Disclaimer: Transformers is the property of Hasbro et al.
Title: Blood Ties – Nomenclature
Rating: K+
Word Count: ~7,100
Warnings: Alternate Universe; Transformers as organic animal shapeshifters; kid!fic (no mpreg) with said kid being an OC
Timeframe/Setting: G1 pre-war AU. So very, very AU. Set in a world of human/animal shapeshifters where magic and technology live side by side.
Summary: Prowl's problem gets a little more dangerous and his relationship with Jazz gets a little more interesting.
A/N: After I'd finished writing it, I realized that this pretty much plays out like a Law & Order episode. Also, there are various unsubtle shout-outs and references, so everyone reading should be able to catch at least one of them and achieve a smug sense of superiority.
"Papa! Papa Prow'! Up!"
"You know, there was a time when I feared you would never speak."
"Up! Up, plee!"
Prowl crouched down eye-to-eye with Stormhunter. "Stormy, say 'Uncle Prowl' for me."
"Unc' Prow'."
"Close enough."
He settled her on his hip and returned to scrubbing dishes. Over the past half a year, he had learned to do a surprising number of chores one-handed.
Stormy happily curled her fingers and toes in his clothing, as usual. She reached out to pop a few escaping bubbles and giggled.
"You have a father, Stormhunter," said Prowl. "I will love you and care for you as long as I am able, but I don't deserve that name. It is disrespectful to your real papa."
She looked up, troubled by his solemn tone. Then she patted his cheek with soapy fingers.
"I appreciate your concern."
"Love ya," she said.
And there went all his resolve to correct her – for now. "I love you, too."
When he had finished the dishes and set her down again, she occupied herself with a stack of blocks in the living room while he finished getting ready for the day. He could hear her babbling in the other room as he put on his uniform. It eased his mind a little. In spite of his worries, Stormy had turned into a regular chatterbox.
Her vocabulary was expanding daily, both in the common and traditional avian. She was also an uncanny mimic. Some of her words and phrases were spoken with a slight drawl that Prowl was willing to bet was her father's. Others had Jazz's Polyhexian accent or Prowl's own careful diction. She could laugh like Jazz, too – a talent that never failed to amuse the coyote. Sometimes they would set each other off while playing and it would sound as though Jazz had been doubled.
It wouldn't have been unusual for him to be there, but Jazz was already on shift. Even though Prowl was perfectly capable of getting himself and Stormhunter up and fed and dressed in the mornings he would never refuse an extra set of eyes. There were times when Stormy was too fearless for her own good.
He headed back to the living room and found Stormy cooing at one of her babydolls in a falsetto that made his heart twist a bit. It was a near perfect imitation of Tempest's voice.
"Are you ready, baby girl?"
"Where?"
"I am going to work and you are going to the nursery."
"See Jazz?"
"Mister Jazz," Prowl sighed. "You'll probably see him. He has to work today."
In Prowl and Stormhunter's Epic Battle of the Names, relatives were referred to as such and everyone else was a mister or miss. Well, that's what Prowl strived for. Jazz didn't care for formality and objected to the "mister" bit in front of his name. At least until Prowl asked if he'd prefer "miss" instead.
Naming himself "Uncle Prowl" had been Jazz's suggestion, since Prowl was uncomfortable having her call him "father" when she already had a father. ("'Second-cousin-once-removed-on-my-mother's-side Prowl' is a bit of a mouthful, ya know," Jazz had smirked just before he was cuffed on the head.)
Stormy took a simpler approach – Prowl was "Papa" of "Papa Prowl" in spite of all his efforts to the contrary and anyone else might be "mister" or "aunt" or any arbitrary mix depending on her whim. Jazz just seemed to confuse her. She dropped the honorific so much that Prowl suspected Jazz was secretly encouraging her to do so. When she wasn't being rudely informal, she alternated between calling him "mister" and "uncle." Prowl secretly hoped she'd start using feminine honorifics, if only because it would encourage Jazz to correct her.
But in spite of that battle, Stormhunter was a remarkably well-behaved toddler. When he called her, she headed for him but then turned back to grab her doll and supervised while he packed it in her bag. Once sure her toy was safe, she curled against his chest and chattered brightly about whatever struck her fancy as they headed out the door.
ooo
Talking with Stormy after breakfast quickly became the highlight of his day. Second Tactician Prowl of Praxus' 42nd precinct had too many projects to plan, too many people to talk to, too much paperwork to wade through, and not enough time to do any of it. Whether his foundling called him "papa" or "uncle" was the least of his problems.
