important that ya wanted t' risk getting' pulled over by th' police for speedin'?"
"First," Prowl sighed, "I was not going over the speed limit. I was driving at thirty-five—"
"In a thirty mile zone," Jazz pointed out. He sounded caught between amused and dubious.
Frag the mech and his attention to detail. He revved his engine. "Again, I reiterate: I was in a hurry. There was an eighty-seven percent chance that I could have made that light before it turned. Besides, were you not the one who said, 'We're better than any human drivers'?"
A snort answered him. "Prowler, ya'd need t' have been goin' at ultrasonic speeds t' make that. Unless ya got jet turbines tucked under your upholstery, then trust me—ya weren't goin' t' get there before it went red."
"Regardless, I…wait. Did you just call me 'Prowler'?"
"Yup," admitted Jazz unabashedly. Soft laughter resounded from him as he crept closer, metal brushing against metal in a touch that made Prowl flinch. "It's my new nickname for ya. Like it?"
Gravel crunched beneath him as Prowl shifted impatiently on his wheels. For a heartbeat he contemplated the logic behind Jazz's words before concluding that there was, in fact, none. "Isn't the point of a nickname to shorten the length of one's name? Mine is already monosyllabic. And I already have an adequate designation—the one I was created with." Surely Jazz couldn't disagree with that?
But no, apparently Jazz wasn't satisfied with that explanation. "In the traditional sense, perhaps. But what am I supposed t' shorten it t'? Pro? Pow? Now that's just stupid."
As if the conversation they were having wasn't already.
"You do know what a 'prowler' is, right?" the Praxian inquired stiffly. Perhaps there was still something left to be salvaged from their debate.
A snicker answered him. "Yeah? So?"
Apparently not.
As Prowl debated whether or not to rear-end the mech to get him to shut up, the lights mercifully went back to green. His frame sagged in relief as the ninja took off, Jazz weaving behind him. "Anyway, ya never answered my earlier question. What are we doin' today?"
"I," the motorcycle declared quietly, "am going to the local bookstore to pick up several novels I pre-ordered." And you, if I had my way, wouldn't be here.
For a klik the car's engine stalled. "Bookstore, huh?" Just then Prowl experienced the rare desire to smirk at hearing the normally confident Autobot sound apprehensive.
Unable to help himself, he commented in a deceptively airy tone, "If you do not wish to go, then please, feel free to return to the base or Magnus' ship. You are not obligated to accompany me." Maybe, just maybe, Jazz would take the bait.
A gap in the conversation gave him the impression that Jazz was doing some quick thinking. Before the gold and black mech could extend his offer again, the white ninja came to a decision: "Nah, man, it's cool. I said I was comin', didn't I? No backin' out now."
Damn.
Fortunately or unfortunately for him, the two had arrived at their destination. Gracefully Prowl cruised to a halt in front of the doors and slid to a standstill. Seamlessly he unfolded from his alt mode, gears, cables, and Energon lines realigning and sliding into place. Behind him, the telltale whirs of transformation signaled that Jazz had done the same. Straightening to his full height, Prowl indulged in a brief sigh and dared to glance over his shoulder. Not even five feet away Jazz was stretching, flexing his torso in a slender curve of pristine white plating. Joints popped as the Elite Guard rolled his shoulders, meanwhile shooting the gaping humans a wicked grin. Under his glinting visor the pedestrians quickly found themselves getting back on task, suddenly more interested in staring at the ground than at the metallic alien.
Had Prowl been less extroverted, he would have facepalmed. Instead, he settled on glaring at his comrade.
"Must you intimidate the local inhabitants?"
"Heh. Don' get your tanks in a twist, Prowler—"
"'Prowl,'" he corrected on reflex.
"—I'm jus' messin' with 'em. 'Sides, it'll teach 'em not t' stare."
