Disclaimer : Transformers is the property of Hasbro et al.

Title : How Do You Like Me Now?

Rating : K

Timeframe/Setting : G1-ish'verse. Cybertron, early war.

Summary : "They were childish pranks, Jazz. Annoying, but harmless."

A/N : Who would have thought that singing Toby Keith songs when I'm barely awake would result in a PJ drabble? Yeah, me neither.

Bots were laying odds on the outcome of their relationship before the two of them even met. Possible scenarios ranged from "offlining each other the first cycle" to "sparkbonding within a vorn" and everything in between.

Very few crewmembers realized that this would not the first time the freewheeling Jazz met the straight-laced Prowl and that the two had, in fact, gone through the Academy together. Not that this granted those in the know much insight – they muted their vocalizers and made their bets alongside everyone else.

ooo

It took him a while to notice, and when he finally did he was more than a little annoyed with himself. He was Jazz fraggit, and he took a personal and professional pride in picking up on things that others didn't. That being said, Prowl was naturally subtle and he remained impersonal and aloof with nearly everyone, so it was relatively easy to overlook when he made a deliberate effort to avoid someone.

ooo

"Prowl, I'm sorry."

"Then it was you who set Wheeljack's drone loose in Smokescreen's room? I'd thought you were above that sort of thing by now." The tactician didn't even look up from his datapads.

"What? No, I – that was the twins." He left the door to slump in the chair across from Prowl's desk with one hand over his face. "I meant I was – I'm sorry about . . . back at the Academy."

Prowl glanced up, noticed that a particular visor would not meet his optics, and turned back to his paperwork. "That has been forgiven, Jazz," he said briskly.

The saboteur looked up at him in surprise, stuttering, "Bu-but –"

"They were childish pranks. Annoying, but harmless."

"But why do you – I mean that . . ." He had strode into the office prepared to meet any challenge when it came to begging the other mech's forgiveness, even if he wasn't entirely sure what he had done – surely he had done something to make the mech hate him, and that bit while they were classmates seemed like the most obvious cause – only to have the tactician snatch the rug out from under him and leave him floundering. "Then why won't you talk to me?"

"I am talking to you, Jazz."

His head thunked down on the edge of the desk. "You know what I mean."

Prowl frowned at the crest of the helm currently resting between two neat stacks of reports. "Given your previous actions –" His frown deepened as the other flinched. "– I assumed you would want nothing to do with me."

Jazz popped up, openmouthed in surprise. "You thought that I didn't like you? Why?"

He received a wry look in return. "You did go out of your way to aggravate me. Frequently."

"That was – well . . ." Jazz was fidgeting again. "Kinda the opposite, actually."

It was Prowl's turn to stare in surprise.

"You seemed like a pretty cool mech," Jazz said with an odd sort of one-shouldered shrug as he intently studied one corner of the room, "just a little . . . intense. I guess I was hoping you'd relax a bit, have some fun."

Prowl regarded him silently, confusion warring with suspicion in his optics.

Jazz ducked his head again. "Why didn't you ever retaliate?"

The question shook him out of his stupor. "It was childish," he said, shuffling his datapads again. "And it would have only encouraged you."

"Well, yes, but," Jazz was grinning faintly. "You would have been great at it. That processor of yours . . ."

While Jazz was sporting a full-blown smirk at this point, the other was still studying the report in his hands. But his lip components did quirk a little in what might have (maybe) been a faint smile.

"Somehow, I think that hacking into another student's quarters and painting everything blue and yellow is not how my instructors intended I use my battle computer."

"Yeah, but that's the point, isn't it? And come on, blue and yellow? You can do better than that."

"If I recall correctly . . ."

"It was blue and orange, as I should know very well. And like I said, you can do better."

"Well, they were rather . . . inspiring colors. I did consider the washracks . . ."

There was a beat of flabbergasted silence before Jazz flung his head back and cackled at the ceiling. "Primus, the washracks! Why didn't you?"

The not-quite smile was back. "The risk of getting someone other than the intended target was too great," he said matter-of-factly, just as if it were a plan he was outlining for Prime. "And as I said, it would have encouraged you."

"Mech, I didn't need any encouragement."

The faint smile turned wry. "I noticed."

"Then why didn't you ever get me back?"

"Because . . . I couldn't figure out why you kept pulling them off. They didn't seem particularly mean-spirited – and yes, I know you could have done worse if you wanted – but I couldn't see why you would bother at all unless you had something against me."

"Prowler," Jazz shook his head, smiling, "not everyone is as straightforward and logical as you."

"So I've gathered," came the dry response.

"I just wanted you to lighten up a bit."

"You tried to make friends with me by annoying me to death."

"Yes?" He peered at the tactician hopefully.

Prowl sighed through his vents. "I don't hate you for it, Jazz."

The saboteur perked up considerably.

"And we will be working alongside one another for quite some time, Primus willing. It would be prudent for us to at least try to get along in a friendly fashion."

Jazz was smirking again.

"Though if you paint my room in lurid colors again, I will throw you in the brig." Despite the sternness of his tone, there was a glint of amusement in his optics.

Jazz bounced to his feet and saluted smartly. "Yessir!" Then, more seriously, "I am sorry. I didn't mean any harm by it, but I did pester you something fierce."

"You are forgiven, Jazz, as I told you."

Jazz gave him a real, warm smile then, instead of his usual smirk. He held his hand over the desk. "Let bygones be bygones?"

To his credit, Prowl hesitated only a second before shaking the offered hand. "That is acceptable."

"Great!" Jazz chirped. He bowed elegantly over the hand he still held, brushed the faintest of kisses across pale knuckles, then darted out of the office before Prowl could react.

"Jazz."

Almost.

"Yes, Prowl?" he said with a cheery smile as he stuck his head back in the door.

Prowl regarded him solemnly for a moment. "I won't tell Red Alert who taught the twins their tricks."

Jazz's peal of laughter echoed down the corridor, making every bot within range reflexively twitch. "Spoken like a true friend."