But Stormy's presence had had at least one positive effect on his life, at least according to those who accused him of being a workaholic – when Prowl's shift was over, he finished up the report he was almost ready to submit and then left his desk. The path from his office to the nursery was through a maze of twisting corridors that united a compound of municipal buildings. He nodded politely to the people he encountered on his way even though his mind was already on collecting Stormy and reaching the sanctuary of their home.
He reached the nursery and leaned over the half-door to scan the cluttered, colorful room for his cub. One of the workers took pity on him and approached with a smile.
"Has Jazz stolen her out from under my nose again?" Prowl asked. It wouldn't be unusual.
She laughed. "I wouldn't doubt it, but let me check."
Prowl absently calculated where Jazz and Stormy were likely to be while she consulted a data pad.
"Actually –" Prowl looked up sharply at her odd tone. She was frowning at the pad. "– it says she was checked out by . . . your cousin?"
ooo
Planning Room Number 1138 was a scene of quiet chaos.
Arcee, a no-nonsense pronghorn transformer who oversaw the childcare center, was looming over an unlucky nursery worker in the corner. Red Alert the hare was so wound up with nervous tension that he became a caricature of his species as he reviewed the security vids. Smokescreen shuffled through the data pads on the desk and muttered to himself.
Under normal circumstances, Prowl would be micromanaging – a soft warning to Arcee to back off, a calming hand on Red's shoulder, a stack of organized notes for Smokey. It was what had endeared him to his superiors and allowed for his quick rise through the rankings, but at the moment he couldn't be bothered to care. The nursery worker deserved berating for allowing an unauthorized adult to check Stormy out. Red Alert should be frantic; he had a lot of vid files to look over so he could track Stormy's progress out of the buildings. Smokescreen could deal with his notes while Prowl was busy looking over his own.
"S-sirs!" said Red Alert. When Prowl and Smokescreen had taken their places to look over his shoulders at the phalanx of screens, he continued. "She came in here –" He pointed to one of the screens. Prowl recognized Slipstream and couldn't help a quiet growl. Red flinched. "She – she approached the front desk –" Another screen. "And then went down to the nursery. Stormhunter was signed out at – at 16:23. They left through the south entrance." They tracked their progress through the videos until they were beyond the range of Red's cameras.
"H-here's the last know coordinates." Red Alert handed Smokey a data pad.
"Have you contacted the trackers?" Smokescreen asked.
"Yes, sir," said Prowl. "Twelve minutes ago."
"Then where –"
The opening door interrupted him. To Prowl's surprise, Jazz strode in at the heels of an unfamiliar man. Smokey smiled tightly at the stranger as he greeted him.
"Good to see you, Hound. We'll be needing your help."
Hound jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "My team is staging up and collecting the scent samples now, sir. I came to get our starting point." He had a quiet demeanor and a friendly face with sad brown eyes that reminded Prowl too much of Stormy. He took a sudden, irrational liking to the tracker.
Smokey beckoned Hound over and began going over the details of Red's data pad. Jazz stepped up and bumped his shoulder against Prowl's.
"I don't recall requesting an undercover agent," Prowl murmured as he turned back his notes.
"Yeah, and ya didn't tell me about all this." He glared with one yellow-green eye. "Which we will talk about later."
"Jazz –"
"Later."
"Jazz, here." Prowl handed him the copy he'd made of his notes.
"Thanks," Jazz grunted.
He was thumbing through them when Hound and Smokescreen approached.
"Hound said you'd volunteered to help his team, Jazz," said Smokescreen.
"Yeah," Jazz said. "It's been two years since my last tracking training."
Smokescreen nodded and handed him another data pad. "We've already signed off on it. They're staging up at the south entrance."
Jazz nodded back and followed Hound to the door. Smokescreen cleared his throat meaningfully when Prowl moved to follow. He wheeled to fix his superior with a steely glare.
Smokescreen sighed. "Be safe."
Prowl nodded and turned on his heel.
As laidback as Hound seemed, he was a man on a mission. He led them through the halls at a brisk pace, taking shortcuts Prowl doubted most people knew about. The rest of his team met them in a narrow hallway behind the kitchens. He made the introductions without slowing.
"Prowl, Jazz, this is Creosote –" He nodded to a stocky woman with bristly gray hair. "– and Westerly." He indicated a man who, if his bright golden eyes and pale skin were any indication, was most likely an avian of some sort.
"Drumbolt and Mercury will rendezvous at the south entrance," said Creosote.
"Good," Hound nodded, then, "Right, I almost forgot . . ." He rummaged around the various pockets of his coat and pulled out two silvery charms. "They've got locators as well as communicators," he said as he handed one to Prowl and one to Jazz. "Follow my lead and stay close," he added when they reached the door.