"And maybe," the gold-black Autobot seethed, "you could have put them in a chokehold with your nunchaku while you were at it. Either way, you would have given the same impression. Now"—he spared a backwards glare over his shoulder as he approached the glass doors, which slid open at his proximity—"while I know that you need to be constantly entertained, I must ask you to behave yourself while we're here. As you are in my company, any behavioral issues that you feel the need to display will be associated with me. And as I have a relatively good reputation with the employees here, I would prefer if you didn't tarnish what shred of credential I still have."
Upper lip jutted outward as Jazz pouted at him. "C'mon, ya really think I'd mess that up for ya? Give a mech a break." Without warning the ninja extended a hand, reaching for a metallic bicep and giving it a reassuring squeeze. At the abrupt invasion of personal space Prowl flinched, but refused to jerk free of the contact. Softly, Jazz leaned in toward him, their vents mingling as he brought himself visor-to-optic. "'Sides, I'd never do anything t' hurt ya. That much I can say, at th' least."
Their shared proximity only wedged doubt further into his CPU. Gingerly, Prowl rolled his shoulder free, carefully removing his encircled arm from Jazz's grasp. With an I-do-not-approve look aimed at Jazz, he shook his helm, crouched, and ducked into the Barnes & Noble. All the while his processor reeled at the inappropriate display.
No sooner had the black-gold Autobot stepped into the vaulted room he sent Jazz a private message over their comm. line: Touch me in public again and I will snap your hand off at the wrist.
Outwardly, Jazz gave no sign of having received the ping. However, as the Elite Guard member crouched before a display table to study the novels, he responded, Does that mean I'm allowed t' touch ya in private? The question sounded almost like a leer.
What—? No! Were it not for his incredible self-restraint, Prowl would have snapped his reply aloud. Instead, he settled for moving past a crowd of teenagers, easily ignoring their stares as he strode purposely toward the back shelves. I don't know what is considered appropriate or inappropriate on Magnus' ship, but while you are with my team you would do well to keep your hands to yourself. Find another outlet for your boredom if you wish, but do not use me as a toy.
Toy…? As the transmission went through Jazz skirted around several tables to reach Prowl's side. Light rippled over the crystal spanned across his face as the white mech canted his helm, appearing to be engaged in thought. He snorted dismissively, meanwhile snatching a colorful book off its shelf and flipping absently through the pages. Trust me; I ain't toyin' with ya. Jus' who I am, y'know? Relax a lil', huh? Sheesh.
It wasn't necessarily what was said, but how it was said, that made Prowl pause halfway through stacking a second book in his arms. If you aren't toying with me, he inquired, albeit hesitantly, then what are you—
"Aww, Prowler, ya gotta be kiddin' me. Lord of the Flies?" the silver Cybertronian scathed. Not even bothering to ask for permission, his hand lashed out, pulling the book out of Prowl's slack hand before a protest could be formed. Mouth curled in disgust, Jazz pinched the book by the corner and held it at arm's length, as if he expected it to try and bite him. "Who in their right mind reads this garbage?"
"This," retorted Prowl, feeling just a tad slighted, "isn't 'garbage.' It's an American classic." With that said, he snatched the book right back, completely ignoring how childish the action was. While two wrongs never made a right, it certainly made him feel a hell of a lot better. "Besides, opinions aren't fact. Just because you don't like it doesn't mean that I can't enjoy worthy literature."
Beyond the visor Prowl was sure he saw Jazz roll his optics. "Worthy literature my aft," grumbled the other ninja. Oblivious to the attention he was drawing in the sports car continued to scoff, "Golding's work is a load of slag. He stranded a bunch o' kids on an island and pitted 'em against each other."
"There was a point Golding was trying to make, you know." Mouth pursed into a thin line, Prowl shifted his load and moved deeper into the aisle, pausing the crouch before a subsection labeled Graphology. Although, he privately admitted how startling it was that the other ninja was familiar with the book, let alone had read it. Never had he pegged his fellow as a bibliophile. "Many of the characters are allegorical to certain themes, such as savagery versus civilization, loss of innocence, or—"
"Blah, blah, blah." To Prowl's extreme irritation, Jazz had the audacity to interrupt. "Where'd ya hear that? SparkNotes? Please." With a full-body stretch he leaned back into the shelf and settled his weight comfortably against it. A few ominous creaks and groans resonated from the wood as it strained under the several tons of steel making itself at home. "That book is jus' another proponent of th' same mindset parroted through th' centuries. Makin' kids in school read that is like givin' 'em an instruction manual and sayin', 'Here ya go. Remember, kids, it only counts if ya brutalize your friends, not jus' kill 'em.' The Board of Education is practically condemnin' society by supportin' that waste of paper." With an upturned chin Jazz huffed, "Really, ya should'a heard Sari when her dad made her read that. I never heard a kid sound so dejected."
A deep vent left Prowl as he exhaled, fighting desperately to retain his composure. "Sari was only complaining because the book in question was two hundred and forty-eight pages."
"I know, right?" Jazz lamented. "Two hours and twenty-two minutes of my life that I'll never be able t' get back."
Another barely-there sigh left Prowl as he stacked a fourth book into the crook of his arms. A single idea occurred to him, a way to get Jazz to understand and hopefully shut him up. Quietly, he quoted, "'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' George Santayana."
What he didn't expect was a humid waft of air curling over his audio as Jazz whispered back, "'A man is but th' product of his thoughts; what he thinks, he becomes.' Mohandas Gandhi."
Taken aback by the quick-witted response, Prowl blinked and turned his helm. All but two inches separated their olfactory sensors as Jazz peered directly into his aqua blue optics, that knowing smirk stretched across his lips. They remained like for a solid ten kliks, neither breaking contact. A constricted feeling caused the gold-black ninja's intakes to hitch, his frame tensing as Jazz slid an arm between them and stacked a fifth novel atop his growing pile. Where their plates slid together left Prowl feeling more than a bit lightheaded from the heady friction.
The grin only grew when Prowl dipped his helm to stare at a rather cartoony picture of a boy mounted on a broomstick, flying with an outstretched hand between two Doric columns.
Arms crossed confidently over his chassis, Jazz drew back to give ample breathing room, but not before he purred, "Here's somethin' to liven up that lil' stack of stupors ya got goin' on there. Try chewin' on that while ya mull over th' startlin' revelation that you're not th' only brainiac 'round here."
"I never said you weren't…" That particular statement died off as his optics skimmed over the jagged font at the top of the book. "Harry Potter? I'm sorry to disappoint whatever delusions are fogging up your CPU, but I don't read children's stories."
The white warrior actually drew back in mock offense and clapped his hands over his audios. "Blasphemy!" he accused. Bleakly, Prowl wondered whether or not he had made a career change as an actor before he signed on with Magnus' crew. Some days, it certainly seemed like it.
Jazz threw his hands up in the air with a mortally wounded look. "This ain't some children's story. It's an epic tale of destiny, friendship, and comin' t' terms with one's self, in th' middle of a war between an orphan-turned-hero and th' most dastardly villain of all time: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
Add "dramatic storyteller" to the list of prior jobs.
With exaggerated slowness Prowl pointed out, "And magic. Which, as far as I'm concerned, is fantasy. As in, not real."
Again, to his mild annoyance, Jazz merely shook his head back and forth. "Prowler, Prowler, ya wound me." Buoyantly he skipped after Prowl as the darker 'bot made for another section of the store. "Look at it this way: Th' humans thought giant sentient robots from outer space were th' stuff o' sci-fi before Optimus made planetfall. Does that mean we're not real?"
Unable to conjure up a logical response to that, Prowl focused on plucking another book from the shelf on his right.
Hips swayed as the saboteur sauntered past, pausing to study the shelves bordering them on either side. "Really, Prowl," he sighed, "I know Bee-boy likes t' call ya a stick in th' slag, but do ya have t' prove him right? I mean, some o' these books make fluid backup look positively fun." To emphasize his point, he gestured toward the most recently procured book in Prowl's hands: Brave New World.