They nodded in tandem. While Prowl technically outranked Hound, he was also out of his element and smart enough to know it.
Jazz clipped his charm to his ear and Prowl hung his on his collar as the others transformed. Creosote, in the form of a javelina, immediately put her nose to the ground. Westerly shot for the clouds in his osprey beast form and buffeted them all with the wind from his wings. Prowl was surprised to see that Hound's nickname was more literal than he had thought. The tracker's beast form was a long-eared dog with slate-blue speckles and spots. He politely sniffed both of them when they transformed.
"Everyone hear me okay?" Hound asked.
The chorus of affirmations in Prowl's head was disconcerting. He rarely used communicator charms. Jazz seemed unfazed by it, meandering around with his nose to the ground like Hound and the sow.
"We are here, as well," said a pair of unfamiliar voices, making Prowl twitch.
A horse and rider pair rounded the corner. Both were in full uniform – black shirt and slacks for the man in human form and black-and-white caparisons for the stallion in natural form.
"Good," said Hound, wagging his tail. "We wouldn't get very far without an escort this time of day, I reckon."
"I think I've got it," said Creosote.
Jazz and Hound hurried over to sniff of the same spot.
"Yeah," said Jazz tightly. "That's Stormy."
They cast about until Hound picked up the trail. Or at least that's what Prowl assumed they were doing. As far as he could tell, the dog had picked a random direction and the others fell in place behind him. They trotted down the narrow side street, cut down an alley and headed for a busy thoroughfare. The white tip of Hound's tail was waving jauntily.
Prowl was certain that they'd lose the scent or get trampled (or both) but Drumbolt and Mercury edged in front of Hound. The general populace was in a hurry to get home, but the horse towered over those in beast form and his partner sat tall on his back. The crowd parted around them like water in a stream eddying around a rock.
Praxus was a city of marble and steel. Its skyscrapers and parks brought to mind its sister city of Vos. Just as Vos was a city of winged raptors, Praxus was founded by their groundbound kin. Especially here in the older districts of the city, the buildings were elegant and the streets were broad. Some of the newer cities might prefer automobiles, but in Praxus everyone traveled by foot or public train. It was inconvenient at times, but for the moment Prowl could only count his blessings and hope that Slipstream hadn't boarded a train.
He followed the trackers, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. His eyes were nearly as sharp as the osprey's but he felt rather useless on the ground in a pack of scent trackers. He fell back and let his natural black and white coloring serve as a sort of rearguard escort.
The trackers were oblivious to the throng around them and intent of the scent trail. It led them in a meandering path deeper into a part of town Prowl doubted Slipstream would visit often. Though certainly not the roughest side of town, his cousin would be much more comfortable in her nice, clean flat than on the dirty streets her path went. When it led them to the front of a grimy hostel, Prowl was sure there'd been a mistake.
Or he was until Slipstream bowled Jazz over. To the trackers' credit, she seemed more surprised to see them than they were to see her. She was in her beast form – not natural form, thankfully, otherwise Jazz would have had some rather serious injuries after being kicked and stepped on. As it was, he popped up again with a snarl and lunged for her throat. She kicked him over and wheeled to block Hound's leap. She was slowed by a satchel hanging against her chest, its weight obviously pulling her off balance, but she was still fast enough to slam her head into Hound's chest and knock him sprawling. The rider – either Drumbolt or Mercury, Prowl wasn't sure which was which – shouted something, but his mount squealed and twisted away when she swiped with her talons. The sow narrowly avoided Stream's deadly kick.
"Stop!" Prowl shouted.
Jazz checked and Hound hesitated. Slipstream's head snapped up, crest flaring, and she glared around at them. She rocked from side to side with her back to the wall, scanning the little half-circle of trackers. The satchel squirmed. Jazz stretched out his neck to smell of it but he jerked away from her talons. She wrapped her arms around the satchel and spread her feathers as if to hide it. Creosote nosed Hound to his feet.
"Slipstream," said Drumbolt – Mercury – whatever his name was, "you are wanted by the city of Praxus for the abduction of a minor. Transform and surrender yourself."
Stream wasn't convinced. She hissed at him, then feinted at Hound and jumped over Creosote. As soon as her feet hit the ground, she was streaking away.
Prowl wheeled and shot after her. He might not have been much of a tracker, but he could run. He quickly outpaced the others and snapped at Stream's tail. There were muted voices in his head, Westerly talking to the others, but he wasn't addressed directly and so ignored them.