Somewhere in the back of his head, a nerve snapped. "Really," Prowl hissed, rearing his helm around to shoot his companion a scorching look. Slamming the book in his hands shut, he jerked a thumb roughly over his shoulder and snapped, "If you're going to criticize my tastes in literature, would you mind doing it on the other side of the store? I wanted some new reading material, not a personal peanut gallery!"
In the wake of his words it occurred to Prowl, a little belatedly, that he might have said that an octave or two louder than he'd intended. Faces poked their heads out of other aisles to watch the black-gold mech as he remained stock-still, while the mech in front of him suppressed what suspiciously sounded like a snort. He was distracted from the deafening silence when his companion offered a good-natured, if not watery smile.
"I'm sorry, Prowl." Gone was the previous amusement. Were it not for the contriteness in his voice, Prowl wouldn't have been able to tell by expression if he was sorry or not. A twinge of guilt struck him as Jazz slumped his shoulders a tad, the glow of his visor softening. "I jus' thought ya might've liked t' have an intellectual debate. Ya struck me as th' type t' really get passionate and all 'bout what ya read, so I thought ya'd enjoy a chat or two. Didn't mean t' get your chevron all bent outta shape. Anyway…see ya at the register?"
Not even bothering to wait for a response, Jazz dipped his head once in a bow and trudged out of the aisle.
Well, didn't he feel like a royal jerk.
With what felt like the twentieth sigh that day Prowl tucked his stack more securely in the crook of his arm. Expression resembling its normal neutral appearance, he maneuvered around two humans and made his way down a row of shelves stacked nearly ceiling-high. This time, as he gathered the novels from about their various parts of the Barnes & Noble, the action became more of a routine than a conscious search. All that his mind could focus on was the poorly-hidden disappointment on Jazz's face, and how his spark clenched at what he'd said.
About twenty minutes later the gold-black Cybertronian found himself pacing through the aisles, running a mental list through his head:
Books? Check.
Guilt? Check.
Jazz? Unaccounted for.
Equal parts weary and worried, Prowl hitched his load more securely in his arms and slunk between the rows of books. Perhaps Jazz had been more hurt that he'd initially let on and returned to the warehouse or Magnus' ship.
Odd. Not even an hour ago the ninja would have been ecstatic to finally have shaken free of Jazz's clinginess. Now there was the smallest part of his CPU that felt the absence like shrapnel in his side. Vehemently he insisted to himself that it was more for the lack of apology than actually missing the mech's company. After all, hadn't he wanted to reclaim his blessed solitude for over a month now?
As if he could dislodge the thoughts, Prowl shook his helm. Yet they remained.
Call it luck or Primus screwing with his life, it didn't take Prowl long to locate his missing comrade. In fact, Jazz was tucked in an aisle that he had previously overlooked, so it was fairly easy to comb through the store and find him. White plating glinted in the sunlight filtering in through the nearby windows, though the brightness of his armor was outmatched by his grin. As Prowl drew silently closer Jazz glanced up. Back pressed up against the stone wall, books encasing him on both sides, the Elite looked as far from unhappy as he had originally surmised. Denta were bared with devilish delight as Prowl padded to a standstill two feet away.
With a lazy curl of his lips Jazz placed the book he'd been engaged in into his lap. Brightly the silver 'bot inquired, "Did'ja find what ya were lookin' for?"
"Yes," Prowl admitted with a slight frown.
Jazz gave a pleased hum. "Cool. So did I." To illustrate his point he rapped the binding of the novel folded between his legs.
Curiosity bubbled up in his chassis. Instead of immediately apologizing like he had intended to, Prowl tipped his helm to the side and studied the crimson backings. "I wasn't aware that you were looking for something in particular."
A shrug. "Neither did I. Found somethin' that meets my particular agenda for today, though, so I figured I'd buy it."
"Ah." Feeling uncharacteristically awkward, he gave a pointed cough that grated out of his vocalizer, gaining Jazz's attention. Drawing in a quick vent, Prowl began, "I wanted to apologize for my actions earlier. I didn't mean to offend you with what I said—"
Jazz dismissed it with a flick his wrist. "Nah, don' worry 'bout it, Prowler. It's water under the bridge now. 'Sides, it's hard t' stay mad at ya." Another cheerful smile was aimed his way, and it summarily managed to banish what little guilt remained.