Slipstream was fast but she was also desperate. She zigzagged, cut corners and turned without any obvious plan. Prowl was aware of the others falling farther and farther behind, but he occupied himself with figuring out how to catch her without hurting Stormy. He considered using his much larger natural form to physically gab her, but transforming would only encourage her to do the same and he dared not risk the subsequent exhaustion. If she turned around and fought him, he would be at a disadvantage, too. She was larger and stronger than he, and obviously less concerned for Stormy's safety.
She drifted left towards the dark mouth of an alley but swerved away again when Hound lunged out of it barking and snarling like pitspawn. Prowl yanked out a mouthful of feathers from the end of her tail, but that little pain didn't slow her much. She pulled ahead of him again, aiming for another alley. A pitch black form detached itself from the shadows and drove her away again. Prowl trilled a thanks to Jazz as he passed. He could hear hoofbeats clattering down another side street. Sure enough, the horse charged directly into Slipstream's path. She ducked into an alley with Prowl nipping at her heels.
It was narrow, damp, and dark. Slimy moss was creeping up the moldering bricks. Prowl tried not to think about the oily puddles he ran through. He focused only on Slipstream and the dead-end of the alley littered with trash. He fell back a little when she slowed and turned, her tail painting a streak of red on a crumbling wall. She was panting and wild-eyed. Her head jerked back and forth, searching for an escape that wasn't there.
Prowl heard the click-a-tick of claws on stone as the canines approached. He risked a glance back to see the horse and rider at the mouth of the alley, ready to block her if she somehow managed to get past all three of them. Westerly swept down onto the parapet of a building and half-folded his wings, poised to leap at any moment.
"Sure you don't want to surrender?" the rider called.
Slipstream ignored him. She straightened and held herself tall with a flared crest and glared at Prowl. It went against all of his instincts to ignore that dominant posture, to flare his own crest and crouch down with a threatening growl. He would not submit; he would challenge and fight if need be, taboo or not. She faltered in surprise and that was all it took.
Stream fell to her knees when Hound slammed into her hip and a spotty cub tumbled out of her satchel. She grabbed at Stormhunter, paying no heed to Hound half draped over her back and Jazz closing his jaws on her neck. Stormy twisted and sank her small, sharp teeth into Stream's outstretched hand. The raptor responded furiously, but Prowl was already moving. He caught her snout before she could touch the cub. She thrashed, kicking and shrieking, but he hung on grimly, even when he heard Jazz yelp in pain. He didn't even see Creosote, only felt her stiff fur brush against his leg, but Slipstream went very still when tusks parted the feathers on her throat. He gave her a rough shake for good measure before he let her go and turned away.
Stormy was huddled against the far wall. A trill bubbled up in Prowl's throat and she answered with a sobbing yowl. She scrambled towards him and flung herself in a heap at his feet. He crouched down and wrapped him arms around her, hiding her trembling form in the tent of his feathers. She huddled against his chest with her nose buried in his neck. Little puppy cries were muffled in his feathers. The thrumming of her heart was practically a vibration against his chest. He continued to croon and trill until she calmed.
When Prowl looked up again, Jazz was sitting with his back to him. His fur was streaked with mud and blood and bristling in a sharp ridge down his spine. The others had all vanished. Prowl spared a moment to be horrified that he'd tuned out his surroundings so thoroughly, but then Stormy leaned against him with a little sigh. Jazz cocked an ear backwards but didn't turn. Prowl transformed, gathered up his cub, and put a hand on his friend's withers.
"Thank you."
ooo
"The child is perfectly fine," Ratchet said. "Barely even bruised. Now sit."
Jazz obediently hefted himself onto the medical berth and allowed Ratchet to prod a cut on his upper arm where Slipstream had caught him with a sickle claw. Prowl scooped up Stormy and settled on the opposite berth.
"She hasn't transformed," he said.
Ratchet grunted. "She's fine," he said without looking up. He was focused on cleaning the wound, muttering about talons and dirty streets. "She's had a scare," he said after a moment. "She'll change back when she's calmed down."
She had that false calm again, like the first day he'd brought her home. She hadn't even fussed when Ratchet took her away from Prowl and examined her tender nose. When she was back in the shelter of Prowl's lap she curled up and stared at nothing with dull eyes. He stroked her back, where the dark fur was beginning to turn tawny and the spots were becoming more prominent, but that barely garnered a response. He kept petting her anyway.
"Ow, watch it!" yelped Jazz.
"Stitches require needles, you know," said Ratchet.
"Thought they also required local anesthetic."
"That depends upon the cooperation of the patient," said Ratchet. He continued pulling the catgut through the gash in spite of said patient's complaints. "The topical will take effect any minute now," he added.
Jazz flinched again. "And ya couldn't've, I dunno, waited a bit?"