Unable to help himself, the Praxian queried, "I thought you were the one who was averse to coming here. What could you have possibly found to change that?"
It seemed that Jazz had been anticipating that question. Without bothering to look up from the book he had resumed reading he pointed toward a sign nailed into one of the shelves over his head. Curiously Prowl followed the direction of Jazz's finger. When his optics landed on the words overhead, he suddenly found a desire to be very far away.
Adult Section.
Static crackled in his vocalizer as he stared incredulously at the mech seated at his pedes. To his chagrin, Jazz slanted him a glance that in that one klik look downright lecherous. Just to drive the message home he flipped the book in his hands so the gold-black mech could get a clear look at the title: Sexual Healing and Techniques Used.
He must have made a face, because Jazz suddenly laughed. "Aww, hey now. There's nothin' wrong with a little curiosity in intercourse."
Drawing himself to his full height (admittedly no taller than the mech sitting at his pedes, but still), Prowl stared coldly down at the Elite Guard. "There is a distinct difference between 'curiosity' and porn, Jazz. Now, if you're quite done looking at that vulgar material, I would like to leave."
Immediately Jazz placated, "Fine, fine. Hang on; let me tidy up this mess I made. Wouldn't be nice t' leave these lyin' around for th' employees t' clean up…" Even as he crouched and began scooping up the filthy little books, Prowl noticed that a small stack was being set aside while the remaining novels were tucked back onto the shelves. His suspicions were confirmed when Jazz hoisted three differently-sized novels off the floor and into his hands, all featuring telltale names and even cruder cover art. Pointedly Prowl kept his distance as Jazz sashayed toward the store front, determined to ignore the pesky little books and whatever questionable intentions Jazz had planned for them. His aversion didn't go unnoticed, however, as the silver 'bot beside him drawled, "What'cha got against interfacin', anyway?"
The question caught him momentarily off guard; not because he wasn't expecting it (this was Jazz, after all—all blunt and no tact), but because of the way Jazz said it: voice concerned, intrigued, with a sideways turn of the head.
Better to get this discussion out of the way before Jazz started obsessing over the answer. "I have no qualms with engaging in pleasurable pursuits," Prowl clarified, purposely trying to keep his gaze locked on the nearing checkout counter. "However, I find items like those vile and degrading. What can be gained from reading pornographic material, I'll never know. Never mind that those books are about another species!"
Any hopes for keeping the nature of their discussion covert were lost when Jazz threw back his helm and laughed deeply. "Prude," he teased between snickers. "An' t' think, ya called me a critic."
Desperate to try and lower the volume lest they be overheard, Prowl hissed, "There's no need to broadcast this…this topic to the entire store!"
A hearty slap on the back was his answer, slightly jarring the books in his hands. "Don' matter t' me if others overhear. I'm not th' one with th' problem." Prowl's protests were cancelled out as Jazz chirped, "Anyway, I think it's pretty obvious what can 'be gained' from readin' beauties like these." Visor flashing, the saboteur ignored Prowl's scandalized expression and continued: "Personally, I think th' similarities between us an' th' humans are fascinatin'."
"Still…" He wasn't quite sure why he was arguing his point so vehemently, only that the leering books in Jazz's hands sent a thrill of disgust through him. Arguably, there was nothing wrong, per se, with self-derived pleasure. It was simply watching Jazz giving a verbal play-by-play to the entire store that made Prowl feel very self-conscious. Interface, no matter the species, was a private matter. And having this debate with Jazz, of all mechs! Not exactly the most comforting thing in the world, especially when the naughty part of his CPU couldn't help but wonder why Jazz was so wholeheartedly interested in the contrasts between their species. It went without saying that this was a conversation he'd rather have been left out of, for more reasons than one.