"I'd like to go home some time before sunrise, and I'm sure you would as well."
The anesthetic had apparently started to work, because Jazz stopped twitching and was reduced to a few quiet grumbles. "Sadist," he muttered under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Good."
When Jazz's injury was taken care of, Ratchet moved on to dabbing antiseptic and cooling gel on Prowl's scratches and scrapes. The medic treated him with his usual rough around the edges care and Prowl tolerated it with his usual aplomb until Ratchet went after a scratch with a little too much enthusiasm and Prowl flinched, jostling Stormy out of her apathetic stupor. She glared at Ratchet and growled. Jazz promptly collapsed in laughter and Prowl smiled. Even Ratchet chuckled.
"I'm not hurting your daddy, bitlet," he said.
"Uncle," Prowl corrected reflexively, earning himself an eye roll from Jazz and a mocking look from Ratchet.
"Uncle, huh?"
"Technically, I am her cousin," said Prowl. "Jazz felt that 'uncle' would be a less confusing term."
"Mm-hmm," said Ratchet. "Thought you'd adopted her."
"I did."
"But that doesn't make you her dad?"
"No."
"Don't bother," Jazz cut in. "I've tried. He's convinced he's right and everyone else is an irrational fool."
"Hm," was all Ratchet said and he went back to work under Stormy's watchful eye. He didn't say another word until he was cleaning up, but Prowl could practically feel him radiating disproval.
"Now, I'm going to give you a few tablets for the pain," he said to Jazz, "but they'll knock you out, so don't take them until you get back to wherever you're going."
"Yessir."
"And keep an eye on him, just in case," Ratchet said to Prowl.
"Yessir."
Jazz looked affronted. "I think I can take care of myself."
"And I think you'd do better to be taken care of for a few hours," said Ratchet. "You two practically live in each other's pockets anyway. May as well get some good out of it."
Jazz huffed but didn't complain. Prowl wasn't sure if he should feel smug or embarrassed.
Later, when Jazz was lulled by the rocking of the train car and dozing against his shoulder, he decided he could feel smug about it. They trusted each other implicitly. They had been best friends practically from the moment they met and Prowl really shouldn't be surprised that everyone knew it.
It was strange, he thought, idly stroking Stormy's back again. They were both from very family-oriented cultures, thrown together in the unfamiliar territory of the Academy. They had met in that awkward mostly-but-not-quite adult stage in their lives when they were both longing and fearing to strike out on their own. Despite their obvious differences – in some regards they were polar opposites and they would be the first to admit it – they had meshed remarkably well and thus their unlikely friendship was born.
It was tested almost as soon as it was formed. Prowl's parents and younger brother had died suddenly. Only chance and distance had spared him from the disease that claimed his immediate family and many others from within his clan. In his grief, he flung himself into his schoolwork and ignored the tentative relationships he'd begun to form with his peers.
Only Jazz had refused to give up on him. He had brought water and energon when Prowl was too sick to eat and too proud to go to a medic. He had tolerated fits of temper that would have shocked the other students, who thought Prowl to be emotionless. He had, though cajoling and threatening, gotten Prowl to at least rest even when he couldn't sleep. He had stood by him through the darkest time in Prowl's life without a word of complaint.
One night when both were exhausted but neither could sleep and were lying on their berths staring at the ceiling, Prowl had asked him why.
"'Cause you're my friend, Prowler," Jazz had said as if that were explanation enough. And maybe it was.
The train squealed to a halt, shaking Prowl from his musings. He jostled Jazz awake.
"Come on," he said, pulling him to his feet. "We're home."
ooo
Prowl awoke to singing and laughter.
"Oh, the buffalo have got a beef about this season's grass; warthogs have been thwarted in attempts to save their gas."
Prowl groaned and buried his head under the pillow. Only Jazz would teach the cub a song comprised entirely of bad puns. The lighting in his room seemed . . . off somehow, lending an air of surrealism to the already baffling song. In hopes of deterring them, he got up and wandered into the living room.
"Hey, baby girl," said Prowl when Stormy pounced on him. "Are you feeling better?"
She grinned at him. "Soo-moose intra-pee-dus etverda," she said.
Prowl chuckled. "That's my brave girl."
"I thought the object was to not encourage babytalk," said Jazz.
"It's our family motto."
"So, what, you're teaching her everything you know?"
"Pretty much," Prowl said smugly.
"You're a regular lingual protégé, aren't you?" he said and tickled Stormy's nose.
She transformed and chased after Prowl when he headed for the kitchen. Dogging his heels was one of her favorite games. One of these days, he was going to find a park or somewhere they could run and see what she thought about trying to catch him in his beast form.