When no replies were forthcoming Jazz had to spare him a reassuring look. Though there really wasn't anything reassuring about the smirk plastered on his faceplates. "Aww, don' tell me you're gettin' all bent outta shape 'cause ya think I've got some nasty business goin' on with th' fleshies!"
He sighed. "Your powers of deduction are astounding," he deadpanned, and for a klik Jazz actually paused in forming his reply.
"Was that sarcasm I just heard? Let me record this for posterity. August 24: not only did Prowl crack a joke, but th' end of th' world started a few months earlier than as predicted." Unimpressed silence greeted Jazz's expectant smile as he beamed at Prowl, like a puppy waiting for praise.
"…no," Prowl at last muttered. "On every level known to mech and man, no, Jazz." Tiredly he brought the hand not balancing his books to scrub briefly at his face before pinch the bridge of his nose. Optics shuttered, he at last voiced, "It would simply put my mind at rest knowing that those…books, if I can even call them that, won't end up spreading around my home like a case of cosmic rust."
Again laughter followed, accompanied by another playful smack on his backplates that nearly sent him stumbling forward. He brushed down his dermal armor, as if trying to remove any lingering traces of Jazz from himself just in case some of the mech's questionable habits rubbed off.
"Oh, don' worry, Prowl," Jazz soothed. A dark smile flashed across his faceplates. "I'm not into that sort of stuff. I like th' humans, sure, but I don' like them like that. Naw, I've got other plans for these beauties."
Something in the mech's words sent a nagging worry through him. Glancing warily over his shoulder, Prowl arched an optic ridge at Jazz. In a klik he decided to shove aside his self-preservation instincts to ask the one question he would regret, but needed to know: "Then what could you possibly want with—"
"May I help you?"
Prowl whipped his helm around. A bit belatedly, he realized that during their conversation (if you could even call it that) the two had wandered toward the register, inevitably leading to him standing there in front of it while arguing with the other Autobot.
The cashier was a woman he was mildly acquainted with, with neither animosity nor friendship between them. Bored, glazed eyes watched him from beneath heavily-hooded eyelids, emphasized by the middle-aged human's myriad wrinkles and frown lines along her brow and mouth. Heaving a sigh, she rapped a pencil across the counter and prompted, a tad impatiently, "What do you want today…sir?" The "sir" was tacked on as if an afterthought, as if the employee wasn't sure how to address him even after all of the previous times Prowl had visited the store.
Relieved to have an excuse to bail out of their conversation, Prowl bent over for a second, bringing himself to a closer level with the cashier. His neat little stack was placed on the counter, a hand pushing the pile toward her.
"Good afternoon, Debbie," Prowl greeted in a far more neutral tone as he straightened. While he never particularly liked this human, he figured that politeness would go a long way. He'd long memorized her nametag since his first trip to the Barnes & Noble, hoping that if he used her designation when he spoke the woman would receive him better. "I'd like to purchase these."
Behind him, Jazz muttered something along the lines of, "No, really?"
Discreetly, Prowl pushed his pede back to step on the white ninja's foot. A quiet grumble followed, and Prowl lessened the pressure before pulling away.
"Whatever." Just as the first barcode was slipped beneath the scanner, Debbie paused mid-swipe and looked at Jazz as if finally realizing that there was two of them. "You two payin' together?" She gestured between the two of them with the small device in her hand.
"No, of course not," came Prowl's reply, a little faster than he'd intended. A less-than-covert snort of laughter left Jazz, something which the Praxian attempted to valiantly ignore. There was just some part of him that pointblank refused to have his own purchase mixed with those filthy books Jazz had found. If people saw the books together, and then saw the two of them together, no doubt their minds would wander and jump their own unsavory conclusions. Right now, the rumor mill just wasn't something that he could handle, especially with his reputation on the line.
A tiny shiver traveled down the length of his back.
Brushing a bang out of her face, the cashier went about the slow task, ringing each of his selections up. As the last novel was scanned, the woman shifted behind the counter and tapped on a nearby keyboard. "That'll be thirty-two dollars and twenty scents," Debbie announced in a detached sort of drawl. "Cash or credit?"
A hand was already halfway into subspace as the gold-black mech supplied, "Cash."
Sometimes, he mused, it was good to help out the Detroit police. It meant that he had his own ready supply of spare change.
As his hand ventured deeper into the extra dimensional pocket, however, Prowl wasn't expecting to find that the spot where he stored his human money was vacant. Surprised but unperturbed, he dug deeper into his subspace, fingers brushing up against other objects organized with what could have only been described as OCD-efficiency. Annoyed now, he twisted his wrist, trying to suppress the feeling of mild panic as the woman regarded him with a raised eyebrow. Jazz leaned in from behind, close enough for his exvents to buffet his audial.
"Need some help?" the silver mech offered. "There's a line startin' t' buildup behind us."
Shying away from Jazz, Prowl grumbled, "I know I have my wallet! I checked it yesterday, shortly after Sari and Bumble—"
And like that, Prowl froze.
"Prowl?" When he got no response, Jazz poked him in the back of the helm. "Prowler? You oka—"
"Son of a glitch," Prowl swore, too softly for the surrounding humans to hear. Rare was the orn when he was driven to profanity, and today was no exception. Inwardly he fumed, ignoring the prodding finger, too busy seeing red to care about the hand now resting in-between his shoulders.
"Hey, Prowl?"
Cracking open an optic at the sound of his name, without moving Prowl stared down. Some forty feet below a yellow and red blur were peering up at the branch he had secluded himself on. With a soft sigh the ninja upped the magnification of his optics, bringing Bumblebee and Sari more into focus. Without unfolding from his lotus position he craned his neck to get a better view.
"What's the matter?" Prowl called down.
Casually the scout rocked back and forth on his heels, as if buying himself time. When Bumblebee at last gathered his thoughts, his voice came out sugary sweet, too innocent of a tone for him to actually have.
"You feeling generous today?"
"Depends on the charity I'm donating to," he answered coolly.
This time Sari chipped in. "Well," she stalled, "'Bee and I were gonna go to the GameStop to buy the newest Assassin's Creed game. But, you see, I kinda forgot to ask Dad for a few dollars, so…"
"So you're turning to me for a spot," he summed up in a flat tone.
Falling back on begging, the golden minibot pleaded, "Please, Prowl? Please? Look, we'll pay you back! With interest, too, if you want! We just really, really, really need to get this game. Like, we'll both offline if we don't get it right now."
"You mean, 'die,' 'Bee," Sari corrected him. "You keep forgetting that I don't 'offline' like you guys do."
He decided to ignore that. "I'm sure that if I went to Ratchet for a medical opinion, he'd tell me that you're not going to die simply because you don't possess a certain game," Prowl sighed. At the dismissive response both of them whined, their expressions growing watery.
Damn his emotions to the Pit; he was growing soft.
"Fine." Ignoring their cheers of success, he quickly unsubspaced his wallet and tossed it down to the sharks circling below. It certainly felt like he was being antagonized by sharks, with the way their hungry gazes tracked the wallet as it fell into the child's hands. "But I expect a receipt, in addition to the money that you two spent!"
"Yeah, uh-huh. Got it." Not a little distractedly Sari answered, already pawing through the wad of paper money folded in the plain brown wallet. Bumblebee crouched behind her, optics wide as he likewise counted through the surprisingly generous tally that Prowl had saved up.
Feeling their attention waning, Prowl half-snapped, "And don't forget to return it! You two are old enough and responsible enough to give it back under your own power, without me having to hunt you down to get it."
"Sure thing!"
"Will do!"
Their objective achieved, the dynamic duo fled from the room, already discussing at length what they intended to do with their new game. Watching them leave, Prowl had a brief suspicion that his stipulations were in one ear, out the other. Dismissing the sentiment, he settled more comfortably back into his earlier position.
The universe, he reflected with a sour frown, was unfair. No two ways about it.