Jazz levered himself to his feet. "Coffee?"
"Beggar."
"Hey, I fixed the food."
"Point. How is your arm?"
"Terrible, just terrible. Couldn't possibly make my own coffee."
"And yet you managed breakfast just fine."
"It was a necessary sacrifice. The bottomless pit was hungry."
"You could have woken me up."
"Morbid curiosity. I've never seen ya sleep late. Wondered how long you'd go at it. Besides, you needed it."
Prowl was shocked to realize that it was after ten in the morning. No wonder the light seemed strange.
"We're supposed to be –"
"Family emergency. I already talked to Smokescreen," Jazz cut him off smoothly.
"We can't keep using that excuse."
"It was his idea, actually. Besides, it's true, ain't it? And he said to tell you that Slipstream has been released into your matriarch's custody and the family meeting is tonight at nineteen-hundred."
Prowl nodded. "Can you watch Stormy tonight?"
Jazz frowned. "Don't you need to take her with you?"
Prowl shook his head firmly. "No. The farther she stays from Slipstream, the better. Besides, I would represent her anyway. She is too young to stand as the wronged."
"Alright," Jazz said, though he still seemed dubious. "If you're sure."
"I am. If Matriarch – if she changes her mind, then I want . . . I'll have the chance to –" The fear he hadn't even dared to acknowledge clawed up his throat and choked him.
"What's this, then?" said Jazz, stepping closer.
Prowl screwed his eyes shut and forced himself to speak. "If Matriarch changes her mind and gives Stormhunter to someone more suitable, I want the chance to tell her goodbye properly – not just hand her off to some stranger."
"Why in the Pit would she do that?" Jazz sounded genuinely confused.
"Slipstream neglected her, so she gave her to me. I neglected her, so . . ." he trailed off miserably.
He spooked and his eyes flew open when Jazz's hands clamped down on his shoulders. "Shut up," he said in a voice that had gone as deep and harsh as a growl. Prowl stared at him in surprise. "Don' even think that," Jazz continued. "You're one o' the best parents I ever met, an' that includes my own. Nobody could ever say that you don't care for that girl. An' if anybody ever tries I'll straighten 'em out. You're hers, heart and soul. And she's yours. Don't you ever think otherwise." His grip was almost painfully tight.
"Alright," Prowl said softly.
Just like that, all the fight went out of Jazz. His hands went limp and he slumped forward, leaning his forehead against Prowl's. "You're such a perfectionist," he said quietly. "Sometimes I wish you wouldn't be so hard on yourself."
"But I –"
"– Did everything you possibly could to protect that cub. You were prepared in every way you could possibly be – I should know; I helped you. But sometimes bad things just happen."
Prowl knew for a fact that he had an intimidating stare – "nicest blue I ever saw, but about as expressive as a rock," someone had once told him – but he was of the opinion that Jazz's was at least as bad. They were exactly the same in either form, pale yellowish-green framed by the dark of his skin or fur and always full of secrets and mischief. He got the full effect of them from half a breath away and could only swallow and nod mutely.
Stormy reared up and scratched at his leg with a whine. He blinked and shook himself and was aware of Jazz doing the same while he knelt and picked her up. She transformed and clutched the collar of his shirt.
"We stay?" she said.
"Yes," he told her. "We're staying home today."
"Good. Happy," she murmured, curling against him. "Unc' Prowl and Misser Jazz and Stormy stay?" She seemed to make a particular effort to get it all right, as if afraid he would abandon her if she said something wrong. The very thought made him hug her tighter.
Jazz rolled his eyes at the "Mister Jazz" part, but he smiled and ruffled Stormy's curls. "You're stuck with both of us for a while, miss priss," he said.
ooo
Matriarch was old, very old. So old that her crest had faded to cream and dull yellow instead of the usual mottled brown. Her hands and feet looked like brittle twigs protruding from the folds of her robe. She had outlived her sisters, her daughters, and her sisters' daughters. Her granddaughters were the oldest of her retinue, and some had their own great-great-granddaughters at their sides. Prowl's mother would have been among them, had she lived. Her cousin Slipstream had probably lost her chance to sit among them.
Slipstream was off to Prowl's right, kneeling on the carpet before the semicircle of elders. Her mate was beside her. Prowl was alone.
"My daughter Slipstream, my son Prowl, you are to be judged before the council as has been bid us by the justicekeepers of Praxus. Who is wronged?" said the mouthpiece of the council.
They knew full well who had been wronged but Prowl answered the ritualistic question. "Stormhunter, daughter of Tempest, is the wronged."
"And why is Stormhunter absent?"
"She is not of age and unfit to stand."
"Who are you, to speak for her?"
"I am Prowl, son of Windturn. Stormhunter is my ward. I stand in her place."
"Does any of the council object?"
Prowl held his breath. There was silence.
"Very well," said the mouthpiece. "Prowl, son of Windturn, shall stand as the wronged in place of his – in place of Stormhunter.
From there, the council turned its scrutiny to Slipstream. He was relieved to be out from under their collective gaze and just a little pleased to see Stream squirm. She couldn't deny that she had taken Stormy. She couldn't even really give a good reason for doing it. Prowl was seething inside but he was also curious. What had led her to believe that kidnapping an enforcer's cub from the enforcers' headquarters would be a good idea?
"Tempest was my only sister," she said, her crest flicking up and down. "I loved her and I want to care for her fledgling. It is my right."
"You did care for her fledgling. Matriarch deemed you unfit and Stormhunter was given into Prowl's care per her orders. You forsook your right."
Slipstream's crest flared. "But I –"
"You had no right," Matriarch herself spoke in a thin, harsh voice. The room went very still. "You neglected the cub while she was in your care and in doing so you relinquished your right to keep her. That was my decision and it was unquestioned."
"But Prowl –"
"Prowl is none of your concern. If you wished to contest my decision, you should have spoken to me."
Stream's crest flattened and she stared at the carpet. "Yes, Matriarch. Please forgive me."
"Hm. Consider yourself fortunate that you are able to ask my forgiveness. Prowl, how would the justicekeepers punish her?"
"If this matter were outside the clan," he said slowly, "if she were judged as a stranger . . . . A kidnapper would be stripped of her charms and bound in the service of the city for several years."
Slipstream made a noise in her throat and her mate paled. Matriarch "hmm"ed thoughtfully.
"What of her own children, Prowl?" said Matriarch.
"Her children, Matriarch?"
"What of her rights to her children?"
"They would remain in the care of her mate – so long as he was not associated with her crime," Prowl said, frowning. "I believe they would be able to visit her."
Slipstream had gone even paler than her mate. "Matriarch – please – please, my fledglings –"
"Be silent," snapped Matriarch. "And be grateful that no one has contested your care of your own children." She was quiet for a long moment. "I have come to a decision," she finally said. "Mind that it is mine, daughter. If you wish to contest it, address me – not Prowl."
Slipstream nodded shakily.
"The city would bind you in service for years as penance. This seems fair to me and I would keep you under my eye. Therefore, you shall be bound as a servant in my household for eight turns of season. For that time, you are clanless and nameless. You shall eat and sleep among the hired servants, but they are your masters. You shall not look upon their faces nor shall you speak to them. You shall perform your tasks diligently and in silence. If you rebel in any way, I will know of it and you will be further punished. If you prove to be hardworking and humble, I shall allow you the privilege of visiting with your children. When your eight seasons are served, the council will meet again to decide if you have earned your freedom. Is the council just?"
With every word, Slipstream shuddered and curled her body tighter and tighter as if to shield herself from physical blows. When Matriarch finished speaking she was stock-still for a minute before bowing from the waist to touch her forehead to the floor. "The council is just, Matriarch," she said in a trembling voice.
Prowl copied her. "The council is just."
The mouthpiece took over once more. "Very well," she said. "My daughter Slipstream, you will surrender your collar now. My son Prowl," she was smiling ever-so-slightly, "you should return to your daughter."
He bowed again. "My regards to the council," he said.
He stood when Slipstream did and watched as she shakily unbuckled her collar and laid it in Matriarch's lap. When she knelt again to receive her orders, Prowl turned and left. The council was just. She would receive her punishment in full measure without any input from him.
He left the meeting room, wound his way through the dark corridors to the massive front doors of Matriarch's home. He passed under the lintel with 'Sumus intrepidus et vera' in elaborate glyphs surrounded by carved feathers and swords. He stood for a moment to breathe in the damp night air and then turned toward home.
ooo
Jazz was awake, of course. Prowl could see the sheen of his eyes as soon as he walked through the door.
"There's a perfectly good bed in the other room, you know," he murmured, sitting down beside the couch.
Jazz flapped a hand to shush him. "She finally fell asleep," he whispered. "I didn't wanna move."
Stormy was draped over Jazz like a panther over a log, sound asleep. But her face was blotchy and streaked with tears.
"She weren't real happy about you leavin' her," said Jazz softly.
He winced. "I should have known. I'm sorry, Jazz. Why didn't you call me if she was so much trouble?"
"'Cause you needed to get this done. Besides, I'm still her second-favorite," he said with a lop-sided grin. "I think."