"Y'know"—Jazz's accented voice was suddenly right there, right against the side of his face, and it took all of Prowl's willpower to not jump at the sensation—"ya could always let me pay for 'em instead."
"No, Jazz," Prowl dismissed. Still frowning severely, he dug deeper into subspace, praying to Primus that there was at least one dollar, just one pitiful little leaflet to his name that had by some miracle fallen out. He brushed aside weapons and personal possessions. Each sweep through his inventory only sent his hopes plummeting when he realized that he didn't have any means to pay for it.
At last admitting defeat, the Praxian turned apologetically to the cashier. With a herculean effort he shelved his pride. "I'm sorry. I currently don't have the necessary funds to pay for these." A hand reached out, resting atop the small pile he intended to return. "My apologies for wasting your time. I'll—"
"Let my friend pay for these instead," a cheerful voice interrupted. With zero warning Jazz was pressed nearly flank-to-flank with him, one hand depositing his literary terrors alongside Prowl's books, another deftly plucking Prowl's hand away. Denta bared in a roguish grin, the Elite Guard brushed the sputtering Prowl out of his way and slapped the eighteenth, seventeenth, and seventh U.S. Presidents on the counter.
Smugly, the saboteur crowed, "There. That ought t' cover th' expenses."
Debbie gave a slow confused blink and gaped at the seventy-five dollars, yet refused to touch them. Not very quietly, the employee muttered, "For aliens, you guys are sure rich."
Jazz smirked. "We make Jabba the Hutt look dirt poor," he assured. The reference flew over Prowl's head, though behind them he heard two or three humans snicker at the name.
"Really," he said, and turned to subject Jazz to the full brunt of his stare. "I told you, I don't need you to pay for me."
"Actually, it kinda looks like ya do."
"Let me rephrase, then." Arms crossed firmly over his chestplate. "I don't want you to pay for me, Jazz. I am completely fine with returning them until I can retrieve my wallet and make the purchase on a separate date."
"Don't be stubborn," Jazz groaned. Exasperation tinged the static in his voice. "Primus, ya can jus' pay me back or somethin'." Suddenly, the glass band over his optics brightened. With a slow halfstep toward him, he offered in a low purr, "An' if ya don' got th' cash, I can always think of other ways for ya t' repay me. We'll jus' call it an I.O.U for now, an' work our way from there. What'cha say?"
Was Jazz seriously doing this to him? Right then, right now, in public nonetheless? Barely holding back his seethe of raw frustration, Prowl drew himself upright, nearly nose-to-nose with the broadly grinning sports car. "Knock it off," he ordered, only to stop himself before he continued. Primus, was that really him speaking just now? Vocalizer set to its lowest setting, tone nothing more than a soft, strained growl? Forcibly adjusting the register to a higher octave, Prowl cleared his throat once and put a safe amount of distance between them. "Look, you're not obligated to assist me just because we're comrades. It isn't a hassle to return tomorrow—"
"Can you just shut up already and either pay for the books or get out of line?" someone from nearby snapped.
The effect was similar to someone dumping water on his frame. Gone was all desire to argue, left with a growing sense of horror. Like a scene out of a movie, the two mechs turned their helms to the right.
Steadily trailing off behind them was a line of no less than a dozen humans, each regarding them with mixed amounts of annoyance, boredom, or amusement. The one who had barked the question was a grizzled old man, donning short, clipped gray hair and a stubbly beard.
Just as Prowl opened his mouth to apologize, Debbie came to her own decision. Before either party could act the woman reached over and took the money, ringing up the remaining books and attaching them to Prowl's purchase. Her incredulous look at each of Jazz's books caused a different part of his spark shrivel up and die.
At last the torturous procedure was over, a bag hastily shoved toward a triumphant-looking Jazz. Lips pursed, the employee frowned up at Jazz and declared, "Your change is thirty eight—"
"Keep th' change." Ignoring her startled expression, Jazz plucked the bag off the counter. Ice ran through his fluids as Jazz turned, beaming at him like ten thousand watts of evil. "Ya did me a favor, so it's th' least I can do."