"She adores you and you know it," Prowl murmured, leaning against the couch and half shutting his eyes. "Are you going home tonight?"
"Maybe. Whatever you want."
Prowl made a noncommittal noise in his throat. He would rather Jazz stayed, be he hesitated to ask it. He was also tempted to wake Stormy up, tell her he was back and reassure her that he would never truly leave her. For Jazz's sake, he stifled the urge.
He was spared the trouble when Stormy stirred and opened her eyes on her own.
"Papa?" she muttered thickly.
"I'm here, Stormy," he said, earning himself a look from Jazz.
She squirmed around to reach for him but he rubbed her back without picking her up, hoping she'd go back to sleep. She said something unintelligible and her eyes fell closed again. Within moments she was asleep again.
"I was thinking about something on the way home," Prowl said slowly. In truth, he had been thinking about a lot of things for a while now.
"Oh, dear." Jazz slid off the couch to sit beside Prowl on the floor and transferred Stormy's limp form to his lap.
"The council called her my daughter." He decided he may as well start with that one.
"Okay?"
"Explicitly. It wasn't 'daughter of the clan' or 'symbolically my daughter' but literally, 'flesh and blood offspring.'" Prowl could feel his feathers ruffling.
". . . okay?" Jazz remained unimpressed.
"It's different in avian. There are nuances . . ."
"They haven't done that before?"
Prowl shook his head. "I was always 'guardian' before. Second cousin once removed on her mother's side," he said with a little smirk.
"So what changed their minds?"
"I do not know."
"Well," Jazz said brightly, still apparently unfazed by Prowl's inexplicable shift in status. "Guess that just goes to show that little miss was ahead of her time."
"I suppose so," Prowl said fondly.
"So does that mean that you're gonna let her win and call ya 'papa'? Not like you haven't earned it."
"Yes," Prowl said, stroking her back with fingers that only trembled a little. "I think I will."
"Thank Primus. I'm tired of you two bickering all the time. It makes for a very stressful home life."
"Be nice." Prowl reached up and flicked his ear. "Before I change my mind about having her call you 'uncle.'"
Jazz's look of pure shock was worth every hour of planning and reasoning and agonizing he had spent on the train ride home. "But I – but you – but we . . ."
Prowl bit his lip to keep from grinning like a fool and shrugged casually instead. "If I, being only barely related to her, can be her father, then you, being closer to me than any of my true relatives, can be her uncle."
"Is that how you see me, then? Like a brother to you?" There were a thousand questions in those two short ones.
"No," Prowl said quickly. Too quickly, for he saw the flicker of betrayal and sadness in Jazz's eyes before it was hidden. "You are different – more than a brother to me." Primus, where was his usual eloquence? He leaned forward and clasped his hand around Jazz's uninjured shoulder. "You are important to me, Jazz," he said, praying that Jazz, who knew him so well, could see the truth in his eyes. "You are – you are one of the most important people in my life." He stroked Stormy's back again. "I'm not sure if I could choose between the two of you," he admitted softly.
Jazz looked stricken. "I couldn't – I would never ask that."
"I know, I know," Prowl assured him. "And that's partly the reason why. Earlier, when I didn't tell you about Stream taking Stormy, it was because I didn't want you to feel . . . obligated somehow." Jazz opened his mouth to protest, but Prowl held up a hand. "I know it was stupid of me. I know you would do anything for her – for us – and never begrudge it. I know I can trust you with . . . with everything."
Jazz chuckled and pressed his forehead against Prowl's they way he had that morning. Prowl tried to categorize the emotions in his eyes, but they were shifting to fast – relief, pride, joy, fear, humility, contentment. "Of course we have to go about it backwards and sideways. Couldn't do things the right way around."
"I believe you would call that the boring route," said Prowl.
"True enough."
They sat quietly in the dark, leaning on each other and breathing the same air. Prowl felt more comfortable here in a small apartment with Stormy and Jazz than he ever had among his relatives in the opulence of Matriarch's home. These two people, who had begun their lives as strangers to each other and to him, were his true family.
"Stay with me?" he murmured.
"Always, Prowler. Always."
A/N: Jazz's punny song is "The Morning Report" from The Lion King.
Beast forms are as follows: Arcee is a pronghorn; Red Alert is a black-tailed jackrabbit; Smokescreen is an Utahraptor (though not related to Prowl). Hound is a bluetick coonhound; Creosote is a javelina (and named for the creosote bush); Westerly is an osprey; Drumbolt and Mercury are both primitive-type horses similar to a Przewalski's horse. Ratchet is a Kodiak bear. Links are on my profile.
